Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

part one

Es ist, wie es ist.

one

Albrecht stared into nothingness. The truck rattled over the uneven, not-quite-there road.

He let out a shaky breath and stuffed his cold hands deeper into the armpits of his tattered jacket.

It had been hours by now, but he still couldn't wrap his head around it. Couldn't comprehend the fact that it was over — over and done. He — they — would be free.

But they weren't yet. As soon as their Oberst had gotten wind of it; wind of— wind about how the Führer— Hitler was dead, he had herded them together and into a truck long before the Russians could get ahold of them.

He didn't quite know how many hours it'd been since then — or maybe how many days. Ever since Berthold — his comrade he'd come to like — had taken his last breath in the cold of the night, calling for his mother and desperately clutching at the hole in his stomach, he had stopped counting. Had stopped anything really, despite for trying to not stare into Berthold's death-wide eyes.

Alongside his Oberst, there were only two other men with him. Two alive men, that was. Otherwise they would be the same troop of six they had started as. Would return from war just two years older and not forever stuck as frozen-to-death nineteen-or-so-year olds.

He, Mark and Leonhard sat huddled together in a corner in an attempt to preserve their body heat. Back when Albrecht was younger, just a little boy, he had wanted to travel to Russia, to see its magnificent buildings on his own. But many years later, he had to learn how ruthless the country was, how unforgiving and freezing.

He sniffled, the noise breaking through the ghostly silence that had emerged ever since Berthold had stopped babbling. He had been the last one and he had died of such stupid reason, so unnecessarily, that Albrecht had had trouble containing the angry tears threatening to spill from his eyes; the breath to tell his friend "It will be all right" just one last time still stuck in his throat, even if he knew it to be a lie.

Now his eyes were dry and Albrecht couldn't remember the last time he had actually blinked. He was too busy with all the memories and all the thoughts circulating around inside his head. Memories of his comrade Tobias taking a last, gurgling breath as his chest succumbed to the bullet hole Albrecht and Mark had been desperately trying to stuff. Or of Franz who had taken his life just seconds before they got the message. Their Oberst had just been running to them when he had raised the gun to his head. Willerg’s alarmed shout hadn't reached him anymore.

They had hoisted him into the car, as well as some other fallen German soldiers they had found. “Bring them back to their families”, their Oberst had said, “to their mothers.”

Their mothers. His mother. Albrecht hadn't thought about his mother, or his parents in general, ever since he had been sent to the front. Had been too mad, too out of it and way too caught off guard by everything to waste just one thought to something that wasn't immediately in his surroundings or with a weapon.

He thought of her now. Of her pained yet somehow unbothered expression when they had sent him away. She had stood there all alone in the cold, for his father had not bothered to bid his only son goodbye.

Heichrich Stein... The man who was the sole reason for his being here. On his father, Albrecht had not even wasted the inkling of a thought, needing the energy to keep upright and alert at all times.

He slumped deeper into his comrade's site, causing Mark to let out a light yelp and ultimately wake up. Light sleep — a curse they had all been damned with.

“What—” Mark slurred, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.” Albrecht's voice was rugged and about as shaky as he felt from hours of disuse.

He rested his head back against the wall and finally closed his eyes.

He hadn't dared to do so before. Not when everytime he blinked, another picture would appear. Pictures of his dead comrades — friends — of blood on his hands and fearful eyes at the end of his gun's barrel.

Letting out a deep breath, he rearranged his gear, the familiar motion bringing him a feeling of safety. He fingered open a pocket on his west, digging around until he found a small, folded up piece of paper. In an instant, its picture appeared in front of his eyes, without even having to open them and for the first time in— in years he felt a sense of hope.

He let himself think of kind.

And to the rocking and rattling of the old truck, Albrecht fell into a fitful sleep.

» «

They made it, in the end. Arriving in cold and grey Germany upon dusk.

Berthold's body was taken away, the first of the three. Tobias and Franz followed just moments after. The unknown ones left in the vehicle for identification.

His parents were there — Berthold's — why, Albrecht didn't know. Didn't care when he stood in front of the sobbing mother, trying to form his lips around the words he had meant to say. Around Berthold's stories he had wanted to tell — the funny ones and the nice ones, and even the weird ones if it meant for his parents to have something to remember him by. But Albrecht couldn't, his body frozen in some kind of fight or flight because this wasn't a situation he was supposed to be in — Berthold was never meant to die. None of them were ever supposed to find death in war. Not when Tobias had a girlfriend at home and Franz half a dozen of siblings who lived off of his infamous bedtime stories.

As Albrecht tried a third time to start his sentence, Berthold's mother took pity on him. She cradled him into his arms and weeped into his shoulder; Albrecht helplessly patting her back. 

Carefully, he looked around. What he was searching for, he was not sure. But he did feel a light tang of disappointment when he didn't spot his mother's face, or his father's, or—

No, he refocused on the task at hand, wishful thinking.

He was finally released from the mother's hug when a firm hand found place on his shoulder. Just a look into her eyes told him who was standing behind him.

“Stein,” Oberst Willerg said, “Time to go home, son.”

Secretly grateful, Albrecht loosened the woman's grip on his form, turning around to face the man. In the distance, he could see Mark and Leonhard waiting for him.

Along with about two dozen other soldiers, they boarded a train.

Mark let himself fall into the seat next to him with a dull thud, stretching out his limbs and playfully resting his feet on Leonhard's knees opposite of him. He was happy, as much was obvious. Though Albrecht could not understand. War was over, yes, but at what cost? The life of their comrades — friends, even — and the life of so many more that they themselves had taken, some of them mere innocent civilians. 

Fingers snapped in front of his face, catapulting him back to reality, “Albrecht?” Mark asked and Albrecht made an agreeing sound in the back of his throat, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” Albrecht answered easily. After all, they were all going home, weren't they? 

Across from him, Leonhard frowned, “He wants to know which city, I'm sure.”

Albrecht frowned; that, he could not answer. He had lost his home two years ago with his father sending him to the front. He knew where they lived — his parents — but did he want to return? Go back to the life he had lived before; back to being a disappointment?

“I don't know,” he replied, sinking his face into the collar of his coat. Despite having slept for a few hours, he was still bone tired and the train wasn't exactly the warmest either.

His comrades exchanged a look before Mark cleared his throat.

“You can stay at ours for a few days, If you'd like,” Right. Sometimes, Albrecht forgot about the boys' relation. “You can telephone your parents, then — find out where they are,” Leonhard added, shoving his brother's feet off of him.

With a yawn, Albrecht nodded. “Yes, that would be all right.”

Chapter Text

Sicher, dass Du lebst?

two

The Werners were about as much of a kind family as Albrecht had imagined. 

No, they really were. Who else could raise sons that wouldn't stop cracking jokes even down in the trenches and smiled as soon as they heard the word home?

Leonhard and Mark were the oldest of five siblings, they were twins, even. Though to Albrecht, they didn't look that similar. Maybe they did; two years of seeing them everyday had led him to not care.

Frau Werner greeted the three of them that evening. Standing in the door of their small house, illuminated only by the warm light behind her. 

She hugged her sons and shook Albrecht's hand not unkindly.

Their father was a different measure. Albrecht could barely stop himself from flinching and reaching for his not-there gun when he heard fast steps coming from behind.

But it was only Herr Werner, face split into a grin so wide it seemed unreal, arms opened and ready to hug his sons. Jumping up and down and laughing when he finally had them pressed up against himself.

As the mother joined, Albrecht had no choice but to stand behind, unsure.

The scene was so obscene to him — so unreal — that he really could not wrap his head around it. 

Something warm touched his hand and Albrecht swiveled around, alarmed, ready to defend—

It was a child, just over five years old, if he had to guess. It had grasped his hand and looked up at him with big round eyes, still holding on to some kind of blanket.

He let out a shuddering breath, ripping his hand away and instead grasping the straps of his vest, seeking for some kind of hold.

He didn't look at the child again. Not when he was herded into the house and sat in front of a fireplace next to the other two Werner children — teenagers that knew better than to touch strangers.

Only when night fell upon the family and one after one they all retreated to their rooms, Albrecht was finally alone.

Alone in a foreign building with foreign people. Alone with the burning flame of the fireplace and alone with the small duffel bag that housed all his belongings. But worst of all, and it bothered Albrecht the most, he was alone with his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back against the backrest of the old couch. He had yet to call his parents — Frau Werner had insisted he do so tomorrow, first thing in the morning. “Surely your mother is awaiting your call,” she had said, “but you do need to get some proper sleep first.”

Albrecht wasn't so sure about anyone waiting for his call, really. After all, no one had bothered to contact him in any way over the last two years.

But then again, he hadn't either, had he?

» «

They treated the boys' wounds that next morning. None were severe, but could cause serious infections if left alone.

Albrecht stood to the side, watching Frau Werner wet a cloth and clean a not-quite-healed bullet hole in her son's flank. Mark hissed and clutched his brother's hand, who was already patched up and sipping on a beer.

Albrecht himself held a cup of coffee in his hands, though he hadn't tasted it yet — it had gone cold anyway.

Now, it served more the purpose of busying his fingers.

“Whattabout you, son?” Herr Werner asked, planting a firm but warm hand on his shoulder, "You've any nicks?"

Albrecht froze to the touch, “No, sir.”

Werner laughed — a loud and bellowing sound that pulled any pair of eyes in the room onto them. Albrecht shrunk back into his vest. He hadn't taken it off yet — how, when all the clothes he'd had had to be repurposed to make-shift bandages?

“Don't hafta call me sir, son! 'M a mere farmer, none of ya soldiers should be speakin’ to me like tha!”

Albrecht nodded and carefully turned out of Herr Werner’s grip, though now apparently it was Frau Werner's turn. She took his face and turned it all over.

“Are you quite sure, yes? Don't want you getting a sepsis, do we?”

But Albrecht was indeed quite sure and he told the woman the same. As well as Mark, when he asked again a few hours later and then once again Leonhard come afternoon.

Their sisters Anna, Jutta and small Ida thankfully didn't as much as look in his direction. Magically disappearing as soon as he entered a room. Maybe their behavior could be seen as offensive, but Albrecht was glad for any type of crowding he could avoid. Mark and Leonhard, he was used to, Frau Werner was still doable but Herr Werner was already one too much.

And he still hadn't called his parents.

The family sat outside, enjoying pie in the low May-time sun, when Leonhard pulled him aside.

In the small hallway of the house, he pressed the receiver of a telephone into his hand.

“Don't you think they should at least know you're well?” he asked, then left him alone before Albrecht could form an answer.

So, reluctantly, he dialled the number.

The one telephone number he would always remember. And he could also remember the voice in which it had been screamed at him when he could not. His parents had spent the better half of a month forcing it into his memory.

His mother answered after the third ring. 

“Stein?” she sounded out of breath, yet hopeful and just for a second, Albrecht could live the illusion that he really meant something to her.

"Mother,” he said, “It's me, Albrecht.”

That illusion was shattered when he heard his mother's disappointed gust of breath. Then for a second, it was quiet.

“Are you on your way home yet?” she asked, but Albrecht felt as if there was no kind of enthusiasm behind her words, as if he were just a someone and not her son. Not her only child.

No “how are you” or “you're alive!” or— or anything. 

But what did Albrecht expect? His mother to suddenly care about him? When the last time she had told him she loved him was when he was six — not even in elementary school yet and barely out of kindergarten. Back when there was still hope for his outcome, when he wasn't yet doomed to be the family's disappointment.

“No, I have just gotten back to Germany. I will be on the road soon, though. You — you haven't moved, have you?” he bit out, waiting for this conversation to finally be over.

“No,” as underwhelming as the answer was, he was glad it was so short, “See you later.”

And then it was over. The first conversation he'd had with his mother in over two years. He shouldn't feel anything really, because when had it ever been different? 

But he really couldn't help feeling lost — and alone. Just in two days' time, he had met two mothers who loved their children more than anything and a father that performed a happy dance when his sons came back from war. And then there was his mother, who could not care less whether he was dead or alive.

He put the receiver back and combed a hand through his hair. It needed a cut and a good wash. A trim of his beard, too, he noticed as he raked them over his face.

There was laughter outside, he could hear it even here, deep in the house. And there was a clock ticking somewhere. A gurgling breath. Fired shots. Screaming, begging, cursing. The whistle of cold wind and—

Albrecht bore the nails of his fingers deep into his skin, surely scratching up his face in the process, but at least the noise stopped. The terrible, terrible noise of—

The laughter. It was louder now, almost as if it were right outside the door.

And it was, he found, when he pushed it open just a crack. The twins had come back inside and were cracking jokes at each other while cabbling with the fridge to get some more beer.

“Ah, Albrecht,” Leonhard had spotted him, “Did you reach anyone?” He offered a beer but Albrecht declined.

“I did, yes. I will leave now.”

Mark's face fell slightly and with a look outside the window, he raised an eyebrow. 

“You sure? You can stay another day, you know. So you don't have to travel in the dark.”

“I’m quite sure. My mother is all shaken up, it's best I go as soon as possible.”

He bid farewell to Herr and Frau Werner, waved to the kids and awkwardly patted backs with the twins. 

He shouldered his duffle bag and turned to the road. It would be a longer foot walk, but nothing he wasn't used to by now.

At least, on the way here, he had company. 

But now, he was alone with his own head once again.

Chapter Text

Fernweh.

three

He couldn't recognize it. The house. The place he had lived in sixteen years of his life.

His home.

Only when he had reached the driveway and slowly worked his way up to the building out of pure muscle memory, did he slowly recognize his surroundings .

He was stood in front of the massive front door now, hand raised to knock but not touching the wood yet.

He didn't need to, apparently, because the door swung open anyway.

He stood face to face with a very startled girl now, not much older than himself. She held a trash bag in one hand and the door handle in the other.

"O-Oh, I'm sorry," she straightened and hid the bag behind her back, "But Frau Stein is not expecting any visitors today."

Albrecht stared at her, unblinking.

His mother had not even mentioned him, it seemed.

"I am no visitor," he croaked, "I am Albrecht Stein, and I live here."

The girl blanched an impossible white, stammering a helpless apology as she fled and ultimately made way for Albrecht to enter.

Judging by the unchanged interior of the house, the cleaning staff must've done a great job. Or the one girl, because it was as empty as ever.

He looked around, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of memories flooding him. Of his childhood — happy and less —, of his last days here, of the time he and — he and Friedrich had stayed here together.

Then he listened. For his mother — and maybe for his father, he didn't know. For any sign of life, really.

He heard nothing at first, nothing beside the humming of various appliances. But then he did. Careful steps of heeled shoes, first on carpet, then hardwood floor, the carpet again and then in front of him.

"Albrecht," his mother greeted him and he immediately wished himself back to the small Werner house and to the woman who had welcomed him with more warmth than his own mother.

She barely glanced at his face,"It is good to see you." Lie.

"How are you?" Smalltalk; to keep the image of liking each other in front of the staff girl that just reentered the house, not because she was actually interested. Albrecht shifted his weight.

"I'm alive." It was the truth, for he was nothing else but simply alive. He avoided sleep and his own reflection most of the time. When he started to hear the screams again, he would find ways to shut them up. When he threatened to fall over as an effect of exhaustion, he would find a way to keep himself awake. 

He was alive, but to live again it would take a while.

The girl left the room and so did the moment, his mother immediately taking a step away from him and averting her gaze.

"Where is father?" Albrecht dared to ask. Not that he particulary missed him, but it was odd to not find him here. After all, he had wanted Albrecht at the front so bad, he would surely be proud of him to have survived, no?

His mother hugged into herself, turning away entirely and speaking more to the wall than to him.

"He was sent away, too. He — He hasn't returned yet."

Albrecht should be sad, shouldn't he? But he couldn't quite help the feeling of satisfaction that creeped into his gut.

He wished war upon no one, but if he had to, he'd likely choose him. His father.

He nodded to show he had heard her. But if she cared more about the man who barely loved her than her own flesh and blood, he couldn't find any care in him to give. Instead, he walked around her and took the stairs up.

» «

His room was exactly as he had left it. Except for the missing bedsheets and stale, dusty air. And himself.

The last time he had stood here, observing his room, he had been younger. Only sixteen, innocent to the world in comparison to now. He had been loved and that was likely the biggest difference to now.

For the last time he had stood here had been on the night of his father's birthday. He hadn't been alone then. Had stood in this exact spot but cradled into strong arms with apologies whispered against his head. Had been in hearing them, but was already planning. Planning on what he had been to cowardly to do in the end. For if he did, he would have never went to war. Would have never seen Berthold die, or Franz, or Tobias or all the other ones. Would have never have to point a gun at people and pull the trigger — would have never killed humans. Sons and fathers and brothers and husbands and boyfriends— all the wrong ones. Politicians, he should have killed, the ones who were behind all of this. Behind all of the sorrow and death. But as the too lanky and too disappointing son of the Gauleiter, Albrecht Stein had simply been sent to the German front over in Russia.

He could still hear the screams. The ones he had caused and the ones he had been trying to fix. Could hear his own scream — the only one that wasn't just in his head but real; his own coarse voice that, in a subconscious attempt to strangle it, was screamed into his fist.

And it felt good. It felt so good to be able to let it all out — all of it that he had had to keep in in fear of alerting the enemy.

There was barely any of his voice — or breath — left when he felt done an eternity later. 

As he dragged himself to the bathroom, he couldn't help but feel thankful for the empty house. That way, he didn't have to look into anyone's eyes or hear anyone's opinion. He could have quiet, just for one moment.

The cold spray of the shower hit him suddenly though not unfamiliar. There were times where he had waited for the water to run warm before getting under it, but war had taught him just how valuable running water was.

He washed the dirt and grime from the ridges of his skin. Shampooed his hair until the foam ran white. Then, he stilled. He let the now-hot water burn his pale skin and turn it a light pink, making the scars look even more haggard.

He had a lot of them. Scars. Some he could remember getting, some not — some he didn't want to think about.

His body had changed in general, he noticed. You see, during war, you usually have different things on your mind than what your body looks like. 

He had grown a bit and filled out more muscle, but hadn't gained weight so it all made him look wiry and weird. His hair had gotten much longer and more unruly and obscured his sight. He had always stuffed it into his helmet, he remembered.

He got out to stare at his reflection in the mirror. His face had fallen in and his eyes wore that far-away look. There wasn't much color about him anymore. He almost looked like a photograph. A really, really unfavorable one.

Albrecht dried his hair, then cut it. Put on his nice clothes only to rip his shirt off again, missing the comforting weight of his vest.

But the lack of shirt only made him stare at his chest once more. At the ugly scars criss-crossing over the once so perfect skin. Disturbig the body he had only come to love so close to his deployment.

He tried to scream, but there was barely any voice left to do so. He clutched his choppy hair in his hands and pulled, pulled until it stopped — the feeling in his chest that was so pressing and so heavy and just so indescribable that his screams turned sobs and he fell back against the wall.

» «

Dinner was a quiet affair. 

After scrubbing himself raw a second time, Albrecht had taken seat as far away from his mother as possible. Which wasn't exactly hard, since they were the only ones anyways.

They didn't talk. Albrecht shoveled up the food as fast as possible, his mother ate as delicate as ever, though he knew her hands were shaking from the clirring of her silverware.

She didn't acknowledge the screams he was very sure the whole house had heard, nor the sobs or rumble of falling furniture.

He didn't like his room — not anymore. It resembled another version of him; the sixteen-year-old, unscarred one. But that wasn't him anymore, so his room had to change. The splinters he'd caught from forcefully disassembling his wardrobe had been a welcome pain. Anything to make the screams stop. The gunshots.

"Have you heard from father?" Albrecht's voice was still rough, but the silence had gotten on his nerves. Silence meant calm before storm, enemies in hiding — death.

"No," He hadn't expected her to answer, really. Had been prepared to let the question sit until he went upstairs again.

"I haven't heard from anyone." she added quietly, almost as if she didn't want him to hear.

"Aside for me."

"Aside for you."

He left shortly after. Dumping his plates in the kitchen on his way but stopping at the backdoor. The forest towered dark and gloomy around the Villa. 

Albrecht shut the blinds. If the enemies couldn't see him, he wouldn't be the target.

With that same thought, he pushed his wardrobes up against the windows and barricaded the door.

He rid of his clothes but fiddelet a knife and the folded-up paper from his vest. 

Positioned the former beneath his pillow and held the latter carefully in his hands.

The paper was worn down and the picture on it faded, but still he traced the strong jar and blond hair with the tip of his finger. Pressed the picture tightly against his chest.

In the darkness of his room, Albrecht wondered what he had been up to those two years he hadn't witnessed. If he had completed his education at Allenstein or if went to the front himself or if he had become a boxer or if he had dropped out. 

And a small voice in the back of his head wondered, if Friedrich missed him just as much als Albrecht did.

Chapter Text

Heimweh nach Dir.

four

Albrecht woke to sweat-wet bedding and bile raising in the back of his throat.

He jumped up, yanked the desk back from his door and stumbled to the bathroom.

He had barely made it to the toilet before it all came up. He retched, helpless to the amount of fluid he didn't even know where it came from. 

His hair stuck to his forehead and the tiled floor was hard and cold beneath his knees.

It felt as if an eternity later, he could finally lift his head out of the bowl and rest it against his shaking arms instead.

The smell was bearable — the cramping in his stomach was not. 

He curled into a ball, there, on the cold bathroom floor, in an attempt to soothe himself. In an attempt to make it stop, somehow. But it wouldn't last — the next time he tasted bile in his mouth, he had to frantically unfurl himself and get back to the toilet. He could barely breathe anymore. Between the retching and the cramping, he couldn't concentrate on it enough.

He panicked. Would this be his end? 

Surviving two years of war at the front, just to suffocate to his own vomit?

Desperately, he tried to get up, to go and get help — but the cramps made him double over and the bile in his throat impossible to breathe. 

His eyes watered, he could barely feel his legs. Carefully, he stumbled towards the door — or where he thought the door to be, at least, because when he reached the wall, it was just that. 

A wall. 

The panic filled him now, chocking for air, he clawed along the smooth wallpaper, searching with frantic hands. 

He fell back down, his head began to feel too heavy for his neck to hold. 

Albrecht tried to scream, but no sound left his throat.

He knocked something over — he didn't even know what — when his legs finally gave out. He fell back, hitting his head on something hard and sharp.

Then, it all turned black.

» «

A scream, high and shrill. Pain in his head, numb limbs, the acidic smell of vomit.

Albrecht pushed himself up on his elbows and opened his eyes. There were specs of blood on the floor, stark against the bright tiles and obviously older.

He noticed the sun. It shone almost directly into his eyes when he sat up and he squeezed them shut in an instant. That didn't exactly help his raging headache, though. He groaned.

Then, he remembered the scream. It had stopped now but it did sound different from the ones in his head. He forced his eyelids open again.

The girl from yesterday stood in the doorway. Clutching her pearls with one hand and the door handle in the other. She was, again, white as snow. 

They stared at each other for a moment, before the girl rightened herself.

"A—Are you quite alright?"

Albrecht nodded. She nodded back.

"I am supposed to let in a bath for Frau Stein."

He shrugged and cleared his throat, unsure if any sound would come out even if he tried.

"Don't let me stop you," he rasped, "I'm just going to sit here."

She took a deep breath and entered the room. She had to step around him a bit to be able to reach the bathtub's faucet. Albrecht could see the moment the smell hit her.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" she was quiet, her words almost a whisper, as if she were unsure if it was her position to ask.

"Positive."

She turned back to look at him, the faucet forgotten. She studied him for a moment and Albrecht met her gaze. Her eyes were grey.

He was just about to ask her, when she removed herself and went towards the shower instead. She turned it on and pulled out two of the big towels his mother loved.

"You stay here," she commanded and left the room in hurried steps.

Albrecht let his head fall back with a thud and closed his burning eyes.

The next time the door opened, he didn't know how much time had passed. The girl had found a companion, some guy Albrecht had never seen. He introduced himself though — he was called Benjamin — and the girl blushed when she noticed she hadn't done so before. Her name was Mia.

Benjamin helped him get out of his clothes and in the pre-warmed shower while Mia put down a stack of fresh clothes and began mopping the floor.

Albrecht stood still beneath the hot spray of water for the most time. Let it run through his hair and flow down his skin with a red tint.

They pulled him back out and wrapped him in the big towels, sat him down on a stool.

There was another man now, one Albrecht recognized. It was their dedicated doctor, Dr. Schulze, if he wasn't mistaken.

The older man smiled kindly down at him.

"Why don't you tell me what happened while I take a look at your head, yes?"

Mia was still not done cleaning the floor and Benjamin was busy scrubbing his blood off the bathtub. They were mumbling among themselves and spared Albrecht not one glance.

"I fell," he grunted. Schulze nodded as he pushed Albrecht's hair away, "Why?" Schulze asked.

There was a sharp pain on the side of his head. "I was sick."

The doctor hummed, seeming not to pay much attention. Albrecht felt like a child.

"So you fell because you were sick?"

He nodded, "Oh, do not move your head please." the doctor reprimanded him and Albrecht made a sound of agreement instead.

"Why were you sick?" the doctor went on.

Albrecht didn't know. He told him so. He wanted this over with as soon as possible, it was so humiliating. To be handled like a little boy who had simply hit his head while playing to hard.

Schulze's hands felt around a little longer, then moved on to his neck and throat.

"Were you having any other troubles?" the cold hands traced a particulary nasty scar at the base of his throat, just above his collarbone. This one, Albrecht rememberd where he's gotten it from. Or who, rather.

"Cramps," he offered quietly, twisting away from the memory.

The doctor hummed, corrected his glasses and finally let go of him. He gave him one last once over. "Stomach, I assume?"

A nod. 

It had been the food, the doctor told him. From years of eating inferior military packs, his stomach had simply forgotten how to handle actual food.

Schulze prescribed him a few glasses of water to keep his hydration in check and to take eating slow before he left.

Benjamin had attempted to help Albrecht back to his room, but he shook him off halfway. He didn't need help.

He shut the door so bad the windows rattled. He didn't want help.

He was eighteen, for heaven's sake, and would be nineteen come autumn. He was not some kid that needed someone to look after it.

Albrecht closed his eyes and sunk back against the door. He didn't like the attention. He used to, once, when he was younger and under the oblivion that caring and attention meant loving. Now, he knew all it had been was an act to hold upright the perfect image of a secretly crumbling family. Now he knew the only people caring for him only did so for the money they'd get at the end of the month.

Albrecht had been truthfully cared for only once in his life. 

Years after his mother had told him her last "Love you" and his father had stopped actually seeing him through the mist of drunkenness, there had been a boy.

Albrecht had always believed that the people you needed the most would appear in the most helpless situations.

Enter Friedrich Weimer.

Blond, tall and all smiles, warm and strong. Everything Albrecht wasn't. Everything his father would've wanted for a son.

But Friedrich had been the first to not make him feel worth less — not like a disappointment but like an actual human. Had listened and held him when it became too much. Wasn't always the brightest but at least he'd tried. He had made the effort Albrecht's parents had never bothered.

Friedrich had been his reason — the reason that had been taken away from him the second his father sent him to the Ukraine. 

Albrecht didn't know what he had expected, but the least of his hopes had been an occasional letter. Instead, he hadn't heard from Friedrich in over two years now. 

Which had definitely made his time at the front much more painful that it should've been. 

His only ray of hope had been his transfer to the front in Russia, where he had met his new squad — one he found actual friends in. But that had obviously been too much good already. Deadly winters, dead friends, frozen bones.

When Albrecht sat too still, he could almost feel the cold creeping in, even though Russia's unforgiving winters where far away now. The feeling was hard to shake off, but the feeling of Friedrich's betrayal was worse.

Not once had he contacted him and even though no one had asked, Albrecht kept on making excuses. Kept on carrying his picture around in his chest pocket. Keeping it close to his heart at all times, even now he didn't wear his vest anymore.

Hot tears filled Albrecht's eyes and he felt so, so pathetic. Of course it wouldn't last. Why would it, when even his own parents had turned their backs on him? Why would a random boy be different?

Why couldn't he just get rid of his picture?

» «

They didn't get word about his father until about a week later.

Albrecht's stomach had thankfully calmed down again and even though sleep was still coming slow and the screams never really stopped, the dark circles under his eyes had gotten lighter.

He still barely talked to his mother, or saw her, really, and if he did, the conversations lasted up to four sentences total. The Stein Villa probably lay at it's most quiet Albrecht had ever witnessed.

His mother had gone out for the day, he didn't know where to. He didn't really care, either. 

He was sat in the backyard, enjoying the low late morning sun when Mia came bursting through the door.

"Herr Stein," she panted, Albrecht imagened she had run through the whole house in search for him, "There are visitors for you."

Albrecht furrowed his brows, he didn't expect anyone and he was very certain his mother didn't, either. "I'm not expecting any—"

"Yes, but it is important," Mia immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, "Oh my God, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to! But these gentlemen are insisting it is an important matter, only told to the Stein family."

Realization had dawned on Albrecht, then, when he followed Mia throughout the rooms of the house and back to the front door. He didn't complain. He didn't want them in the house, anyway.

"Are you Herr Albrecht Stein?" he was greeted by a man that could be around his father's age. He wore uniform, as did the other man standing behind him. When Albrecht nodded, they took off their hats and Albrecht already knew what they were about to say. Hadn't expected anything else, if he were being honest.

A man like Heinrich Stein would have returned home from war, regardless of the outcome.

Albrecht barely listened to the men as they rattled off their standard speech. Something about feeling deeply sorry and about having tried informing Frau Stein and the words missing in action, not to lose hope and how much of a brave soldier Heinrich Stein had been.

All that really mattered to Albrecht in this moment wasn't the fact that his father had been declared MIA — it was the fact that his father was gone.

Because if his father was gone, Albrecht could go, too.

Chapter Text

Wo ein Wille ist, ist auch ein Weg.

five

When the men had left, Albrecht ran.

Up the stairs and into his cold room. He picked up his discarded duffle and stuffed it full. Cleared his notebooks off the shelves and clothes from the wardrobes — found another bag to fill with documents and trinkets.

He tore open the back of his wardrobe — there, hidden behind old clothes and dust, lay a single big mason jar. Filled to the brim with money. Before he was sent to Allenstein, Albrecht had put part of his pocket money away every month — saving up to run away some day.

He threw on his discarded camo suit, knowing it would keep him warm and dry for at least a few hours, and filled the pockets with his money.

Albrecht hoisted the bags up on his shoulders. He looked around his sparse room one last time — the sun shining warmly through the big windows; the desk that's been marred by angry letters; the walls that'd heard him cry more often than anyone else did, and the one spot he had felt his most loved in.

He shut the door with an angry slam.

In a final bout of sanity, Albrecht hastily wrote a letter to his mother, pushed it into an envelope alongside the fax of his father's updated status, and shoved it into Mia's hands.

"Give this to my mother upon her return," he ordered, ignoring the girl's confused look. Mia didn't ask where he was going — he knew that she was in no position to, but it did make leaving feel easier.

His mother's car pulled up the driveway and Albrecht did his best to just march past it — to not look into his mother's eyes, to not see the disappointment that still didn't leave her, not even as he did.

The driver honked but Albrecht kept his eyes on the horizon. He wouldn't look back.

Not today, not tomorrow, hopefully not ever.

He was a man now — an adult. He didn't need anyone's permission of approvement to do anything. The only thing that had held him back was his father and the foolish, boyish thought that the man would be proud. Proud of his only son for surviving not only the Ukrainian but also the Russian front, their ruthless winters, his friends' deaths, the—

But Heinrich Stein would never be proud of him — this fact continued to be wishful thinking. It had to stop now.

His mother had always liked him better and if not even she could be happy about his return, how could his father?

His father, who was missing in action. Lost at war. His father, who would likely never return. Heinrich Stein, whom Albrecht really should care less about.

But Albrecht had never been known for his light thinking or carelessness. Albrecht had always cared about everything — a trait that had stabbed him in the back before he was even old enough to realize.

He had hated himself for it — and still did — especially during war. He had wished he could've just turned his head off and not think for just one minute please. But life had never been kind to him and he could still remember the faces and the names and the blood — oh God the blood.

Albrecht had almost reached town before he realized where his feet took him.

Everything about this life had been pure muscle memory. Getting out of bed in the morning, stumbling to the bathroom and then kitchen, combing his hair back with the same autonomousy he had trained all these years.

He took a corner. He had never gone this way, but the life he had spent here needed to stop. 

And it had to stop now.

» «

His way to the train station was much longer than usual, who would have thought.

Albrecht sat down in the first train that rolled in. He wondered, shortly, how everything had been able to go back to normal so soon after the war — but then again, life was a facade made of carefully stacked, hidden truths.

He had thought to have witnessed quite a handful of the war back at Allenstein, but being at the front had changed his perspective as abruptly as a bullet left a gun. 

Albrecht would think this — the small crowds at the station and constant entry and exit of trains — was normal, he was sure, if he hadn't ever left for the Napola. 

Experience changed perspective.

And perspective changed experience.

He sat in a quiet compartment of the train, clutched his bags and rested against the window.

He watched the town pass by. His hometown. The town he grew up in. He could make out the bakery where he was to get bread rolls and croissants every Sunday, the primary school he used to go to and even the small bookshop where he'd gotten countless books from.

Albrecht tried closing his eyes — getting a few hours back of the sleep he'd missed over the years — but each noise startled him. Every bump on the tracks made him jump right back up.

So, instead, he digged through his duffle, not quite sure what he was searching for until he held a notebook in his hands, the pages worn down though never used.

He frowned at it — why did it look so old already? — but searched for a pen and started writing.

Or, rather, he had meant to start writing. The letters turned more flourished and got longer and longer, until they took up the whole page.

Albrecht had drawn — or sketched, he wasn't sure — the silhouette of a person. A man, even. And he wanted to scream and throw the book out the window when he recognized it. When he recognized him. Friedrich.

He didn't hate Friedrich. No matter how hard he tried — he couldn't even properly dislike him. But there was something. A feeling he couldn't place. But it was a feeling he so desperately wanted to place, to know.

The train reached its final stop sooner rather than later, and Albrecht hurriedly gathered up his stuff.

He didn't recognize the area and the slight, fresh warmth of hope made way to his chest. Albrecht had always liked the feel of hope, though he had experienced it way too rarely for his age. 

Hope felt like the first warm rays of sun after winter. After the Russian winter. After frozen to death bodies.

He shivered, the feeling gone.

Albrecht bought a stale coffee at a small station shop, slurping it as he searched for another train to wherever.

He didn't know the city displayed on the board, but knew that was for the better.

Albrecht wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but when he got off the last night train in a nowhere-city, it was pitch black outside.

He stumbled bis way through unknown streets, glad for his suit. It wasn't perfectly comfortable, but kept him warm. And people avoided him — a nice bonus.

The road wasn't illuminated enough to make out any street signs. But it was quiet, so quiet, even, that Albrecht looked over his shoulder every two steps. Silence never meant well. If there was silence, there was hiding. If there was silence, there was a bigger predator not too far.

During war, he had hated his gun. Had held it at arms length and only used it when very, very necessary. Though now, he wished for the missing weight in his hand that had became comforting with time.

Maybe it would be easier if he'd had an actual destination. If he'd had something to focus his mind on, he wouldn't hear the screams — wouldn't spin around looking like a madman because they sounded so real.

They became real, when a hand landed on his shoulder from behind. Well, they became real as in Albrecht let out a startled shout. Not really a scream, he had to admit. Not that it mattered.

"For G—" he started, facing the stranger. The keeper of the hand. The body that belonged to the fingers still etched on his shoulder.

"Albrecht?"

He knew that voice. He knew it. But in the back of his mind, the person didn't quite fit. He looked different. Or maybe he was someone else entirely. Albrecht couldn't think.

"You cut your hair." it was supposed to be a question, but Albrecht didn't care. How could he?

How could he care when Christoph Schneider — the Christoph Schneider, the one he shared a room with back in Allenstein — stood in front of him, eyes blown wide, a nervous chuckle in his throat.

"I—yes I did. Shit, Albrecht, is that really you? What are you doing here?"

Albrecht couldn't focus, "Why did you cut your hair?"

Christoph stared at him for just a moment, obviously caught off-guard though Albrecht wasn't quite sure why.

"You're not the only one who went to war," he let out an unsure laugh.

The statement made Albrecht's blood run cold. Of course he wasn't the only one at war. Albrecht knew that — had seen others. Why did Christoph have to tell him? 

He jerked out of his grip. "I know," he hissed. Christoph still had that look on him, though he folded his arms over his chest, giving Albrecht a critical one-over.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again. Albrecht could feel his skin start to itch.

"What are you doing here?" it was one of his weaker comebacks, Albrecht had to admit. But what he didn't want to admit was that he had no idea. He had wanted to go, he knew, but in the heat of the moment he hadn't thought about where.

Christoph snorted, "You see that?" he pointed to a brightly lit flat down the street, "I live there. And if you can't tell me where you're going, I will give you a room tour."

His words sounded like a threat to Albrecht and he wound his hands around his bags.

"It's none of your business." he said, voice hard. To think he had missed even Christoph in his first few months of war. Looking back at it now he couldn't understand himself. But he didn't understand anything at the moment, really.

His head was heavy and his eyes burned and Christoph wouldn't stop grinning.

Why, for God's sake, was he grinning.

Christoph seemed to see something, then. Something that made him stop grinning and instead look kind of ... grim. He gripped Albrecht's wrist, pulling him in the direction of his flat. Albrecht didn't have enough fight left to resist. 

He could hear his CO shouting at him. He had done that a lot, his first CO, that is. His second was a tad nicer.

"Come on," Christoph murmured, "let's go."

» «

The inside of the building was about as run down and poor looking as its outside.

The stairs were crumbling at the edges and Albrecht was pretty sure the dirt on the walls was mold.

Christoph had taken his bags from him — maybe as a nice act, but Albrecht had a feeling it was rather to make sure Albrecht wouldn't run again. He'd tried that, right before they crossed a street, but Christoph had pulled him back.

He shoved Albrecht in front of a door now. It was made of chipped wood, he noticed. Christoph knocked for him.

Albrecht couldn't stop shaking. He wasn't even sure when that had started. He wasn't cold, at least he thought, but his blood had yet to run warm again.

He took a shivering breath. He didn't know what to expect. Didn't know why Christoph had dragged him here and made him stand in front of a door he didn't know where it would lead. 

Maybe he did know. He wasn't sure if his brain let him.

The door opened, now — the door opened and Albrecht wanted to cry.

 He was there. In all his blond haired, broad shouldered glory. In all his smile-dimples and blue eyes. 

Him — Friedrich goddamn Weimer.

"What—the fuck?"

Chapter Text

Bitte vergiss nicht, was wir erlebt haben.

six

The inside of the flat was surprisingly different from the rest of the house.

Sure, the walls were stained and the floor creaked with every step. The air was weirdly stale — as if the room wasn't lived in at all — and it was almost bitterly cold.

Christoph had sat him down at a table made of solid wood where Albrecht was left to fidget with his fingers. His bags had been carelessly thrown into a corner, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

Not when Friedrich was sitting right there in front of him, staring. 

Albrecht had always found Friedrich's eyes to be more grey than blue. He knew those eyes. He had seen them before, he was sure. Well, of course he had, but just recently. He had seen them recently. But where?

Christoph threw him a towel, though Albrecht eyed it wearily.

"You're soaked," Christoph grumbled, "dry up before you get us water damage."

But Albrecht hadn't even realized the rain that was now drumming against the thin windows. Hadn't noticed that it had started way back on the street. Hadn't noticed that the rain had began to leak into his suit, making it stick uncomfortably.

It felt like blood.

It felt like the blood that had run down his body while he had attempted to cover the gaping cut just below his throat.

It felt like the blood that had soaked his clothes when he had taken a hit to the stomach.

Albrecht retched. 

He could still smell—no, scratch that—feel it.

"You know, throwing up won't make you any drier."

He rubbed his hair with the towel and rid himself of his suit-top, leaving him to shiver in his plain t-shirt.

Friedrich was still staring at him.

"Can you stop?" Albrecht snapped. He felt as if he were in an interrogation room rather than the flat of his— former— roommate.

"What are you doing here?" Friedrich asked instead, pointedly not adverting his gaze.

"Why does everyone ask me that? Can't a man do what he wants?"

Christoph soundfully busied himself in the kitchen. If you could even call it that.

The flat was basically one big room — though with three extra doors that led to different ones. Bedrooms, Albrecht assumed.

"Oh, of course he can," Friedrich bit back, "But you do agree it is a bit strange when said man is supposed to be dead, don't you?"

Albrecht startled, "Dead? I'm not dead."

"Who would have guessed," Christoph drawed,  rejoining them at the table and placing a plate with bread in front of Albrecht. 

He could still feel Friedrich's eyes on him as he fiddled with a corner of it, not quite daring to eat. Albrecht wanted him to stop.

But Albrecht wasn't much better, he realized. He couldn't stop his eyes from helplessly raking over Friedrich's body. He had changed, Albrecht had noticed immediately after the first shock.

Friedrich's eyes were exhausted. So much, that Albrecht felt his own burn just by looking at them, and the purple circles they carried certainly didn't help. His hair was short, almost like Christoph's. It didn't quite suit him, Albrecht thought, it made him look cold and unforgiving. It reminded him of his old CO, though he really didn't want to think about him. And especially not in correlation to Friedrich.

"You look like you haven't eaten in days, Albrecht, eat that goddamn bread!" Christoph harshly interrupted his thoughts. He too looked much different, Albrecht noticed. He had the same tiredness on him as Friedrich and he had gotten much slimmer; his face was almost entirely bone.

"I'm not a dog," Albrecht whispered. The fight had almost entirely left him. How long had it been since someone had actually spoken to him? How long hat it been since he'd left?

"Then stop sitting there like a kicked pup—" 

"Why are you here?" Friedrich stopped his roommate's rant. His voice was softer than before, though his eyes were searching, questioning — sad.

"Albrecht, how are you here?" he repeated and sat up in his chair. He was closer now, but not close enough to make Albrecht reel back. 

After casting one last look at them, Christoph left; throwing open a door and stomping his way.

"I—don't know," Albrecht confessed, quietly, "I got on a train, and then another — surely a dozen others. The last one ended here, though."

He couldn't bear to look at Friedrich anymore and instead focused his gaze on the sad-looking slice of bread in front of him. Christoph had put cheese on it.

Albrecht frowned, "What's up with him, anyway?" 

He heard Friedrich sigh and a slight rustle that he believed to be caused by him running a hand through his hair.

"He's been like that for a while now," he started, "Think it's 'cause of all the failed job interviews and stuff."

Job interviews. It felt surreal to Albrecht. Surreal that people his age were getting jobs now — working for a living, starting families, moving out. 

Though, to be honest, he could probably also check that last point. He didn't have a place yet, but he wouldn't return. 

He didn't have a place yet. 

"When—when did you get back?" It seemed like a plausible question but Friedrich almost looked scared to ask. Albrecht couldn't help but snort.

"I think it was the fourth or so,"

Friedrich raised a cautious eyebrow. Albrecht couldn't remember when he had started to look at him again.

"The fourth? You held up quite a while then," Friedrich looked surprised, Albrecht couldn't really blame him.

After all, he had been at the Villa, once. Had experienced his father, his doings. Had seen his mothers' passiveness about it. Had held and comforted him when Albrecht had been alone and humiliated. 

"I didn't go...home right away. I stayed with comrades, at first. The journey was long."

Friedrich nodded, finally looking away.

Albrecht wondered, while trying out his bread, if they would ever return to normal. Or if they could, for that matter. He wished for it all to be less awkward, but then again, with as much suppressed anger and — disappointment, he wasn't sure if normal was ever going to happen again. 

Had it ever been normal to begin with? He and Friedrich had gotten close quite fast — even though Albrecht had always had trouble making actual friends; most of his peers made fun of his voice or his thin body, but Friedrich hat taken one look at him and grinned. And it hadn't been the cruel grin of kids who had pushed him into a puddle right after, or the type of grin they had worn on their faces as they had cornered him.

It had been genuine. It had been kind. And Albrecht had lain awake that night, he remembered, wondering how a stranger could look at him with more kindness than his own mother.

Albrecht shoved the plate away with a shaky sigh. His stomach was churning and he could taste bile in the back of his throat. It had been like that ever since he'd gotten sick.

"I'm not hungry," he whispered as an answer to Friedrich's questioning look. His eyes looked sad again, Albrecht couldn't stand it.

"Shit, Albrecht," Friedrich's voice broke and he finally turned his head away, hiding his eyes behind his hand.

"Don't cry," the words left Albrecht's throat as shaken as he felt, "Please, Friedrich, please don't cry. I —"

Friedrich was up in a moment, his chair first scraping and then falling to the ground as he rounded the table and roughly pulled Albrecht to his feet and into his arms.

The same strong and warm arms that had hugged him the exact same way little over two years ago. Though they were tighter, this time, and it wasn't Albrecht letting his tears soak the other's shoulder but Friedrich.

Friedrich, who was shaking from his sobs. Friedrich, who had always been the perfect golden boy and was now crying almost hysterically over the return of his — friend? Where they friends? Albrecht didn't know. But in this moment, as he folded his arms around the other's shaking body as tightly as possible, hiding his face in his shoulder, in this moment, he didn't care.

And it was so raw, so real that it hit Albrecht all at once. 

It was over. The war, the running, the death. The waiting for a message that wouldn't come. The longing for someone who didn't care. Who didn't seem to, at least, because that exact same person was holding him so tight Albrecht wasn't sure if he'd ever let him go again.

He inhaled Friedrich's scent — the scent that had changed and hadn't changed at all and that was still so oddly comforting to him that Albrecht was almost overwhelmed.

"It's okay," Friedrich choked, "It's okay, Albrecht, it's okay — it's over now. It's over, I promise."

And somehow, he believed him. He had sworn himself to hate this man, but his heart had always known.

He couldn't hate someone like Friedrich Weimer. He couldn't, he wouldn't. Not when Friedrich held him like he was his whole world and so much more. Not when Friedrich kissed his hair and hugged him even tighter.

Maybe that was it. The bit that broke him — the familiarity, the comfort, the everything no one had cared to give him. The everything he had missed most.

Albrecht let his tears soak the fabric covering Friedrich's shoulder, just as they had two years ago.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered if this would be called love.

» «

They stayed like that for a while, though Albrecht didn't know for how long exactly.

Friedrich had stopped crying at some point and went over to stroking Albrecht's back and helping him take the weight of his legs. Albrecht felt almost as if he were floating.

Christoph had left his room at some point and Friedrich's chest had rumbled as he talked to him. Albrecht's eyes were caked with dried tears and his throat felt incredibly raw. And for the first time in weeks, he was actually, truthfully tired.

So tired, in fact, that he had started to nod away against Friedrich's chest, only woken up by a knock on the door.

Albrecht pushed weak hands against Friedrich in an attempt to scatter, but Friedrich had an iron grab on him. A soft iron grip. A warm one.

A warm, soft iron grip that picked him up and carried him through the flat. Albrecht was way too tired to complain, or to feel embarrassed.

Friedrich kicked a door open and stepped into a cold, dark room, settling Albrecht down on a soft surface.

A bed, he noticed warily. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat and he could hear Friedrich chuckle from another corner, then he was back in front of him.

Friedrich took of Albrecht's boots and the rest of his suit, instead wrestling a pair of pyjama pants onto his legs and exchanging his t-shirt for another one.

Friedrich pulled the blanket back and pushed Albrecht beneath it, tucking him in.

Albrecht inhaled deeply. Friedrich's scent was everywhere. He murmured softly, Friedrich pushed his hair back, planting another light kiss on his forehead.

"Sleep," he whispered, "You're safe. I promise."

And for the first time for as long as he could remember, Albrecht actually fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Müde vom Leben aber nächtelang wach.

seven

Albrecht woke with a start, sitting up in the bed rimrod straight.

He was disoriented, for a moment, and — confused. Confused, because there was no sweat soaking his skin or the sheets, no distant screams in his ears and his heart wasn't threatening to jump straight out of his chest.

He didn't know what had woken him; it was still pitch-dark in the room — and cold.

Only when he had lain back down and was about to close his eyes, did he hear them. Voices. 

And for one, scary second, Albrecht thought he was actually going mental. The screams were one thing — he had actually heard those, they just replayed sometimes — but he hadn't heard those voices before. Not ever, he was sure of it.

His heart started beating faster, so fast that it drowned out the noise. It took about a few seconds of this until Albrecht actually realized that. He could always hear the screams above his own heartbeat — above anything, really. And if he couldn't hear the voices, that must mean they were real. 

Albrecht desperately hoped they were.

They were coming from the door, he figured, after he had calmed himself. And now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see a sliver of warm light beneath the frame. 

He breathed a sigh of relief and nestled back into the blankets.

The blankets, that reeked of Friedrich. Friedrich. 

Friedrich, who had looked at him as if he were a ghost.

Friedrich, who had thought he were dead.

Friedrich, who had embraced him so tight Albrecht had feared his bones to break.

Friedrich, who had cried into his hair.

Friedrich, who was ... glad to have Albrecht back.

Albrecht stared at the dark ceiling. He could hear laughter among the voices now. Sometimes, Friedrich spoke, though none of the words were audible. He could make out Christoph's voice, too, among two or three foreign ones.

He raked his hands over his face.

He shouldn't be here.

He had barged into this life — this home Friedrich and Christoph had built up for themselves, obviously only made for two. They had their own friends, their own routines. Albrecht didn't fit into this. He didn't belong into Friedrich's bed or his clothes. His body shouldn't belong into Friedrich's arms and his face shouldn't fit into his shoulder.

He didn't know where he belonged. But it surely wasn't a life that was built to work without him.

Albrecht peeled back the warm blankets and slipped out of bed. The wooden floor was almost shockingly cold beneath his feet as he stalked across the the small room, trying to find his clothes.

He found his suit hanging over the back of a chair and his trousers right beside it — his thighs burned when he pulled the fabric above them — though he couldn't make out where his shirt was. Thankfully, the one Friedrich had put on him fit well enough.

Albrecht tier his boots back up and rightened his hair as well as possible, hoping he didn't look too bad.

He took a deep breath, reached for the door handle and — stopped.

Who was outside this door? Christoph and Friedrich he knew — obviously — but what about the other voices? 

No — that shouldn't prevent him from going. He had gotten so far, he could go even further. Away. Away from his family, away from — away from this.

He pulled the door open.

Albrecht recognized Friedrich first, his blond hair almost shone golden in the yellow-ish kitchen light. He stood leaning against the table, his back to Albrecht. 

Christoph stood at the stove, simply not looking in his direction and talking to a third guy Albrecht didn't know.

The fourth guy saw him. He was sat on the sofa, nursing a beer, but now stared at Albrecht with with wide-open eyes.

"Uhm," the guy made. He didn't appear as a very smart being.

Albrecht cleared his throat as soundly as possible — it still felt raw from all the crying.

Men didn't cry. He shouldn't have done that. But Friedrich had too, hadn't he? And Friedrich had always been perfect.

He had turned around now and looked at him with those grey eyes full of wonder. Albrecht felt as if he couldn't grasp that he really was here. Or alive, for that matter.

Then, Friedrich raked them over Albrecht's body and his stare hardened.

"You're awake," he stated. He had always been all-knowing like that.

"Yes," Albrecht confirmed still; taking the few steps needed to reach his bags that had been thrown into a corner.

He could feel all eyes in the room trained on him.

The guy that had been talking to Christoph spoke up, "So, you're Albrecht?" 

He had a scratchy voice, as if he were a smoker.

Albrecht nodded, hoisting the bags up and over his shoulders.

"You've been at the front, right? What's it like?"

He stilled, hands frozen while adjusting the straps on his suit. Slowly, he turned to look at him.

The guy was sitting on the kitchen counter, sipping on liquor. He looked rather ridiculous.

For a moment, no one said anything and it was as if time stood still. Then, the guy quirked an eyebrow.

"Well?" he asked.

Albrecht adjusted to straps and closed his jacket. "What do you think it was like?" 

The guy hummed, "Deadly," he said finally, "and like— powerful, you know? To be the holder of a rifle and stuff. Cold, I guess, and disgusting because there's no running water, is there?"

Friedrich unfolded himself from his position. He put his bottle down and cleared his throat, "Listen, I don't think—"

"You're being too superficial," Albrecht interrupted him.

The guy cocked his head, "Am I? What did I miss?"

"Add abuse, rape and torture to that, then you're at least on a better track," Albrecht tried to keep the tremble out of his voice while he made his way to the front door.

The guy hummed again. It was becoming quite infuriating, "I'm writing a book about it, you know. Maybe you can help me with it?"

Albrecht shook his head, "People don't want to read about that," he whispered.

"Right!" Friedrich almost shouted, "That's enough. Albrecht, what are you doing?"

Albrecht raised his eyebrows, "Explaining the harsh reality of war to unsuspecting youth?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than—"

"No, I mean this," Friedrich gestured to his attire and hand on the door handle, "Are you leaving?" he sounded weirdly desperate.

"Yes," Albrecht stated, matter of factly.

"Why?" Friedrich cried, "You just got here!"

"I've never planned to stay, Friedrich, I didn't even want to come here in the first place,"

There was a small silence then, where Albrecht looked at Friedrich and Friedrich looked right back, hurt.

"You know, the front isn't completely off-the-grid," Albrecht half directed his words at the other guy, "one can still write letters and have them delivered. FAX are a thing, too." he spat.

"Just because I left, didn't mean I was gone."

He ripped the door open and stomped his way out of the building. 

No one stopped him.

» «

The rain hadn't stopped. Albrecht was back at the train station.

That one moment of comfort had been a moment of pure naivety.

Of course Friedrich would pretend to have missed him now that he was back, but Albrecht bet he hadn't even thought about him for just a second while he had been deployed.

And he was sure Christoph had just picked him up for the case that Albrecht had recognized him and wondered why he hadn't said something.

Tears of humiliation pooled in his eyes, blurring his sight. How could he have been so stupid? So naive?

He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. 

Men didn't cry. 

He studied the timetable — the next train would depart in the morning, though it was only about 22 o'clock.

Albrecht sighed to himself and started to wander the town again.

It was just about as pathetic and run down as the flat Friedrich and Christoph lived in. 

Most corners smelled of urine and cigarettes and there was an array of shadowy figures around a small kiosk that Albrecht definitely didn't want to meet.

He sat down on a bench at the edge of a small forest, in the end. It lay on a hill and was therefore higher than the town. Or village, rather, this place was tiny.

When the wind soared through the trees to his back and whirled the leaves around in a calming whoosh, Albrecht let his shoulders sag.

He let his head fall back and enjoyed the wind in his hair for just a moment, before its whistling turned to screaming and the drizzling rain that had collected on his hand turned blood.

Albrecht choked on his breath. The wind that had just tousled his hair now felt like hands grasping at it, pulling and tearing, holding.

He drove his fingernails into his hands. The pain helped ground him — catapult him back into the present.

Usually, at least, because the screams were only getting louder — and Albrecht knew they weren't his because he was biting his tongue so hard he could taste iron — and the hands were getting angrier and the blood turned thick—

The blood was the only real thing, in the end.

Albrecht sagged in relief, breathing hard. He still held the blade of his knife in a tight fist and he was sure that if he concentrated, he would hear the dripping sound that blood made when it landed in puddles. Albrecht was oddly familiar with that sound.

He pried his eyes open. The moon was bright that night.

He wondered, dimly, if it had always been like this. If it had seen what he'd done to others. What others had done to him.

The sun was always rumored to know everything, but the moon knew your secrets. The moon knew what you did when it was dark out — when you didn't want others to see you. 

The moon knew what had happened to him.

The moon knew how Albrecht had gotten the scar just at the base of his neck.

And, if Albrecht had any say in that matter, the moon would stay the only one to know.

He was a man, after all. Men didn't cry and they in any case didn't show weakness.

Yes, the moon would know. No one else.

The moon wouldn't tell, Albrecht was sure. It wouldn't report to his CO, it wouldn't hunt him down.

No, if that were the case, Albrecht was mad enough, anyway. He should just end it, then. He should've done that a while ago. He should've done that while he still had the chance — while it hadn't been too late yet.

He let the tears hit his cheeks and run down his nose.

Because as much as Albrecht had wanted and prayed to be, he would never be a real man. How could he? He had never fit into any roster in all his life — and he wouldn't fit in that of a perfect, real man.

Maybe that was why his father had always looked at him in disdain — and usually drunk. Maybe that was why his mother didn't love him — because he was so different from his father. Maybe that was why Friedrich hadn't contacted him — because he had secretly been glad to finally be rid of his weak friend.

Albrecht's body shuddered as a half-supressed sob worked its way out of his throat. He rested his elbows in his knees and took his head into his hands.

His cheeks were cold beneath his fingers. Dimly, he wondered if they had felt the same beneath theirs.

» «

He hadn't fallen asleep, he was pretty sure of that, but when he had looked up the next time, the moon had already been at the other side of the horizon and his arms had felt numb.

Albrecht stood and stretched his limbs, his joins cracking.

He could barely feel his fingers for how cold they were as he made his way back down the small path he had found. Hopefully, he would be able to catch the train he had planned. They only seemed to depart hourly from here.

Even though he had just wandered the town mere hours ago, Albrecht had already lost his sense of orientation. That had happened a lot during war, too.

He whirled around when he heard footsteps behind him — fast footsteps, he had to add —, the cool handle of his knife a comforting weight in his pocket.

Albrecht almost let out an annoyed grunting noise when he recognized the stranger. 

"Albrecht," Friedrich panted, resting his hands on his knees. His hair looked disheveled and his cheeks were rosy. He didn't wear a jacket.

"Albrecht," he started again, "Albrecht, what the actual fuck?" he seemed to like that word.

Albrecht blinked. That, he had not expected.

"You didn't want my letters!" Friedrich went on, "You appeared out of nowhere on my goddamn birthday and expect me to think it was random?!"

Albrecht took a step back, suddenly angry.

"What are you talking about?" he hissed, "I've never received any letters! And you know damn well I wouldn't have sent them back." He didn't mention the birthday part. He had never known Friedrich's birthday, anyway.

Friedrich looked taken a back for a moment, His eyes were all weird and he had his lips twisted in the same way he always did when he didn't get something.

"I sent you letters," he said slowly, "everyday for a month. And they all came back unopened."

Albrecht licked his dry lips.

"So we thought you had died. Because, obviously, you would open our letters," our he said, and Albrecht's heart felt heavy, "but then you turn up here, so you in fact weren't dead. Which means the only explanation for the returned letters is that you didn't want them." Friedrich concluded.

"Friedrich," Albrecht's voice was small, airy, "Friedrich, I've never received any letters."

Suddenly, Friedrich hugged him with the force of ten tanks, even tighter than he had back in his flat.

"Let me go, Friedrich," Albrecht spoke against the man's shoulder, but his voice was muffled and breaking.

He lo— liked Friedrich's hugs, but he feared to cry again. He didn't know if he had any tears left.

Friedrich visibly didn't even think of ever letting him go again.

Somehow, they had made it back to the flat. Albrecht really should stop being so weak around Friedrich. 

The other guys had left and the door to Christoph's room was closed. Apparently, Friedrich had had fight with him; after, he'd gone to search for Albrecht.

Albrecht dressed himself, this time. In his own clothes. 

He had been on his way to the living room sofa when Friedrich had pulled him back into the room. 

There, they had stood and stared into each other's eyes until Friedrich had bullied him into the bed again and climbed in himself.

It very clearly wasn't big enough for two people, but Albrecht was just lean enough to fit.

They stared at each other again.

Albrecht loved staring into Friedrich's eyes.

He had shared bed-spaces with dozens of men, as weird as it sounded. But in Russia they often had to huddle together for warmth, Ukraine had only been slightly different. 

But this, this was entirely different. This wasn't a comrade next to him, clad in uniform and loaded with weapons. This was Friedrich. His Friedrich, who slept in worn down t-shirts and flannel pants.

It was Friedrich who curled his warm strong arms around him and pulled him close. Who folded around him like a mold and who pressed a featherlight kiss to his hair.

This wasn't right, Albrecht knew, but in this moment, he really could care less.

Chapter Text

Manchmal gibt es so viel zu sagen, dass ich lieber schweige.

eight

If there was one thing Albrecht missed most from before the war, it would be being able to sleep through a night.

Now, he woke to every noise or movement. Or he woke screaming. Sometimes both.

Once, he had startled awake when Friedrich's breath had stroked the back of his neck and almost decked him right in the face.

Albrecht had lain awake for a while after. He'd turned around, coming face to face with Friedrich and stared at him.

He looked almost boy-ish; his hair tousled and his face completely at ease.

Albrecht reached out across the bed, softly, carefully laying his hand over the place where Friedrich heart sat. His t-shirt was thin and Friedrich's skin warm beneath his fingers. His heart made a steady thud thud thud.

Friedrich didn't wake. At first, at least. Then his brows furrowed a bit and he let out a quiet noise — Albrecht could feel it rumble in his chest — and flailed one arm out, slowly but wildly.

His hand landed on the back of Albrecht's neck.

Albrecht froze.

Friedrich murmured something incoherent into the cold space between them, before pulling Albrecht closer — by his neck, mind you.

And really, Albrecht had been manhandled before. Of course he had — soldiers weren't known for treating each other with velvet gloves, after all. But something about this, about being pulled into a subconscious warm embrace, made something in Albrecht's chest flutter. And it did so almost uncomfortably.

He hadn't felt such thing before — no, wait, he had. Back when he had first met Friedrich, the other boy all smiles and sunshine. It had triggered the same feeling. Albrecht hadn't liked it back then, either. It was foreign, strange. It made his chest feel weird, his heart.

Albrecht had taken it as a bad omen.

But who could resist a man like Friedrich Weimer?

Albrecht couldn't, as much was certain.

So, despite his feelings, he had continued to spent time with the boy. He had gotten his consequences soon enough. 

Dead kids their age, an unsuccessful attempt to escape, two years at the front in the Ukraine and Russia. 

Well, only six months in the Ukraine, but Albrecht didn't want to think about that right now.

Not, when Friedrich cradled him to his chest and ran a hand through his hair. Albrecht wasn't sure if the man was awake, though he hoped not. This was all unintentional, Friedrich surely was dreaming. If he weren't, well, this would be so very wrong. Right?

No man could handle another with such ... care (and something else, something heavy and important and warm and just so ugh that Albrecht couldn't place). Albrecht had witnessed it himself, such thing was impossible. He didn't allow himself to relax into Friedrich's hold in fear he would wake up and close his hand around Albrecht's throat, or —

No, Albrecht squeezed his eyes shut, the scar at his neck throbbed as if it wanted to underline his thoughts. His almost-thoughts. Ukraine had to stay where he had left it, Albrecht had promised himself that when he'd been transferred to Russia. It would stay all those hundreds or thousands of kilometers away from him, and the memories with it.

But Friedrich's breathing stayed the same kind of steady and low that Albrecht was sure he was still fast asleep.

He willed his own breaths to follow Friedrich's example. He'd done that a lot during war — though not with Friedrich, of course.

During cold nights in the trenches, when Albrecht had huddled close to his comrades — friends even — and the moon was high and they hadn't heard a noise in hours, the one thing they wanted and needed the most was sleep. Even if it only were an hour or two — they all woke up at the quietest noise, a blessing and a curse — it could be worth a life.

So, they had all collectively tried to match their breathing to the guy who fell asleep first. Usually Berthold or sometimes Tobias. Both had found their eternal sleep. Both had been younger than Albrecht, even if just a few months.

Mark had liked to tell stories, Albrecht rememberd, and his brother Leonhard had always interrupted him with his own versions. They retold their mother's bedtime stories, childish and naive, but Albrecht hadn't found it in him to care. They had all been children.

Tobias' death had hit him the most, at first. 

He had been the first to die in this new group. They had held out fairly long, their CO had reminded them of that sometimes, had clapped them on their backs and spoken words of pride. 

It had only been a day or so before the end. Before that one, meaningful fax. They had been on their way to a safehouse — a snowstorm had brewed up and had threatened to kill them instead — when a single shot had been fired, hitting Tobias right in the head. He had been dead before he hit the ground.

Later, likely in an attempt to disturb the stunned silence in the small, cold hut, their CO had mused it had been a soldier that had lain half-dead on the ground, shooting at the first thing that moved.

Albrecht had believed him, in that moment, until Berthold — his dear, best friend Berthold — had been hit in the stomach just twelve hours later. Russians had found them and camped the whole night. It had never been a half-dead soldier. 

When Berthold had started dying just before sunrise the next day, Albrecht's memories stopped.

He didn't know how they had gotten ahold of a car and made their way to an abandoned station. He didn't know how long he had had his hands in Berthold's stomach, desperately trying to get out the bullet and somehow keep him alive.

Albrecht had only snapped out of his trance when Franz — funny, hopeful Franzel — had put a gun to his head and fired. Sometimes, he still heard that distinct shot ring through his head. Berthold had died an hour later. Sometime between that, the Führer had died too. 

They had made it so far and yet never reached the end.

Albrecht hadn't noticed the tears welling in his eyes and finally spilling from them, until a warm thumb stroked them away.

Oh yeah, he hadn't noticed that, either.

Friedrich was looking down at him through his bangs, his big grey eyes full of worry.

He murmured something so low and soft that Albrecht could only guess it to be something along the lines "Are you alright?".

Albrecht nodded his head, then shook it.

He really should stop lying to himself.

With a sigh, Friedrich sat up. Albrecht immediately felt bad. He hadn't meant to rob him of his sleep.

But Friedrich didn't look annoyed when he turned on an old, tattered bedside lamp that only provided little light. He didn't look happy either, though.

"You wanna talk 'bout it?" Friedrich's voice was rough and it was clear he still hadn't completely woken up. The feeling in Albrecht's chest soared.

"I—" Albrecht haltered. He wanted to tell Friedrich. Friedrich would listen, he wouldn't judge. Not when Albrecht didn't want him to, at least; not in this case. But he didn't know where to start.

Ukraine, he didn't want to think about. But if was crucial to the rest of the, well, story, wasn't it? It was important to properly understand Albrecht's actions, he knew. He knew because he had whispered it all to Berthold, once. Berthold, who had looked at him like a confused puppy until Albrecht had slowly started to unlock Ukraine. Then, Albrecht's knowledge on puppy-faces had run out.

"Just a nightmare," Albrecht whispered instead.

Friedrich hummed, the vibration travelling from Albrecht's arm to his own ribcage. He hadn't even noticed that he hadn't taken his hand from Friedrich's chest and he quickly pulled it away as if burned.

"What about?" Friedrich yawned, loud. Albrecht stared at him.

He took a deep breath through his nose, "The bullet hole in my friend's head," he said quietly it was neither a life nor the truth, "and— blood."

There was always blood. 

In his vision when Albrecht heard the screams, on his hands when he shut them up, on his fingers when he'd scratched yet another wound open again. His back stung as a reminder.

For a moment, it was quiet. Albrecht could feel Friedrich staring at him, though he didn't say a word. Albrecht didn't know if he waited for him to continue. He did know that he wouldn't. He couldn't unpack those things in Friedrich. Not sweet, sunray Friedrich. 

"I—" Friedrich cleared his throat, unsure, "I don't know how to help you," he admitted to the quiet of the room. Albrecht didn't look at him.

"You can't," he whispered back.

"I want to try!" Friedrich's breath picked up, he looked helpless, desperate, "I want to— You can't—"

"I know," Albrecht collected Friedrich's flailing hands, pulling them to his chest and the man attached right with them. Sometimes, Albrecht forgot about the muscles he had built up; he was actually on the stronger side now.

He turned off the light again. 

"I know."

» «

When Albrecht woke again it was to birds chirping and the first rays of sunlight. 

And definitely not to being sandwiched between the cold brick-wall and the whole entire body of Friedrich Weimer, who was currently peacefully breathing in his hair, fast asleep.

Albrecht groaned. And, after a rather long while of contemplating, wriggled his way out of Friedrich's grip.

He stumbled his way out of the dark room and into the about half as dark main room. Then, he stopped. He had seen Christoph storm into that one room over there last night, so the other one should hypothetically be a bathroom. Right?

Right.

The old lights flickered to life about half a minute after Albrecht had pressed the light switch.

It wasn't much, but Albrecht supposed it was more than enough for two guys. There was a bathtub shower in the corner and a sink and a toilet. A single, rather rancid cabinet and a stool. 

His eyes caught the mirror above the sink. And even though he willed himself to look away, to not pay any attention to it — he couldn't help but stare at his own reflection.

Albrecht looked worse than he had at his parents' house, but he somehow looked better at the same time. 

There were still dark circles beneath his eyes and his face was as bony as weeks ago, but he had gained some colour and his hair hung less sad.

He sighed, tried out the faucet and sprayed some ice-cold water into his face scrubbing the skin clean.

It was surreal. Being here; living here, for that matter. It was weird. Albrecht didn't know what to do.

One, big breath later, Albrecht made his way back to th— Friedrich's bedroom. 

After a while of rummaging in the dark, Albrecht pulled on a fresh pair of trousers — but went for the shirt he'd gotten Friedrich instead, the one he had worn before. He hadn't packed any t-shirts, but his proper silk-shirts didn't fit here.

Casting a last look over to Friedrich's disheveled, sleeping form on the bed, Albrecht ripped open the twin windows.

Immediately, Friedrich groaned. From the corner of his eye, Albrecht could see him flail his arms in an attempt to shield his eyes from the sun.

"Why," he drew the word out, peeking through his hands to glower at Albrecht. Albrecht snorted.

"It smells like a pub in the living room," he clarified, "better to air the whole thing, don't you think?"

Another groan, Albrecht moved on to the other windows.

» «

That morning was lazy. It was a Sunday, after all.

The warm-ish winds that streamed in from the outside not only heated up the flat a bit but also vanished the smell of beer from the night before.

Albrecht had sat down at the table to eat the bread he had abandoned before, when Friedrich finally shuffled from his room.

For a moment, Albrecht couldn't help but stare in awe. 

Like the night before, his hair glowed; though this time in the morning sun rather than yellowed kitchen lights. It was a mess, his hair, standing in every direction and falling in front of his eyes. The old t-shirt he wore stretched over his shoulders, though his sleeping-pants hung rather low.

Albrecht gulped, quickly averting his gaze.

Friedrich grumbled out a "good morning" before he busied himself with brewing coffee and ultimately dropping down in the chair opposite of Albrecht.

He stared at him, Albrecht sighed.

"Sorry," Friedrich looked down into his mug, "'is just so— surreal that you're actually here, you know?"

"Trust me," Albrecht started, "if you had told me a week ago that I would be sitting in a kitchen with that one guy from school I'd actually wanted to ban from my mind, I would have you checked in for schizophrenia."

He had half expected Friedrich to chuckle, but when he looked up again there was that weird look in his eyes.

"You wanted to— what?" his voice was quiet, unbelieving.

"I— it doesn't matter, now. But— But when you didn't write I thought—"

"So you wanted to forget me." it was a statement, not a question.

"I tried."

"Didn't work then, I assume?"

"Never."

Friedrich didn't stop staring until Christoph barged from his room. 

He looked worse than Friedrich but better than Albrecht. But he was obviously absolutely done.

He grumbled on his short way to the kitchen, grumbled louder when he missed the cup while pouring coffee and grumbled loudest when he hit his toes on the table.

Christoph didn't appear to be much of a morning person either.

Though bis grumbling seemed to have made Friedrich able to speak up again.

"Sorry about Ralf, yesterday," it took the better portion of a moment before Albrecht remembered anything from last night.

Eventually, he just shrugged his shoulders, "He didn't know better."

"Yeah, but he was just straight up rude about it."

Another shrug.

"I give up," Christoph almost face planted into his coffee.

"That's not very Christoph-Schneider of you," Friedrich seemed almost unbothered as he shoveled butter onto his poor piece of bread.

"Yes, but it would've been much more Christoph-Schneider of me to have gotten the first job I've applied to, wouldn't it?"

Albrecht felt as if he were left out on some kind of inside joke. He decided not to interfere.

"I believe the Not-Very-Christoph-Schneider-Streak started when you ran away from home, didn't it?"

Christoph visibly sacked.

"It did."

"So, when's the next interview?"

"Tomorrow."

There was a silence in the room, then. No one really looked at another, though Friedrich and Christoph kebbled over the cheese.

Albrecht let the domesticy of the moment cover him almost like a warm blanket.

"What— what do you work as?" 

Christoph looked up at him as if the question had been directed at him, then he elbowed Friedrich.

"Hm?" his eyes met Albrecht's, "Oh, sorry. I work down at the train station," Albrecht raised an eyebrow, "I help build the rails," Friedrich clarified, "And in the evenings I train."

"You still box?"

Friedrich nodded eagerly. Albrecht didn't know why he had expected him to have stopped. But it did explain why Friedrich had gotten even broader and why there were so many medals on his bedroom walls.

"I'm even going abroad in a few weeks — some kind of special training down in Austria."

Albrecht's heart stopped a beat. He couldn't tell why.

But he had another question burning in his tongue already.

"So," he started, both men looked at him expectantly, both having just bitten down in their breads, "What's going— to happen to me, now?"

Friedrich and Christoph shared a look. Christoph shrugged.

"You can stay here, I guess," he smacked, "'s long as you don't trash the flat and stuff."

"You could also look for a job, if you want," Friedrich chimed in, "Or, you know, uh, recover?"

Christoph glared at his friend. It was then that Albrecht remembered. Christoph had been to war, too. Had told him so right when they had met.

He wondered if...

"You— You haven't been the front, have you?"

Suddenly, there was a ghostly silence. Which was weird, because Friedrich kept on eating and Christoph didn't freeze, either. Maybe Albrecht was imagining things. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?

"No," Christoph said finally and his voice wasn't tense or cold or hard but just— normal. Albrecht must be going crazy.

"Not the front. Not even comparable," he huffed, "I was just stationed in Berlin, for a while. After graduating."

"So, nothing that—"

"Nothing happened that will make me wake up screaming at night, no." Christoph almost laughed. Albrecht wanted to throw up.

The sound left Christoph as soon as it had started, "Sorry," he mumbled, "I forgot."

"It's alright," it wasn't, "it happens." it shouldn't.

Chapter Text

Deine Zukunft braucht Dich, nicht deine Vergangenheit.

nine

They fell into some kind of routine.

And Albrecht felt like a housewife.

Come Monday, Albrecht would wake before sunrise, caged between the wall and Friedrich. They'd get up together and while Friedrich took shower, Albrecht would fix both him and Christoph a quick breakfast.

After, Christoph would storm out the door, tie not yet completely bound, and Friedrich would stroll behind him, hugging Albrecht goodbye.

Albrecht would air the flat and sit in the sun on Friedrich's bed most of the day, usually sketching or writing in his notebooks.

Mostly sketching.

He hadn't quite found the right words yet. 

Though the lines he drew always, always returned to that one thing and when they did, Albrecht clapped his book shut and would find something else to do.

In the evenings, Christoph was first to return. Albrecht didn't know what the man did the whole day, if he were being honest. Could he really spend so many hours on end doing job interviews? Or did he already have some kind of job?

Friedrich always returned late. Never before darkness but never after 23 o'clock.

And always was he exhausted and completely worn out — taking a shower and rarely even bothering to eat something before he collapsed on his bed and pulling Albrecht right with him.

And Christoph — Christoph either didn't notice or simply didn't care, in which Albrecht heavily guessed the latter, because there was absolutely no way that man could think Albrecht slept anywhere else than Friedrich's bed, when his room was barely big enough to hold four pieces of ground furniture 

So Albrecht spent most of his freetime listening to his dead friends' screams over and over again. Sometimes his own too, though — he had options like that.

But on his — and this was a hard guess — seventh day there, a Saturday, Friedrich took him along to work.

He only worked a few hours on weekends to get some extra money he would use for all his boxing equipment.

The old factory wasn't far from the train station, nestled between some dead trees and a flat lake.

Albrecht did, very pointedly, not look at that lake.

Friedrich seemed to be one of the only people to be in on a Saturday, though. They didn't meet anyone until they passed the big and heavy door to the production hall, where half-finished rails, tons of metal and even a train were all seemingly thrown into separate corners. It looked exactly as Albrecht had imagined.

When Friedrich showed him his "personal" workspace, Albrecht met the first of bis colleagues: A broad shouldered — seriously, he was almost twice as big as Friedrich — man in about his fourties who worked with a hammer almost as big as Albrecht's head. His name was Paolo, he was a guest worker from Italy.

Paolo barely spoke German, but when he spotted Friedrich his face lit up and they fell into an almost brotherly handshake.

Another one of Friedrich's colleagues was a guy named Alejandro. He was Paolo's son and just barely in his twenties — Friedrich called him Alejo, Albrecht tried to ignore the weird sting in his chest — but much more fluent in German, only occasionally slipping up.

They showed him around — Friedrich and Alejandro — cracking jokes at each other. Albrecht felt like a third wheel, shuffling after the pair, careful not to fall over any stray tools and scraps.

Friedrich and Alejandro worked alongside each other and did so in familiar coordination, somehow always knowing exactly what the other was about to do.

Albrecht and Friedrich had used to be like this, too, hadn't they?

Way back before everything had gone to shit, before almost every conversation they had ended in a fight, before Albrecht had told Friedrich what he wanted to do in the quiet whisper or night, before Friedrich had pulled him from the frozen lake. 

They had been a duo, back then. Inseparable. When people didn't know where one of them was, they asked the other.

Weirdly, it had never occurred to Albrecht before, but suddenly he got to wonder about just how much he had missed during his deployment.

How much he had missed of Friedrich's life. He didn't know what he'd gotten up to in those two years, simply that he had moved far from home and into a way too small flat with Christoph, still boxed and worked at a railroad factory. But other than that?

Other than that Friedrich almost looked the same as he had two years ago. Though bis face was harder, his shoulders broader and his hair shorter. His eyes had less life in them, his skin was pale and sometimes, when he thought Albrecht was fast asleep, Friedrich would tuck his shaking hands beneath Albrecht's body to keep them still.

Albrecht sighed as he leaned back against the wall. Friedrich had positioned him on a stool not far from the massive something he and Alejandro were working on. To be honest, he wasn't exactly sure why he was even here. But he didn't mind leaving the flat for a bit.

May was picking up full speed now, the trees had finally gained their colour back and it wasn't as freezing anymore. Actually, they had left without their coats today, instead basking in the sun's warmth

And, really, it could be worse, Albrecht supposed. 

He had left war behind (though it wasn't over yet, and when he'd found out he'd spent the day in bed, staring at the wall until Friedrich's body had joined his own, talking about everything and nothing at all until Albrecht had started to answer again. He wouldn't have to go back to war, Friedrich had promised him that. Albrecht wasn't sure if he should believe him), he could eat normally again and he didn't wake every night. So, really, it was almost going good.

Though he would never dare to say that out loud. He couldn't risk that.

Friedrich took him on a stroll though the town after, showing him the small corner shops and streets.

It seemed even smaller in daylight than it did at nighttime. Which was weird, really, because wasn't it supposed to be the opposite?

There was a small bakery — Christoph and Friedrich took turns getting fresh pastries each Sunday — and an even smaller bookshop right beside it. The door opened with the jingle of a bell, giving way to a dim, cramped room.

Friedrich strolled through the door like he owned the place, leaving Albrecht to stand on the threshold, gaping.

There were books everywhere, stacked on the floor, tucked away in the corners of all of the countless shelves, laying around in front of them. An old chandelier glittered just below the ceiling and Albrecht couldn't do much more but stand in awe.

It was beautiful.

Absolutely stunning from ceiling to floor. And Friedrich standing in the midst of it, glowing beneath that chandelier and beaming with a grin certainly was a very nice addition, too.

"And?" Friedrich raising his voice now was probably the only normal excuse for Albrecht to be staring at him like that, because good God, that man, "do you like it?"

Albrecht desperately needed a fresh glass of water, "Do I like it," he repeated, throat dry, "Friedrich, this is—"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as another door opened with a loud creak and a young woman shuffled in.

Albrecht first stared at her, then at Friedrich and back again.

He made a very smart "Uh" in the back of his throat.

"Albrecht!" Friedrich grinned, "This is Sofia, my cousin. She owns this shop."

Did cousins usually look this similar to each other?

A smile now spread on Sofia's face, too, as she stepped forward to shake his hand, "It's a pleasure, Albrecht. I've heard a lot about you."

"Have you?" Albrecht's eyes flitted back to Friedrich who tried — and failed — to pretend to be busy with something else. That man really needed to work on his acting skills.

"Oh, yes!" Sofia went on, completely unbothered, "you were roommates at the NaPolA Allenstein, no? Friedrich has always spoken very highly of you."

Albrecht snorted, burying his hands in his pockets so he didn't stand quite as lost.

He still wore Friedrich's clothing for reasons the man had most definitely made up, but Albrecht had to admit Friedrich's worn pullover lay more comfortably on his limbs than his own did.

He got to choose a free book for himself, in the end, per Sofia's insisting.

Friedrich had shown him every nook of the small sales area, describing each corner and the books they held. Albrecht was impressed, he had to admit.

Friedrich had convinced Albrecht to get a book by Kafka by the time the sun started to set, casting warm orange light on their faces.

» «

By the time they had reached the flat again, it was almost completely dark out.

Christoph had cooked up some noodles and the same guys were sitting on the couch as they had on the night Albrecht had first gotten here.

Ralf and that other one — Jens?

And now that Albrecht apparently seemed more... awake — maybe? — they barely even stopped talking.

They had known each other since they were little. Ralf worked and lived on that small farm not far out and Jens just a few streets from here, he was a janitor at the local doctor's office. The both of them had met Christoph and Friedrich shortly after they had moved here and had helped them set their new life's up. 

Albrecht found them nice enough. Though Ralf was surely on the more annoying side. He was the author one, constantly asking him questions about war.

The only response Albrecht ever gave him was an occasional exasperated sigh.

Apparently, it was a kind of tradition to have Ralf and Jens over for a beer at least once a month — birthdays excluded — and let them stay until at least the early hours of the morning.

Albrecht had retreated into Friedrich's room way before that.

Had sneaked away in a moment of distraction and quietly closed the door behind him.

Friedrich only joined hours later.

Ever since war, Albrecht had been in this almost constant state of being cold. Friedrich, however, resembled a human radiator.

So, at some point which Albrecht couldn't quite pin, he stopped startling awake when Friedrich trapped him between himself and the wall, instead just barely waking up.

And even though Albrecht would likely never say it out loud, Friedrich's warmth often lulled him to sleep

Chapter Text

Ich bin leise, aber in mir ist es so laut.

ten

Of course it couldn't last.

Of course. 

Of course.

Of fucking course, nothing happy and good and warm and kind could ever just stay in Albrecht's life.

He probably carried some kind of curse around. One that just forbade him to be happy.

Friedrich left for Austria in the last days of May. Which Albrecht had known and accepted and he could live with it, really. 

Yes, he did spend most of his time moping and laying in bed — only getting up when Christoph came and went, opening the windows to the steadily rising temperatures that finally warmed up the flat. 

Christoph had gotten his job only a day or two after Friedrich had left. 

He was a waiter now, in that small town about half an hour away. He was a bit like Friedrich — leaving before six and coming back late after ten. Albrecht didn't know why. Didn't restaurants have shifts?

But really, he barely cared.

When he didn't rotate around the bed or lazed around in some other way, Albrecht cleaned. 

The flat was spotless by the end of the first week.

Then, he went back to moping. Which, really, was boring. 

Albrecht barely left the flat. He visited the woods once, had sat down on that same bench as he had weeks ago. But the wind was warmer now and it had blown gently on Albrecht's face, ruffling his hair just so. He didn't hear screams, didn't see blood. He had been so proud that day.

But nothing nice ever seemed to like Albrecht back.

Because come morning of the next day, Albrecht already knew it would be a bad one. 

He must've slept weird because his neck was all stiff, and he was sweat-soaked from a dream he couldn't remember. (And the sheets didn't smell like Friedrich anymore, a small voice told him. He quickly piped it down.)

Then, Christoph had overslept. Which Albrecht had found weird but he couldn't do anything more than to knock on his door repeatedly until the man stumbled out, angry, annoyed and disheveled. 

They didn't say their goodbyes that morning.

And Albrecht tried not to care. He really, really tried, but somehow that disturbance of his... routine messed with him more than it usually did. So he had stood at the open door for minutes, staring after Christoph even though he had already heard the front door shut.

He forced himself to take a shower but opted out on opening the windows — it was heavily raining. And that too should have been a sign. There had been so many signs that day.

Albrecht stumbled his way to the small post office, wanting to collect all the letters they'd gotten. But there weren't any. None. Neither ones from some insurances or stuff nor from Friedrich. 

When he'd finally gotten back to the flat — after suppressing annoyed stress tears on his way — he was just glad the door didn't jam and he didn't have to stay out in the rain until someone let him in. Because, frankly, he might've really just cried then. It was a bad day, and it was only just past ten in the morning.

Ralf came by hours later, disturbing Albrecht from the stupor he had fallen in as soon as he'd sat down on the couch.

He'd delivered the milk and, as always, tried to strike up some kind of smalltalk. Albrecht really wanted to shut the door in his face.

But he didn't, because he'd promised Friedrich to try, hadn't he?

So he listened to Ralf rant about his new novel that'd be coming out in a week and promised him to get it. Though he stopped listening about halfway through when Ralf started to ask him about the front again, because, really, that man needed to understand social skills before he became an actual and known author.

He shooed him away not long after, once again alone but this time at least in addition of a milk crate and a dozen eggs. Perks of knowing a farmer, apparently.

And he didn't think much of it at the time. Of that day. He had bad days sometimes, had had them when Friedrich hadn't been away yet. They were normal. (Or so he was told.)

So really, he didn't mind. He just went on slower than usual — less productive, too.

At least until about four in the afternoon, when the telephone rang. And he hadn't ever heard that old and battered landline ring.

"Hello?" he said carefully when he'd picked up the receiver after almost a whole minute of pondering.

"Is this Herr Christoph Schneider?" it was a foreign voice that answered him, determined and somewhat cold. Albrecht immediately straightened his posture. 

The voice — a man, it belonged to — sounded suspiciously close to the one his COs had used. A cold sweat broke on the back of his neck.

"No," Albrecht tried to keep his voice steady, "This is Albrecht Stein. Can I take a message?"

There was a silence, short and nerve-wracking.

Then, "Are you a relative of one Herr Friedrich Weimer?" 

Albrecht wanted to throw up. He could already taste the bile.

"No," he said, once again, trying to keep the tremble away, "I am his roommate."

Another silence, this time longer. His hands were so sweaty, the receiver threatened to slip from his hand.

He could hear voices in the back. He wasn't sure if they were just in his head.

"Herr Stein, your roommate Friedrich Weimer has sustained a serious injury during a boxing match. He is well but in no condition to make his way back. He has requested for Herr Schneider to pick him up."

The receiver did slip, in the end.

But it didn't lay in the ground for long before Albrecht clutched it back up and punched in the number Christoph had stapled to the wall.

"Katharina Jungkönig for Willems Schnitzelecke, what can I do for you?"

After, he didn't hear from anyone for hours. 

He'd sat on the kitchen floor for a while, staring, the telephone still clutched in one hand. He didn't mind the screams this time — at least they proved this was real. This was real.

Albrecht had helplessly grasped at the air, hands closing around nothing. 

But he couldn't just sit there. Not when Christoph was on his way down to Austria, getting Friedrich who was alive but seriously injured. Not when he couldn't breathe and couldn't see and couldn't hear. And God there wasn't enough air in his lungs, not enough to fill them, to be able to take a whole breath.

And he felt so much like he was back in Russia, clutching at Berthold's body but there wasn't any blood this time.

Oh God the blood.

And there was blood now, coating his hands and his arms and his neck, flowing from the throbbing cut just above his sternum. And his fingers curled uncomfortably with the foreign skin beneath his nails, the feeling of scraping and scraping and trying to escape and scraping still so prominent in his joins that a full body shudder ran through him.

Albrecht didn't know how much time had passed until he finally gasped for air, head limply falling back against the ground. And oh he hadn't even registered lying down. 

His skin felt clammy and he was probably soaked in sweat. His lungs hurt. But there wasn't any blood on him. No hands, no breaths. 

Albrecht sat up against the wall, chest still heaving.

It was dark out. The rain was gone. Albrecht ripped open the windows, a distant echo of screams still in his ears, his own the loudest.

» «

By the time Christoph's car pulled into the small, almost non-existent parking lot, Albrecht had changed the sheets of Friedrich's bed, aired the whole flat and reheated yesterday's dinner.

Albrecht stumbled down the stairs, almost missing the last couple of them and barely just catching himself on the ailing railing.

He swung the front door open, securing it with a wedge and rounding the corner with fast steps.

And there he was. 

Friedrich. Bloody, beaten and absolutely out of it.

When Christoph heaved him from the car, Albrecht swiftly took his other side. 

He wasn't exactly sure how, but together they got him up the stairs, through the slim door of the flat and positioned on the bed. Friedrich was out before they even reached the bedroom.

Albrecht didn't dare look at him. The glimpse of his exhausted face already enough.

He and Christoph tucked him in, closed the blinds but left the door open.

With a sigh, Christoph took a beer from the fridge and let himself fall on to the sofa. Albrecht occupied a kitchen chair.

They sat in silence, for a while. None of them daring to talk while they strained to listen for any sound coming from Friedrich's room. But all Albrecht could hear was the snore he'd already gotten used to.

Christoph's beer was halfway empty when he finally spoke.

"He broke his collarbone," his voice was quiet as a whisper, "his opponent didn't care or didn't notice, I don't know, but he hit him right in the chest when he was distracted. Bruised some ribs, fractured one."

Albrecht nodded. Mostly because he didn't know if a sound would leave his throat even if he tried.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Christoph rasped against the mound of his bottle, took a swig and went on, "Surgery messed him up a bit. He's still not quite himself again but they couldn't keep him."

He stood then, throwing the bottle away and disappearing inside his bedroom, a quiet "good night" the last words whispered into the quiet room.

Friedrich was way past fast asleep when Albrecht nudged the door wider and slipped into the spot next to his bed.

He had his head turned away just slightly, his mouth ajar but twisted in pain. He didn't wear a shirt but most of his torso was covered in bandages anyway. He took up most of the space in his too-small bed. 

Albrecht brushed a hand through his blond hair and pressed a light kiss to his forehead before he took a pillow from the bed and searched for his coat.

Albrecht pretended not to see the flutter of Friedrich's eyelids when he pulled the door a bit closer behind him.

» «

Albrecht slept on the sofa that night, breathing in the smell of dust and beer spills.

He very quickly understood why Friedrich hadn't wanted him to sleep here and why Christoph never bothered to care when Albrecht and Friedrich had shared a bed.

It wasn't that uncomfortable, he had to admit, but it was loud and cold. The flat lay on the shadowy side, that way it didn't warm up in the earlier months of the year — the only warmth ever coming in when someone opened the windows or turned on the cranky old radiators. And it was right next to the street, the sounds of the factories and cars too loud for the thin windows.

But it was weird, kind of. Lying on his back, hands resting in his stomach, Albrecht stared at the ceiling. He'd gotten used to being squeezed between the wall that was Friedrich Weimer and the actual brick wall of the building — and not lying on a slim sofa, having to be careful he didn't fall, springs digging into his lower back instead of warm hands.

He sighed, turning to his side and pulling his coat closer, trying to cover himself as much as possible. 

Friedrich was save.

He was alive and he was breathing, and Albrecht would live through hundreds of nights on the couch as long as it meant Friedrich would remain that way.

Chapter Text

Das Ungesagte redet nachts ganz schön viel.

eleven

Albrecht woke hours later.

At first, he didn't quite know where he was.

Then, he slowly remembered the shit-show that had been the day before and limply fell back against his pillow.

He sat up almost right after, though.

What had woken him?

It was still pitch-dark out, and there was no sweat on his skin or screams in his throat. His head was suspiciously quiet, too. But something must've been there. He wouldn't just wake out of the blue.

Waking up to supposed quiet was always a bad sign, because that didn't just happen. Albrecht had found that out the hard way in the Ukraine. He didn't just wake up to nothing. Something must have made a noise, or disturbed the air around him or blown on his face or —

No, no he wouldn't go there. Not today. Not when yesterday was still fresh. Not when Friedrich was hurt.

"Albrecht?" Albrecht sat as straight as a candle in the blink of an eye, eyes glued to Friedrich's bedroom door. That had been his voice, quiet and unsure but so undeniably Friedrich's.

Albrecht's feet hit the cold floor before his brain even caught up.

He bridged the way to the room in fast long steps.

The bedside lamp was turned on, the soft glow deepening the shadows on Friedrich's pale face. He looked so, so tried but there was something else, something much deeper in the ridges of his face that Albrecht wasn't sure how to place. It wasn't a bad thing, per se, but it was... weird.

"Hey," Albrecht breathed as he sat down on the bed next to Friedrich, a rough hand immediately finding his own.

Friedrich's eyes were still a bit weird, almost as if he had just woken up from his anesthesia and not a deep sleep. They danced around, not entirely focusing on Albrecht but not on anything else, either.

"Albrecht," he repeated, voice nothing more but a rasp.

"I'm here," Albrecht pushed Friedrich's sweaty bangs away from his face with his free hand, lingering and letting his thumb trace the shape of his eyebrow.

Friedrich looked up at him, leaning into the touch.

"It wasn't his fault," his words were surprisingly steady for his condition. Maybe there was something wrong with his eyes.

"What wasn't whose fault?" Albrecht asked as softly as he could.

"Theo's," Albrecht had no idea who that was supposed to be, "he wears glasses, usually, he didn't see that he'd hit me."

He had no idea how that Theo guy hadn't felt the punch as he'd struck it, as literally every other human did, but he didn't correct Friedrich.

"He broke your collarbone," Abrecht said quietly — he hadn't a clue if someone had filled him in already, "and a ribs; bruised some others."

Friedrich hummed, petting his fingers along the back of Albrecht's hand, tracing his bones. "I was unconscious for a while — just a minute or so though."

A pause.

"I thought you'd left,"

Albrecht's eyes snapped back to Friedrich's from where they had been focused on the rising of his chest.

"What?" his voice was louder than he had wanted it to be, but Albrecht couldn't care about that, "Why— why would I do that?"

Friedrich only shrugged, then hissed in pain and Albrecht clutched his hand tighter, "I dunno," he confessed, "forget it."

Albrecht furrowed his brows, turning Friedrich's face back to him, "No, hey, no, no. Why would I do that?"

Friedrich struggled against the grip Albrecht had on his chin, his face wrinkling in discomfort.

"No, 'is stupid."

"It's not stupid if it bothers you so much."

Friedrich sighed, staring up at him with those grey eyes Albrecht lo—liked so much. Carefully, he raked a hand through his blond hair, pulling the slightly greasy strands away from his face.

"'s just," Friedrich paused, licking his chapped lips, "When— when you got sent away and didn't answer any of our letters," again, our, "I thought you'd left me."

His Berlin dialect had gotten thicker the more he spoke. Albrecht didn't know what to do with his hands anymore, resigning to pulling his left one back to his lap and letting the other fall limp in Friedrich's grasp.

He didn't speak. Friedrich didn't look done yet.

"And then—" Friedrich's voice cracked and his face pulled taut.

"And then what?" Albrecht asked carefully, making use of his free hand and tracing the fine hair on Friedrich's arm.

Friedrich didn't talk. Not for a while. He blinked his eyes rapidly, staring past Albrecht but at least not turning his head away again. He looked angry, Albrecht thought, almost tense. 

"And then, when we'd finally gotten you back, you actually left."

"And you brought me back."

"Yeah, but you left!"

Albrecht recoiled, the angry look in Friedrich's eyes immediately disappearing. He tried to follow but fell back with a sharp cry.

Albrecht didn't even know how they'd gotten him up here.

"I'm sorry," Friedrich's voice was nearer to a sob now and Albrecht had barely been more confused, "Don't go, I'm sorry."

It's the medication, Albrecht told himself, the medication.

"I won't leave," he tried to keep his voice soft and steady while pushing Friedrich back down on the bed, "Alright? I am going to have to go at some point, but I will not leave you."

But Friedrich was already back to looking past him. 

Albrecht felt helpless.

When Franz, one of his comrades, had very messily broken his wrist months ago, it hadn't been like this. They'd dragged him to a hospital, where he'd been fixed up — anesthesia and all — and he had been back to service the next day. He too had been a bit out of it, but that hadn't lasted long. 

As soon as he'd caught sight of Albrecht and Berthold, rifles in hand and on night-guard of their camp, he'd been the same as before.

But Friedrich had always been a bit different than the others, hadn't he? All perfect and handsome but still different. Albrecht couldn't explain it. He couldn't explain a lot at the moment. It made him feel pathetic.

Friedrich trailed a hand over the scar beneath Albrecht's throat and Albrecht shuddered. He hadn't noticed him raising his hand. He was slacking.

"We're matching now," Friedrich murmured, Albrecht pulled a face, "Where'd you get it?"

"Ukraine," a pause, Albrecht trying to find the words, "You don't want to match that one."

"Why? I do already,"

No answer. Albrecht could almost feel what Friedrich did just by how deep they stared into each other's eyes. He had never felt so safe and yet so... weird.

But Friedrich bad always somehow been able to understand what Albrecht didn't say.

"Who did that to you?"

Despite the almost visible tension, Albrecht couldn't help but snort, "Why? Are you going to run all the way over to the Ukraine with all your broken bones just to punch some guy?"

Friedrich looked all the way serious.

"You don't need to to that."

Friedrich opened his mouth to protest, but Albrecht had already made up his mind. He took a deep breath.

"You don't need to do that, because—" Albrecht faltered.

Maybe he couldn't do it. Maybe he shouldn't have started that sentence. Maybe he should've just let Friedrich believe. 

But Friedrich looked up at him so expectantly now, that Albrecht couldn't — shouldn't — stop now. He owed Friedrich that.

"Because I did it myself."

There was a stunned silence, then. Albrecht had copied Friedrich and stared right past him, examining the patterns of the sheets instead of trying to read the storm that was surely brewing up in Friedrich's eyes.

The hand gripping his own let a little slack, the comforting warmth was now somewhere around his wrist rather than his palm.

Albrecht's free hand fiddled with the hem of his sleep shirt, worrying at the loose threads.

He wasn't sure if Friedrich expected him to look at him, but Albrecht didn't dare to.

Friedrich had prevented him once from— from ending it. 

But Albrecht didn't even know if Friedrich could interpret this right in his current state — If he could understand it, hear Albrecht out.

"If I could punch you, you better know I would,"

The words lost some of their harshness when Friedrich winced halfway through them, but the anger lacing every syllable was still very evident. There was that utter disbelief of disappointment too, though, and Albrecht knew what was worse.

Anger would fade. It always did. What remained would be disappointment. Every time Friedrich would look at his scar — or at Albrecht in general — he would be disappointed.

Albrecht sat waiting, still not daring to look Friedrich in the eye.

There would be a "why?" coming, he was sure of it. A "why would you do this?" that Albrecht was afraid of. 

He couldn't answer that, he didn't want Friedrich to know that—

But there was only a sigh. 

A sigh so breathy and angry that it didn't leave Albrecht any choice but to look.

Friedrich was already staring at him. His eyes hard and calculating. Examining Albrecht's face as if it were some kind of manual he had yet to understand. 

Maybe Albrecht was.

And his heart clenched knowing that Friedrich had been able to read him once, summers ago.

"You're acting strange," he whispered finally.

"I'm trying not to lose my shit, Fritz!" the words slipped faster than Albrecht could think, and the colour drained from his face when he realized them.

But Friedrich simply quirked an eyebrow, looking rather unimpressed, "Fritz?"

"I— Sorry, it just—"

"No it's fine. Just haven't been called that in a while."

It was Albrecht's turn to sigh and rake a hand through his own hair.

"It slipped out," he murmured, "Your name is getting too long to think about."

Friedrich breathed a light chuckle, the tension from before almost forgotten.

"You think about me?"

"Always."

And Albrecht should really, really work on thinking before he spoke, because if any more words slipped his throat before he even registered him, he might get himself into some serious trouble.

His heart hammering against his ribcage, Albrecht raised his hand to right Friedrich's blanket, freeing the other from the man's grasp.

"Try to get some more sleep," he murmured, "You need it."

A grumble, "I'm not tired."

Albrecht's body began to shake.

"Your body is," he tried to get the words out as steadily as possible, "It needs the sleep to heal."

And really, the only thing missing was the pop of a balloon to underline the effect those words had on the small, fragile bubble that was their relationship, because Friedrich's body immediately tensed.

"How would you know what a body needs?" 

Albrecht got up as soon as Friedrich had opened his mouth, crossing the room in a few long steps. If it looked like he were fleeing, he really could care less. It wouldn't be far from the truth, anyway.

He already held the doorknob between his fingers when Friedrich spoke again.

"How would you know what I need?"

When Albrecht had finally left the room, it was only a matter of seconds before blood filled his vision and screams drowned out the ringing in his ears.

Chapter Text

Ich merk schon, du merkst nichts.

twelve

At sixteen, Albrecht had first tried to kill himself.

At seventeen, he had tried again

Now, at eighteen, he stared down a dark lake, just as he had two years ago.

Albrecht wasn't here to end it, obviously, that would be rather stupid in this case. 

It wasn't that he was finally happy and glad to be alive — it was rather that this time, he didn't have a reason to go.

It was getting better. Life, that is. It would never be perfect, Albrecht knew, but it could be so much worse. 

It had been so much worse just over one month ago. He wouldn't end it now. No, not when there was finally a ray of hope in the shadowy grim mess he was destined to call his life.

Albrecht sighed, kicking small pebbles into the water as he stepped away.

June was finally in at a full blow. The green leaves on the trees rustled in the warm wind, the birds were tweeting, the fields were buzzing and the sun shone down on earth with an unforgiving heat.

Germany simmered in summer. 

There were still people dying at war. 

The flat was too warm to stay in during the day. 

Friedrich was getting more restless by the hour and Albrecht had fled.

Well, he was supposed to come here some time or another anyways, because now that Friedrich was rendered unable to work until at least the end of July, Christoph wasn't able to hold up the rent by himself. So, now that he didn't spend his time screaming and startling at literally everything, Albrecht had to step in.

It was easy enough, getting the job. He simply took Friedrich's place at the factory, leaving early and staying late. Working for all he was worth in an attempt to get the money in they were missing from those few days.

When he was younger, Albrecht had always gotten everything. He could have had the world to his feet back when his father still liked him enough and his mother didn't blame herself.

There was a time when Albrecht avoided every thought about his younger self. Especially during war, because that would have only made him feel even worse. But nowadays, he couldn't help but imagine what his life would've been like if he'd just become the son his father had always wanted.

Would he have been eager to go to war — Excited for the experience?

Would he have felt a thrill by shooting at people?

Would he have stayed in Ukraine — would that even have happened?

Those were questions that kept Albrecht awake at night — way past one o'clock when he'd wake up in cold sweat yet again and couldn't fall back asleep.

Albrecht turned back around to his coworkers shouts. The break was over and it was time to work.

Alejandro turned out to be decent enough. He wasn't quite as friendly with Albrecht as he was with Friedrich, but that was more than fine with him. 

Alejandro always lurking behind him and looking over Albrecht's shoulder was already more than enough.

His father, Paolo, was apparently some kind of important figure in the factory, because everyone listened to him, even though his German was choppy at best and his words always slurred together, making him almost incomprehensible.

He was nice enough to Albrecht, though he strongly suspected this was only because Paolo liked Friedrich. He was pretty rough towards the others.

They weren't even that many. Besides himself, Alejandro and Paolo, there were only about three other guys in their "department", though Alejandro had told him that the factory busied most people of the town.

Men and women alike — some were even younger than Albrecht.

Maximilian Höfer, for example, who had just finished school and immediately started working. He and Albrecht didn't get along very well — where everyone got to call him "Max", Albrecht had to stick to his last name.

Could also be worse. 

It could all be so much worse, and that was the only reason Albrecht could even keep going. 

Rather unrelated to work and more related to Friedrich and the whole avoiding-the-flat-ordeal.

Friedrich on bed rest was almost like a toddler who you denied their favourite sweet. He was grumpy almost always, restless and most of the time just looking for a fight.

Albrecht tried understood Friedrich, but Friedrich didn't seem to even approximately understand Albrecht. And it was starting to annoy the hell out of him.

But, at the end of the day, when even the summer sun was long gone and the air had cooled down to a pleasant breeze, Albrecht had to go back home.

Well, home wasn't quite the right word, was it?

It was just a place where he lived. A place he shared with his — former? — best friend and that guy's best friend. 

Albrecht was the addition — he was the odd one out. 

Though, then again, most of his salary went towards the flat's rent.

Maybe it was his home, after all.

And now, when Albrecht turned into their street — in the exact same manner he had just over a month ago but under so different circumstances that it might as well have been decades — and he could see the light burning in their small living room, Albrecht's brows furrowed.

There was no reason for that light to be on.

Christoph should still be at work around this time, especially now on a Saturday, and Friedrich was on strict bed rest except when he had to use the bathroom, for which he didn't need to turn on the living room light.

Albrecht's steps fastened as he made his way across the street, quickly registering the empty parking lot — which definitely meant that Friedrich was out of bed and Albrecht was really really ready to just throttle that guy and call it a day.

The front door was jammed as always as Albrecht rammed it open, taking the stairs two at a time.

If Friedrich fell, too weak on his legs from all his time in bed, if he fell and split his bones again—

"Friedrich!" Albrecht shouted as he shouldered the flar door open, making sure to close if carefully behind him. Ever since rats had gotten in a few days ago, Albrecht was very keen on keeping that door closed.

"Friedr—" the words died in his throat as he turned around and stared into two sets of eyes. 

His blood turned cold and he rightened himself, cleared his throat.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as neutral as possible, the blonde girl looking up to him from her position at the kitchen table.

Friedrich immediately sat up, "Listen—" he began, but Albrecht interrupted him, "What are you doing here, Mia?"

She at least had the decency to look embarrassed as she stared up at him with wide eyes.

"Did you follow me?" he prodded, eyes forming into slits.

"Albrecht, what are you talking about?" Friedrich had stood up from the table and come dangerously close to Albrecht, forehead crinkled in either confusion or anger. Albrecht wouldn't put it past him to be angry again.

"What is she doing here?" Albrecht repeated, addressing Friedrich this time. 

Albrecht felt small in this flat. An outsider, just as he had on his first night here. When he had spared a look at the wall this morning, the one where they wrote down all their appointments and other events in coloured chalk, it had been empty for the day. But he had a feeling there was something deeper to this... meeting. This wasn't just coincidental.

"Why are you even out of bed?" Albrecht added, "Do you even want to heal?"

Friedrich took a very deep breath following his words and dropped back into his chair while leveling him with a defiant stare.

"She" Friedrich hissed, "is my cousin. And she's here because, believe it or not, some families actually get along."

"Friedrich!" that was Mia, in her small voice.

Albrecht bit his tongue. Friedrich words stung. 

But he was right, wasn't he? 

Not matter how hard Albrecht had tried to deny it when he was younger — and now he was thinking about the what if's again —, his family had never been stable. They had never really gotten along.

Albrecht straightened his shoulders. And now that he thought about it, he wouldn't have a snarky remark even if he'd search the canyons of his brain. Friedrich Weimer was too perfect for that, as much as Albrecht hated to admit.

"Herr Stein," Mia spoke up again, pulling his eyes from Friedrich as she nervously looked back and forth between the two men. She was different here than she was back at his parents' house. "Herr Stein, I am here because Frau Stein sent me."

And if that wasn't an additional punch to the gut.

"Excuse me?"

Mia nodded unsure, "Yes, after you left, Frau Stein was very upset for a time. She feels very bad about you going because of her."

By all the lies his mother was spitting, she was giving Goebbels a run for his job, Albrecht thought. "Yeah, well, tell her she should have felt bad when I was still there."

Mia mostly ignored him, "Sometimes, when she could not get out of bed, she would tell me small stories about you," Albrecht didn't like how Mia was getting more and more confident. He liked her, but there were limits, "And then one day, she told me about how you brought a young man called Friedrich Weimer over once, for your father's birthday. And somehow, I immediately knew where to look."

Of course she did. Most definitely.

That was the most unbelievable made up story Albrecht had ever heard. And he'd heard quite a lot of those.

Just from all the downright ridiculous ones Leonhard and Mark always used to tell.

"Right," Albrecht grit out, "And you expect me to believe that?"

Mia's face fell in an instant. So fast, infact, that Friedrich seemed to suddenly remember how to speak.

"Albrecht, drop it. You're being rude."

"Oh, I am being rude?! I— No wait, sorry, silly me. Of course I am rude for working day and night so that you can keep this shithouse of a flat. Of course I am being rude for trying to care for you. Oh, and I am definitely being very rude for fleeing the place everybody expects me to call my home, where no one actually likes me! I am so sorry for not just goddamn dying at war because then I wouldn't be so terribly rude, would I?" 

He took a deep breath, "Friedrich, do you even listen to yourself when you speak?"

Albrecht's chest was heaving by the time he was finished, hand raised to point an accusing finger at no one in particular.

Friedrich stared at him, Mia gaped. It was a bit ridiculous that only now Albrecht realized why he had recognized Mia's eyes. They were a greyish blue — just like Friedrich's.

Friedrich, who just opened his mouth to speak when a voice raised behind Albrecht.

"What is happening?" and Albrecht didn't need to turn around to know that it was Christoph, late as always but still back earlier than usual.

Friedrich let out a frustrated growl, throwing his hands in the air. Mia seemed more and more uncomfortable by the second. Albrecht pitied her only the tiniest bit.

"Friedrich, why are you out of bed? Why is Mia here?" Christoph continued, finally appearing in Albrecht's vision. He looked tired — worn out. Due to their schedules, Albrecht hadn't seen him in a while.

And once again, Albrecht felt like a complete outsider.

Because Friedrich didn't lash out at Christoph like he would have at Albrecht. His brows didn't knit together in anger but rather annoyance.

"I'm not on bed rest anymore," Friedrich said, calm in comparison to just minutes before, "The doctor said that after four to five days, I should start to try and get around more keep my muscles in check. I just shouldn't overdo it."

Now that wasn't too hard, was it? And why couldn't he just have told Albrecht that same thing?

"Right," Christoph didn't even pay attention to any of them as he busied himself in the kitchen, "And why's Mia here — at eleven in the evening?"

"She's just coming over to vi—"

"Actually," Mia interrupted Friedrich in a quiet voice, as if she didn't quite dare to speak, but when Christoph shot her a quick glance over his shoulder and a light blush settled on her cheeks, she seemed to gain more confidence, "Actually, I have come to deliver some post for Herr Stein."

"Mia, can you stop calling him that, he's not your—"

"I am quite fine with how she addresses me, Friedrich." Albrecht's words were sharp and he crossed his arms over his chest, trying to make himself taller.

Mia, once again, interrupted their staring match, "And to ask, as ordered by Frau Stein, if you would like to give her your current address so that she can contact you."

Albrecht huffed, tearing his eyes off of Friedrich to instead stare at nothing in particular. There was a tense silence in the room, one that Albrecht could have cut with one of his knives. Sharp, still, from never being used.

Gnawing on his lip, he heard a rustling that could only be a stack of letters being placed on their uneven kitchen table. Then, a shuffling of feet when Christoph shouldered past him to flop down on the sofa, uncaring as ever.

"How long are you staying?" Albrecht leveled his words in the rough direction of Mia.

"Only until tomorrow, I will leave in the evening."

Albrecht nodded, "You will have an answer by tomorrow afternoon."

» «

Mia left the flat not long after.

Friedrich had tried to convince her to stay at first, but they all knew that there really wasn't the space for a fourth person.

After, they had stood in a tense silence. Well, Friedrich and Albrecht had. Christoph had remained sat on the sofa until he'd finished his dinner, then washed up and left for his room.

Then they stood in a tense silence. Not quite looking at each other but also not not.

When Albrecht awkwardly cleared his throat, it must have shaken Friedrich out of some kind of trance because the man actually shook once before he abruptly turned to go to his room. 

The door slammed shut behind him, making the windows clirr.

Albrecht sighed, ran a hand down his face and then the other one, too.

It were times like these where he wondered if he wouldn't have just been better off if he'd never left his parents' house.

He shuffled his way to the small bathroom and made quick work of his pathetically short nighttime-routine.

He cleaned his greased up skin, tugged his work clothes off and put on fresh ones — he really didn't have the nerve to let in a bath right now — and after the quick debate of if he should have dinner — no, he decided, he was way too tired for that — he brushed his teeth, ruffled his hair out and left.

Albrecht was actually getting rather used to the sofa by now. The springs made almost a comforting sting and even the noise from the street had become more soothing than annoying.

When Albrecht let himself fall down on the dusty and tattered cushions, his body immediately rolled into the almost unnoticable dent he'd created over the last few days.

This was really one of the cheapest pieces of furniture Albrecht had ever laid eyes on.

Still, it was better than having to sleep on the streets. (But worse than Friedrich's bed.)

So, Albrecht covered himself in the pathetic excuse of a thin blanket he had acquired in a small corner shop and threw an arm over his eyes to keep the street lights out.

It worked, for a while. Sleeping. Usually he'd stare at the darkness for a while before his racing heart — already in anticipation and fear of what was to come — calmed down enough for his body to even relax slightly. But then, he'd only get a few hours of light sleep at most before his dreams would have him wake up in cold sweat and shaking, a scream still stuck in his throat.

And obviously it wasn't any different today — why would it? Why would life ever have mercy on him? — when Albrecht peeled the damp blanket off of his skin and got up from the sofa, setting his feet on the disgustingly warm ground.

He shuffled his way to the kitchen, as he always did when he woke hours before he was supposed to get up, turned on the small lamp on their small counter and let his head fall back against the wall.

The thing was that most of the time, he didn't even remember his dreams. 

He knew that while they were happening, they appeared way too real for Albrecht to handle — for his head to process and for his heart to take.

Albrecht always assumed the dreams to be about what happened in the Ukraine. There was no way that they wouldn't. Not after everything that happened.

Not after those first few dreams he did remember.

But some would likely also be about Russia and the friends he'd had there. Berthold, Franz, Tobias, all the innocent people he'd witnessed being killed in cold blood.

Albrecht closed his eyes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to regulate his breathing while he clutched desperately at the counter.

His ears roared — usually a harbinger or aftermath of the screams, the screams of his friends, of his comrades, his own. Albrecht squeezed his eyes as tightly as possible, freed the fingers of his left hand one by one from the counter plate, feeling for one of the knives that should be laying around here somewhere.

But before he could reach them, before Albrecht could open his eyes to make his search easier, foreign fingers closed around his wrist.

Albrecht's right hand flew and hit skin in the blink of an eye — before he even registered what had happened.

He finally pried his eyes open just as a pained grunt overtoned the roaring in his ears.

Albrecht's shoulders sacked when he recognized Friedrich's silhouette in the low light and he let out a relieved gust of breath.

"Don't do that," Albrecht's voice shook. Friedrich, despite still looking pained, raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.

"So I should just let you slit your wrists open?"

Albrecht reeled back, trying to yank his arm free from Friedrich's grasp but he could have tried to pull a train just as well.

"I wasn't trying to k—"

"To what? Kill yourself? Not that unlikely, is it?" Friedrich's words dropped venom, but he still pulled Albrecht closer, encircling his other wrist too. Albrecht stared at him.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," Albrecht repeated, attempting to keep his voice as level as possible, "I was just— trying to keep the screams out."

"The screams."

"Yes. I— They never leave me. Wherever I go, I carry my friends' deaths with me, you know?"

Friedrich didn't seem to know. Or even get it, for that matter. He just stared at Albrecht.

Albrecht had the sinking feeling that ever since their first fight, Friedrich was less understanding for anything concerning Albrecht. On purpose. 

"Listen, Friedrich, can you just let it go? We're both tired, let's just go back to bed," Albrecht finally pulled his wrists back, letting them hang loosely at his sides while Friedrich still stood unmoving.

"Why did you do it? The second time — Why did you try to kill yourself again after I've just saved you?"

Albrecht snorted in outrage, "We've already been there, Friedrich. You didn't save me — You've only made it worse."

When Friedrich opened his mouth to protest, Albrecht shushed him.

"I got over it. Over the terrifying fact that I was at the front — that I was literally in the middle of a battlefield. I actually did my best to survive, back then. And believe it or not, but I did it for you. Because I would have just jumped right back into that lake if I'd have wanted to end it so desperately. Neither your nor me would have had enough strength left to get me out. Instead, I held out more than a whole year!"

He got louder towards the end, hands rising to fold across his chest so he didn't hit Friedrich again. Accidentally, of course.

When there was a rumble behind Christoph's door, Albrecht quieted down immediately. It really wouldn't help if they'd have this conversation if there were three of them.

Friedrich was equally as quiet when he raised his voice, definitely a slightly softer look in his eyes.

"So tell me, then. The first time you did it, you wanted to escape war. You just said that wasn't your second reason. Please, what was your reason?"

Albrecht swallowed. He had feared this. He wasn't ready. God, no, he wasn't ready.

He took another deep breath, "Them — They were the reason."

"They?"

"Yes, they, listen Friedrich I—"

"And what did they do?"

Albrecht shuddered, a cold shivering through his stomach and up his spine, spreading goosebumps all over his skin.

"Well?" Friedrich prodded, stepping even closer. He towered over Albrecht now, but Albrecht didn't dare to step away. Not when Friedrich was looking at him so intently, mapping his face and following every single one of his movements.

"What did they do, Albrecht?" his words were a mere whisper, spoken in the same air that they both were breathing.

"I don't want to think about it," Albrecht whispered back.

And against his expectations — because Friedrich had been acting like a right ass these last few days — Friedrich merely raised his arms to pull Albrecht into a tight embrace, cradling his head against his healthy shoulder.

"You're going to think I'm weak," Albrecht spoke muffled into the fabric of Friedrich's sleepshirt.

Friedrich huffed softly into his hair, "You went to the front an survived it, Albrecht, there's nothing weak about you."

There's nothing weak about you.

Albrecht wanted to cry.

"It's my fault. It's all my fault, if I'd just—"

"It isn't,"

"But it is!" Albrecht protested weakly, "If I'd been—"

"Did you start this war?" Friedrich interrupted him, voice soft but firm, lightly petting a hand over Albrecht's hair.

"What?" Albrecht tried to pull away, to get a look at Friedrich's face — to look him in the eyes. But Friedrich's grip was as firm as his words and Albrecht didn't have enough strength left to fight it. He could already feel the fatigue seeping back into his bones.

"Did you start this war?" Friedrich repeated.

"I— no?"

"Exactly. You didn't start this war, Albrecht. You are a victim of it. The only fault you carry is blaming yourself."

A dry sob worked its way out of Albrecht's throat and Friedrich held him even tighter. 

"It's not your fault," he murmured again, pressing a kiss to his hair, "It was never your fault."

Chapter Text

Narben zeigen, dass du überlebt hast.

thirteen

They shared a bed for the first time in more than a month that night.

Though Albrecht lay turned away, staring at the patterns of the wall while Friedrich breathed quietly beside him.

They both couldn't sleep. Albrecht wondered if it were because of the same reasons.

He wondered if Friedrich wondered about what had happened to make him like this. 

Because it was what Albrecht thought about — was forced to wrap his mind around now that all the images resurged, now that the suppressed memories fought their way back and occupied the primal parts of his brain.

He wondered if Friedrich could feel him shake, if he could hear his fast breathing, the hammering of his heart.

Friedrich couldn't see his wide open eyes, Albrecht knew, the burning tears that had collected but didn't spill, the cold sweat that made his hair stick to his skin uncomfortably. The way Albrecht held his arms tightly hugged around his own body, forcing himself to stay still.

What he couldn't supress was a garbled sob that had been burning in throat for so long he had feared it would etch a hole there.

And a second one that passed his throat right after. And a third. A fourth, and so many more and so fast that Albrecht couldn't breathe.

There were hands on him. Albrecht couldn't count how many. But they were in his hair, on his face, trailing over his skin in hurried movements. The more foreign skin touched him, the more rigid Albrecht became.

And the hands seemed to realize that, too because just when Albrecht was about to form words "Stop, please, stop", they redacted.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before there was abrupt movement behind Albrecht and he was swiftly pulled into a sitting position, his back against the wall.

"—ey, Albrecht, look at me, Albrecht, hey!"

Albrecht knew that voice. From somewhere. He was familiar with it, had spent hours listening to it. He recognized the warm edges it formed when it was spoked quietly, the foreign tingling it could cause in his stomach, the goosebumps on his skin.

"Albrecht," again, how did he know that voice? "C'mon, Albrecht, open those pretty eyes for me."

Albrecht's eyes, in fact, did fly open. Because what did he just say to him?

"What?" he croaked, still unseeing but at least becoming aware of his surroundings. He hadn't even realized when he'd lost them. But he wasn't in the trenches of Ukraine. He was in Friedrich's bedroom, just before dawn.

And Friedrich sat on his knees in front of him, had ducked himself and was almost looking up at him, both hands intertwined with Albrecht's.

"Hey," he repeated, Albrecht really liked his voice, "What was that, hm?"

Albrecht shrugged halfheartedly, directing his stare away from Friedrich's eyes and to the floor behind him instead. Friedrich, however, didn't give up as quickly as Albrecht would have liked.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging lightly at Albrecht’s hands, almost engulfing them completely, “talk to me. What happened?”

That was a drastic change to how Friedrich had been acting just a day earlier, hours even, Albrecht found.

“I don't know,” Albrecht answered, at least half-way truthfully, “I— It’s complicated.”

Friedrich huffed, letting his forehead drop to Albrecht’s thigh. Albrecht froze, Friedrich didn't seem to notice, “I've got time. Just— let it out, for once, yeah? Like back in the day.”

Just let it out he'd said, Like back in the day.

Of course, Albrecht thought, as if there weren't two years at the front of a world war separating them.

As if one of them hadn't been to hell and back.

But maybe, a hurdle like that could be evened by talking, Albrecht found, still staring at the blond-haired back of Friedrich’s head. How could Friedrich understand him when he didn't even know what he was supposed to read? Maybe Albrecht was giving him too little credit.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He wasn't ready. Not at all. But he hadn't been ready a year ago, either, when he'd told Berthold the worst of it. When he'd had to, because Berthold had been screaming at him in front of their whole troop, screaming and shouting at him for being a pathetic coward. And Berthold had saved him, hadn't he? The least Albrecht could've done was tell him.

And it had helped, it really had, because suddenly, no one had bat an eye when Albrecht refused to join their “warm-up-piles” at first, only ever becoming part of it when he'd been the one that needed the warmth.

Where the Ukrainian front had broken Albrecht and left him in a billion shattered pieces — his mates at the Russian one had helped Albrecht pick them back up, slowly and one by one.

He'd feared they would laugh at him. Call him the ridiculous and pathetic excuse of a man he was and worse.

Albrecht had expected them to do what they had done.

Apparently, he had misjudged them. Except for like his CO, who had looked at him with disdain for while. But he could barely care less for that man.

An abrupt laugh bubbled from Albrecht’s chest when he remembered the jokes he'd used to crack with Fanz about the man’s gleaming bald head. Franz had been so much like Friedrich.

Friedrich raised his head away from Albrecht’s thigh when it started to shake from his laugh. He must have looked like a right manic.

From almost having a panic attack to laughing in a span of like, what, five minutes?

“What’re you laughing at?” Friedrich prodded and flopped right back down on Albrecht when he had to take a break to breathe again.

Albrecht looked at him for a short moment, freeing one of his hands to touch Friedrich’s cheek, stroking his fingers over the soft skin there. He didn't know why he'd done it, but it felt right; especially when Friedrich leaned into it, never once breaking eye-contact.

“In Russia,” he started softly, “There was this guy in my troop — Franz. My commanding officer — Willerg’s his name, I think — he’s bald. And Franz and I used to joke about it a lot. Once, when another of my mates had gotten shoe polish from home, Franz joked that we should polish Willerg’s head with it because it had gotten so matte from his helmet. And that guy, he must've been out of it or something, he actually did that! He just walked up to Willerg and started to polish his head.”

Maybe he sounded like a mad-man. Maybe this was the most boring and cringe inducing “funny” story ever, but to Albrecht, the moment mattered. The moment when Willerg had started to chase Tobias over the hills that Spring was one of the few good things etched into Albrecht’s memories. It was a nice one. It had kept him going for a long time. 

After Franz had died, he'd banned it to the back of his mind.

Friedrich looked up at him with almost a fond look. Maybe Albrecht wasn't a madman, after all.

“It wasn't always bad, really, sometimes it was just like at Allenstein.”

“How come?” Friedrich’s voice vibrated all the way up Albrecht’s arm.

Albrecht shrugged, “We got robbed of our youth, but at the same time, most of us were still just teenagers, you know?”

Friedrich nodded, almost nestling himself deeper into Albrecht’s hand with the movement.

“What did you get up to? While I was gone,” Albrecht dared to ask. The question had burned on his tongue for a while now, but ever since Friedrich had started to go mad, he'd been a bit scared to ask. Friedrich stilled.

“I stayed for a while. I had a last boxing match, which I lost. And I guess after I'd failed to hold up my grades, too, they didn't see another use in me.”

Albrecht hummed. He'd wondered, of course, because Friedrich couldn't possibly have finished his Abitur by now.

“Just like that?”

Friedrich nodded again, “Just like that,” he mumbled, “had me walk through the halls all naked.”

Albrecht snorted, Friedrich huffed. Maybe they were going to be alright.

“What about Christoph?”

But Friedrich shook his head, “Not my place to tell you. He did stand in front of my door about a month and a half after I'd left, though. We moved here not too long after.”

“Why did you move here of all places?”

“What, you don't like it?” Albrecht didn't have a chance to answer though, because Friedrich just went right on. They hadn't talked this much for so long that Albrecht had almost forgotten about the warm, tingly feeling in his stomach. “Needed a change of scenery. Now, it’s my turn again.”

Albrecht quirked an eyebrow, “Your turn?”

“Mhm, we’re asking each other questions, couldn’t you tell? Breaking the ice.”

Breaking the ice, oh how ironic.

Friedrich made a show of thinking of a question, “Hmm,” he made. Albrecht could see his eyes flitting over the scar at his throat and prepared himself as best as possible for what was to come.

Which meant he didn't at all.

“That long scar on your back, where’d you get it?” 

Huh? 

“The long scar on my back?” Albrecht asked right back.

“Yeah,” Friedrich nodded, “I've seen it the other day — while you were changing.”

Why were you watching me change? Albrecht wanted to ask.

“I fell into a well. I was about two or three months into Russia and mistook it for a trench. Fell a good few meters and scraped my back on a rock. I almost got hypothermia, too.”

Friedrich moved from his position draped across Albrecht and flopped down on the bed instead, face now mushed into Albrecht's hand. The angle in which his arm lay now was uncomfortable for him, but Albrecht didn't dare budge.

“Must've been tough,” Albrecht snorted at Friedrich's words. It was obvious when he didn't know what to say, but Albrecht didn't blame him one bit. He wouldn't have been better.

“It was barely annoying, it looks much worse than it is.”

Friedrich hummed, looking up at Albrecht with those grey eyes of his that were so full of wonder and fascination. And something else, something that Albrecht had an idea about but was too scared to voice.

“I still can't believe you're really here,” Friedrich mumbled. The early-day light emerging from the bare windows made him look so soft. There were no harsh edges about him at this moment. This wasn't Friedrich who worked day and night and had been robbed of his youth — This was Friedrich who had finally gotten the best friend back he had thought to be long dead.

“I can't either,” Albrecht murmured back, struggling to move his thumb so he could push a strand of soft blond hair away from Friedrich's face.

“Why did you go from Ukraine to Russia?” even though the question was whispered, even though Albrecht knew that it would come, it still hit him like a tank.

Albrecht sighed, focusing his gaze away, he could feel his heartbeat picking up again.

“I can't talk myself away from this, can I?” his voice was equally as quiet, equally as soft. He was trying to calm himself, he knew what was to come.

“You don't have to tell me what happened, if you don't want to,” Friedrich clarified, “but I want you to know that I'd listen if you did want to.”

Albrecht thought about those last few days, where Friedrich had been anything but there for him. He kept his mouth shut.

He picked at the loose skin of his thumbnail, worried it with his index finger. 

“I—” Albrecht’s mouth had ran so dry, he had to stop to swallow, “I need to tell you at some point, don't I?”

Friedrich shook his head and took Albrecht's free hand in his own with a sigh. Albrecht hadn't even realized his own trembling.

“Don't have to tell me anything, Albrecht.”

Despite himself, Albrecht freed his hand. He raked it through his hair and over his face, trying to calm himself with the coldness of it. He knew that. He knew that he didn't need to tell Friedrich anything — and he hadn't. Friedrich knew close to nothing. But…

“If I don't tell you now, I won't tell you ever. And we both know it won't help this.”

This being their situation. This being them.

Friedrich didn't say anything. Albrecht could feel him adjust his own stare from the corner of his eye. He still hadn't dared to look back, instead watching the first gentle, barely-there sun rays climbing the horizon.

He took another shuddering breath, “So please don't interrupt me, because I don't know if I can go on if you do.”

Friedrich nodded, completely withdrawing himself from Albrecht's body and pulling himself up with a hiss to sit down next to him instead, feet barely touching when he splayed his legs.

Albrecht appreciated the space, but even more the fact that he didn't have to look at Friedrich anymore like this.

Albrecht drew his own arms around his body, busying his fingers with the ratty hems of his shirt-sleeves.

“I was sent to the Ukraine right after I left Allenstein,” he started quietly, “I was put into a troop of four other men, all of them at least in their mid-twenties. I stayed for about six months.”

He shuddered at the thought of his sixteen-year-old, scared self.

“They had already been a troop for a few weeks before I got there, I don't know why I was added. But they were nice enough at first, they laughed with me and taught me how to properly get going in all the snow.”

It had been terrible. He had sunken into that freezing, white mess more often than he had liked.

“At—At some point I noticed that they had started calling me names.”

Albrecht wondered what Friedrich must think now. He wondered if he thought that he'd left because he'd been made fun of.

“Nothing major at first. I thought they had just kind of accepted me as their own, you know? They called each other names all the time. But they didn't call each other girl names. They didn't call each other princess or refer to the other as a she.”

He swallowed, licking his dry lips. His trembling had grown to a full-body shudder by now. Friedrich beside him sat completely still. He didn't even fidget the strings of his pants like he often did, or move his feet to some kind of beat only he seemed to hear.

“And I could have lived with that. I could have lived with that!” Albrecht sobbed, “But it didn't stop there, because—”

He had to take a break in order to force a shuddering breath, his heart was attempting to hammer itself out of his ribcage, his hands were freezing. Trying to keep the memories — the pictures — out was getting increasingly more difficult by the second.

But Albrecht was glad that Friedrich held his word this time and didn't interrupt him. Because if Albrecht had to talk back to someone rather than rant whatever he willed himself to remember, he feared he'd suffocate to his own tears and sobs. They were already burning in the back of his throat.

“We always took turns sleeping, usually in a three to two ratio. Like three would be up and me and another one would be asleep, you know? And at some point sleep started to tire me more than being awake did, and—and it was around that time that I noticed them getting more and more touchy.”

Finally, Friedrich did move. Move as in almost completely tensing up. So technically he didn't move, Albrecht supposed. 

He gulped the burning tears down one more time before the words came bubbling out.

“A—And you know me, right? Like of course I'd get paranoid as to why, so—so I just stayed up one time. And— oh God, Friedrich,” he sobbed, “They—they God,” the memories were on a field trip in his brain, the pictures rushed in front of his eyes like the landscapes by a train.

“They put their hands on me,” Albrecht rasped quietly, “And they couldn't know I was awake. They couldn’t! They'd have killed me right there if they knew I was — and they wouldn't have stopped over my cold body.”

Albrecht clasped a shaking hand over his mouth when the tears started to well in his eyes, burning and blurring his sight.

“I felt so—” Dirty, he wanted to say, dirty, disgraced, wronged. But the words got stuck somewhere along his throat.

“I couldn't do anything,” he choked out, burying his head in his hands, squeezing it in a desperate attempt to keep it out. Their evilly grinning faces, stricken with not guilt but something akin to pride.

“And so—so it went on for like a month. I was scared to sleep at that point, but I couldn't take every guarding shift. They'd get mad when I did. Of course they would. But I was too scared to say something, none of these guys were on my side, telling anyone was not an option. No one would have listened, anyway.

“It was only when we met some other troop. Enemies. They told me to shoot at them. Said they were too lazy, didn't want to get their hands dirty. I didn't want to, you have to believe me! But one of them pulled me to the side—”

Albrecht shuddered at the memory of a cold glove clasped right around the back of his neck, dragging him deeper into the woods where they were hiding. He could still feel the man's breath on his face. The way his hands felt on Albrecht's naked skin.

“And he told me to shoot them, or they'd go right to some officers and tell them that I was—that I was a faggot! That I'd be kindling up to them, try to get my move with them. That I liked it when—when they—when they would—”

He couldn't get the words out. Speaking them was a whole lot different than thinking them. A whole lot harder. A whole lot more painful. Speaking them out made them real. Albrecht could have remained to live in quiet denial, but Friedrich deserved the truth. He deserved to know what kind of messed up being he was. He deserved to know that he had someone like him in his house.

“So I shot them.” Albrecht concluded, whispering. He had drawn his legs up to his chest, his arms pressed between them and his body, his face pressed into his bony knees. And he had kind of forgotten that he was actually talking to someone and not just ranting to no one in particular when the bed moved beside him. Albrecht tensed in anticipation, but Friedrich must have merely shifted on his spot, because no touch ever came. He didn't raise his voice either. Albrecht was too scared to look.

“It's how I got my scar,” he stuttered on, “When I was done with them. When I was staring down at those bodies — the deaths I had caused. I didn't look back. But I knew that if I didn't do something now, they would force to do this every time when we faced enemies. So I just unsheathed my knife and slit it across my throat. I missed, by the way. But they didn't know that. They probably didn't even see because I landed face down. Hurts quite the lot, falling face first into frozen ground, did you know? And I was right, too. About them not stopping even over my cold body. And I wasn't even cold yet.”

He could still feel the rush of bitter emotion he had felt, the one that had gotten right down to his bones. He could still hear their laughter as they had tossed him around.

There were new tears building up his eyes now, ones he couldn't stop and that ran down his cheeks freely, soaking his thin sleeping-trousers. 

“But it's also how I met Berthold. I've told you about him, right? He was a prisoner by those Ukrainians, he had hidden at first and waited until my troop had gone, but when he'd seen that I was still alive he'd come to get me. I don't know much about what happened after that. But we fought our way to some outpost, I think, and I was in a sickbay for a while. Then we were grouped together with some other guys and sent to Russia.”

Albrecht took a last, deep breath.

“And that's how I went from the Ukraine to Russia. And how I've got my scar. And how I've met Berthold. And why I wake up screaming and thrashing almost every goddamn night because my body is scared to sleep.”

It was quiet for a while after. So quiet that Albrecht could hear the first birds outside and Friedrich breathing. So quiet, that he could hear his own heartbeat and his blood rushing. 

He hated silence, but this was millions of times better than the screaming of those soldiers he had to kill. But if he'd stood his ground, he would've been killed instead.

It wouldn't have made much of a difference in the end, would it?

It held on for so long — the silence, that is — that Albrecht's tears dried up, leaving an itching residue, and he stopped shaking. It felt like hours. It could've been minutes. Or days, or weeks. Years, maybe, decades. 

Albrecht was barely strong enough to hold his position, at this point. His hands kept on slipping away and his head lolled to the side.

There was no indication before Friedrich broke their silence. His voice was clear in that small room, steady, as if he had been working on his words for a long time.

“You didn't deserve that. I need you to know that you didn't deserve that.”

Albrecht only sniffled in response. He didn't dare to look at Friedrich. If he were him, he wouldn't want to have Albrecht in his bed anymore. If he were him, he wouldn't even want to talk to Albrecht anymore. If he were him he— Hold Up.

“What?” Albrecht croaked, raising his head despite himself and turning only so far that he could look at Friedrich. His eyes were so caked up that he could barely see anything at all, though.

“It's not your fault.” Friedrich stated in a firm voice. He looked weird. Sad, almost; angry.

Albrecht frowned, “No, you don't understand, they—”

“You're right, I won't ever understand how you feel. But I do completely understand what they did and how it was never and at no point your fault.”

Albrecht snapped his mouth shut, staring at Friedrich through blurry eyes. Friedrich stared right back.

“I—,” Friedrich started, visibly searching for words, “God, Albrecht, I'm so sorry.”

Albrecht laughed a wet laugh, “It's not your fault either, Fritz.”

Ah, there it was again. Fritz. Albrecht didn't budge this time, but there was the slightest, smallest hint of a smile on Friedrich's lips. Not that Albrecht was looking at them, of course.

Friedrich reached out to him before he stopped himself, freezing in an awkward position.

There were once again fresh tears welling up in Albrecht's eyes as he threw himself into Friedrich's arms, just for once forgetting about the man's injured shoulder as he sobbed helplessly against the warm skin of his neck.

Albrecht couldn't tell for how long they had stayed like that, in the end, clutching each other close until their sobs ebbed. Until Albrecht had slowly started to nod off on Friedrich's shoulder, the other man's steady breaths lulling him into a state of calm.

But it couldn't have been too long, because the sun had yet to fill their room with proper light and the buzzing of life down in the streets hadn't yet begun.

“I'm sorry for going at you like I did when you first told me about your scar,” Friedrich mumbled into his hair, at some point, the buzz of his voice echoing in Albrecht's own chest.

“I was being unfair. I couldn't have known how you felt, but in that moment I was just so— mad.” 

Albrecht simply hummed in response, but it must've been enough for Friedrich who fell back into a soft silence.

Though not for long. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be tired at all and Albrecht sighed when he could slowly feel his own fatigue fading with Friedrich's next words.

“There's one last thing, though. I want to show it to you.”

Albrecht groaned unhappily, burrowing himself deeper into Friedrich's shoulder, subconsciously inhaling his warm, familiar scent.

“Can't it wait?” he slurred. A vibrating chuckle was Friedrich's only response for a short while.

“Best before sunrise,” he said eventually, “It's more quiet, then.”

“You're not going to abduct me to somewhere no one can hear my screams, are you?”

When there was only a short, stunned silence, Albrecht sat up, withdrawing himself from Friedrich's warmth.

“It was a joke,” he stated flatly, returning Friedrich's stare.

Friedrich shook his head, pushed up from the bed with a quiet hiss and pulled Albrecht right with him.

“So tell me then, where are we going?” Albrecht asked when the door to the flat closed behind them, leaving them in the dark hallway of the building.

“You'll see,” Friedrich said simply. He still had to let go of Albrecht's arm, but Albrecht could care so much less.

Like he had just days ago, Friedrich led him through the town. This time past the shops and houses, further and further until they were at the feet of the hill.

From there, they passed the bench Albrecht liked to flee to, and crossed over into the forest when the path ended. Albrecht had no clue where this was going. Maybe he should be concerned about whether anyone could hear his screams.

Eventually, they stopped in the middle of a clearing right at the end of the hill. And maybe the hill could also be called a small mountain, because Albrecht swore that it looked much smaller from the outside. He could easily oversee the whole town and so much further from where he stood.

Wind was whistling around them and the trees behind, making their leaves rustle in a somehow very idyllic manner. It was so quiet up here, with the sun just barely grazing the horizon, a few birds chasing around it in the distance, chirping happily.

Friedrich almost stood to the very edge of the hill, having let go of Albrecht in order to do so, hands buried into his pockets now.

Albrecht couldn't help but stare in awe.

The light caught in his blond hair while the wind splayed it out. It looked like a halo.

Friedrich looked like an angel — all soft edges and calm. A warm presence you didn't exactly need to see in order to feel it. Someone you just couldn't bring yourself to hate, no matter how hard you tried. And trust him, Albrecht spoke from experience, in that matter.

The winds didn't sound like the screams that early morning. Albrecht even wondered how they ever had. He wondered how anything had ever been wrong in the first place, when he had Friedrich at his side. Bad and Friedrich simply weren't words that went together.

“And we're here now bec—” Albrecht started, but was almost immediately interrupted by a loud, scream-like shout.

Albrecht whirled around in horror, one hand at his hip before he even realized that there was, in fact, no weapon anymore and hadn't been in long.

Friedrich, seemingly completely unbothered by his own utterly clear sign of absolute mental disorder, grinned at him.

“What are you doing?” Albrecht hissed, stalking over to his friend to pull him away.

Friedrich laughed. A giddy, happy laugh that filled the air around them like they were stuck in some kind of bubble of just them. Of just Albrecht and Friedrich.

He shouted again, louder this time and Albrecht quickly looked around, ready to justify—

But no one in their right mind would come up here on a Sunday morning, would they? And Albrecht was quite sure that most of the noise didn't even reach the valley of their town. So he just swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“C'mon,” Friedrich encouraged him, voice loud, “Come on!”

“I'm not going to—,” another scream, Albrecht couldn't help but join in on the laughter this time, “—I’m not going to just scream, Fritz.”

“But you should! It helps, really.”

Albrecht snorted, “Do you come here often?” he had meant it as a joke but Friedrich nodded almost eagerly.

“Not as much anymore, but I used to a lot when I first discovered this place, or when you first came back.”

They stared at each other, for a while. One's chest heaving from laughter and shouting, the other's from being overwhelmed.

Albrecht's decision was made in the mere blink of an eye when he shouldered past a grinning Friedrich, standing himself at the edge of the hill. From here, the view was even better — he could see so many towns and villages all around, even a bigger city not too far away.

He still wasn't too convinced of Friedrich's idea, but he supposed it was better if he didn't think about it too much.

So Albrecht screamed, and he shouted, and he roared.

He didn't even notice when Friedrich joined in on it.

But he knew that from this moment on, he no longer would hear the Ukrainians' screams whenever the wind roared, but his own and Friedrich's, mixed with laughter.

And in that moment, he swore he was infinite.

end of part one 

Chapter Text

part two

Taten sagen mehr als Worte.

fourteen

They didn't go back to sleep that night — or morning, rather — but instead lay huddled close, limbs tangled as they filled each other and just — enjoyed the other’s company.

Occasionally, they would speak out their thoughts in hushed voices, humming in either agreement or shaking their head no.

Albrecht did doze off multiple times and so did Friedrich, but with the town waking beneath them, the noises didn't really let them fall asleep completely.

The sun was shining golden on Friedrich's bed by now, warming their little bubble. 

Only when Friedrich grew too restless to lay around did they move to the kitchen, eating scrambled eggs and bread straight from the pan as they stood next to each other, their sides touching.

They didn't talk then, either, a content and comfortable silence between them. Albrecht liked this quiet. There was simply nothing else to talk about.

But the silence only held up for maybe half an hour before there was some loud rumble behind Christoph's door and the man himself trampled from his room, half caught in his sleep clothes and looking like he was in desperate need of at least a hundred nights of nine-hour-sleep.

Albrecht eyed him warily as the man attempted to make himself a coffee, grumbling out a rough “morning” to the both of them.

Christoph being a morning grouch hadn't been a secret since Albrecht's first ever night here, but recently he had gotten worse and worse. As in: The dark circles threatened to hang lower than his face and his skin colour was dangerously close to that of the walls.

Albrecht exchanged a glance with Friedrich. And, well, now that he really looked at him, Friedrich wasn't so much better. But nothing could top Christoph.

“Are you... alright?” Albrecht dared to ask, setting down the pan in order to cross his arms over his chest.

Christoph barely grunted in response, “Peachy,” was what Albrecht believed to decipher.

He dropped down on the kitchen chair with a thunk, the liquid sploshing from his chipped cup in the process, burning his hand. Christoph hissed as he shook it out beside him.

Albrecht's eyes immediately flitted to the small stack of letters on the table. The letters his mother had sent him — had gone out of her way for. His mother.

“Yeah?” Friedrich challenged, “What are you doing up so late? Maybe you wouldn't be as tired if you actually went to bed on time.”

Ah, there he was. It had been suspiciously quiet.

“Work,” Christoph spoke into his coffee. Black, barely brewed long enough to be any good.

“For twenty hours a day?” Friedrich raised a skeptical eyebrow, “What do they make you do, man?”

“Stuff,”

When Friedrich's other eyebrow raised in the same manner, Albrecht took it as his cue to go and he in long strides made his way back to their room.

Whatever it was that kept Christoph away from home, it was a matter to be discussed only between him and Friedrich, as much was clear.

So, Albrecht did what he always did. He threw open the window in Friedrich's room to let in some fresh air before it would be too hot to do so later in the day. He made the bed and got properly dressed. And then he waited.

But waiting was awfully boring when all he could do was sit and kick his feet.

Albrecht's eyes fell on the bag in a far corner of the room. His bag. Untouched still. The other one, the bigger one, was the only one he'd ever used since he'd gotten here, since it was filled with clothes and other necessities. But this one? This one he'd even forgotten when he'd made an attempt to leave this place.

Reluctantly, Albrecht got up and stalked over to the tattered duffle.

It was the one he'd taken with him to war, and there were still some unidentified stains on it that Albrecht decidedly would not be thinking about today.

He emptied the bag over the ground, shaking it to get everything out. 

A few thin books, two notebooks, some of his old writings that he immediately put back and a watch. It was cool to the touch, the leather strap still polished and only a bit worn down. Albrecht had never put it on. It had been a present by his parents after years of wishing for a new desk set.

And he wouldn't wear it now, either, he swore himself as he chucked it beneath the bed.

After some short thinking, his old writings followed, as unread by him as they had by his parents.

Albrecht picked up one of the notebooks, then. 

This one was worn down and soft around the edges. He remembered it, he'd already taken it out on the train and wondered how it could feel so used already.

When he opened it, there were still the unfinished sketches and attempts at essays that he'd started on the train. Though now they looked even more sad, even more pathetic.

Still, he laid it to the side carefully as he dug around Friedrich's desk in search of a pen.

He tried to, at least, as he stared at the desk almost overwhelmed. It was full of everything. There were medals, pictures, documents — some old and stained and some new and crisp — and, at last, a total of three pens. A pencil, a fountain pen, and a… something. 

Albrecht went for the pencil.

But when he settled down, book open on a new page, he couldn't think of anything. Usually, words flowed as naturally as a river would. Ever since he had gone to war, they stopped.

He couldn't explain why. There was so much he wanted to write, so much he wanted to put to words but just couldn’t. The first time he'd noticed, he'd just put it off as writer's block. During the second month, he'd cried out of anger until he nearly ripped his book apart and broken all of his pens. After, he'd given up. And now, almost two years later, he only sighed in resignation, put his things back and let himself fall back.

The ceiling of the room, just like the rest of the flat, was unplastered and brittle. Sometimes, in the midst of the night when sleep wouldn't even think of finding him, Albrecht would stare up at it, wondering when it would finally come down.

Friedrich's room in general was much more lifeless than Albrecht had expected. Not only did it merely consist of grey, brown and white tones, but it was also boringly empty. 

A desk, a desk chair, a bed, a bedside table. All made of rough and cheap wood.

Rectangular holes in the brick wall served as shelves that Friedrich had filled with few framed pictures and a single trophy. On his door, there was his training and work schedule. His clothes stacked beside it.

The whole place looked as if it was just recently moved into. But since Albrecht knew better, it put him off even more. Did Christoph and Friedrich ever intend to stay?

Albrecht flinched when the door flew open and nearly slammed him in the face. Friedrich, who still had one hand raised, stood frozen on his spot.

One strange look later, he settled down next to him in a cross-legged position.

He dropped something on Albrecht's stomach. Right. The letters.

Albrecht cleared his throat.

“So, what's up with him?”

Friedrich huffed, “He won't tell me. Said it's ‘none of my business’ what he does with his time.”

Albrecht shook his head, looking him up and down.

“Do they still hurt?” before Friedrich could ask what he meant, Albrecht added: “Your injuries. Are they still bad?”

Friedrich attempted to shrug, hissed, and carried on the movement with his healthy shoulder. This alone was all the confirmation Albrecht had needed.

“Go back to bed,” he ordered.

“B—”

“Come on. Just half an hour. Just for the good conscience.”

Another huff, but with a low groan, Friedrich did actually get up and settle down on the creaking bed.

A pause. Then,

“What do you think your mother wrote?”

Albrecht snorted, taking the letters into his hands to inspect them. 

His name was written on the first one in his mother's careful handwriting. The other one was empty, but felt weird to the touch. Waxy, old-ish.

“I don't know, nothing that’ll make me jump up and down in joy and move right back in, I assume.”

Friedrich actually let out a low laugh. When Albrecht craned his neck backwards, he could see him laying on his stomach, head hanging above the edge of the mattress.

“Only one way to find out, isn't there?”

Albrecht sighed at the words, but put the thicker of the letters away to open the one with his name on it.

There was only a single slip of paper on it, and it wasn't even full.

He skimmed it quickly, hands shaking in an attempt to prevent himself from crumbling it.

Albrecht,

your father has come home.

He wishes to speak with you and so do I, as I fear there has been a terrible misunderstanding.

That blonde housemaid appears to know where you are hiding. You are still friends with Friedrich Weimer? I would not have guessed with your infamous way of running each time something does not happen according to your liking.

Me and Heinrich expect you to come home soon.

Sincerely,

Your mother

Mentally, he scoffed at the sincerely.

Only his mother could be this ignorant. He had written it in his own letter to her when he'd left. That he'd go because there was no use for him there, that he needed an out and that he didn't want any more contact. He'd left out that it was her fault. Her's and his father's.

“And — what's she say?”

Albrecht didn't answer, at first. Instead he took the second letter and fumbled it open. What he didn't expect, despite the weird heaviness of the envelope, were two things to tumble out and to his chest.

Something small and hard and a paper slip.

While one hand searched for the small something, the other held the paper to his eyes.

It was harshly yellowed and written on in a font so old that Albrecht struggled to properly decipher it.

This is our signet ring. Give it to your son and carry our name on.

Below was what Albrecht recognized to be their families coat of arms.

It must be decades old.

When Albrecht finally grasped the thing — the ring — he recognized it, too. 

It was the same one his father wore most of the time. Except for when he was away which was when he would find it slipped on his mother's finger instead.

He had never paid close attention to the silver piece of jewelry that never seemed to lose its shine.

Albrecht traced the lines of the signet with the nails of his thumb.

Why his mother would give this to him when she expected him to come back anyways, he didn't know. Though he did have a suspicion.

“Albrecht?” Friedrich repeated, snapping him from his thoughts.

“She wants me to come back,” Albrecht stated simply, in a dry voice, “He's home.”

Friedrich didn't ask who he meant by “he” and Albrecht was glad he didn't.

They laid in silence, for a while. Albrecht fiddled with the ring and he didn't have to turn around to know Friedrich's eyes followed the movement.

He would know the feel of his stare among a thousand others.

When the door flew open a second time, it caught on Albrecht's shoulder, shoving him a bit to his right.

Christoph came marching into the room, one big bowl and three forks in hand.

“Make some space in the self-pity corner for the big guy, will you?” he announced, letting himself fall down in Friedrich's desk chair and kicking his legs out.

Albrecht snorted.

“Care to tell us about your self-pity, then, big guy?”

“So, you see, there's this girl…”

» «

Hours later, the three of them wandered the streets of their small town.

Albrecht had the letters shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, still fiddling the edges as he'd shoved his hand right in after.

He trailed a bit behind Friedrich and Christoph who pushed at each other from time to time, laughing about something Albrecht hadn't caught.

The sun was burning his skin so bad he was sure his shirt was already soaked through and he had to squint his eyes in order to see absolutely anything.

He wasn't quite sure where they were heading.

Friedrich had said they'd go over to Sofia's, where Mia would be staying, but they had passed the bookshop a while ago already. Albrecht had been pretty sure that Sofia lived in the flat above it.

Apparently, she didn't. As much was clear when they'd entered a part of the town Albrecht hadn't even known about. Here, there were small townhouses instead of blocks of flats.

They were tightly spaced and only one or two were free-standing, but it all looked so much more proper than where their flat was.

Albrecht grew up in houses that cost more than this whole street, but still he had gotten so used to their small flat that he felt completely out of place.

Eventually, Friedrich took a turn to a front yard full of colourful flowers and a wild array of terracotta vases.

This one house, with its baby-blue door and clean, yellow-ish brick facade stood out as much as a colourful house did in the midst of a sea of greys and browns just did.

Albrecht almost had to shield his eyes against the brightness of it.

His suspicions began when he read the name above the doorbell. Barone.

And his suspicions were confirmed when a tall, tanned young man opened the door instead of the lithe woman he was expecting. Even more so when that man turned out to be no other than Alejandro, Friedrich's and his colleague.

The man grinned from one ear to the other as he clapped first Friedrich, then Christoph and at last Albrecht on the back in a brotherly manner, ducking under the door frame to welcome them in.

Just as Albrecht had expected, the inside of the house was almost even more colourful than the outside. The sunlight reflected in various objects, throwing rainbows and smaller lights to the green and yellow walls or the bright rugs or the countless and countless terracotta vases. Where did one acquire so many vases? And why?

Sofia came floating down a set of stairs the second Albrecht sat down on a colourfully quilted sofa, careful not to smother the dog sleeping on there.

Unlike the other day at the bookstore, she wore a beautiful flowy sundress that matched her brown hair in a way that might have been unintentional. Not that Albrecht knew anything about fashion, of course, and he pointedly did not look down at the — for once unstained — simple shirt and pants he was wearing, half of his outfit belonging to a particular blond man in the other corner of the room.

Mia followed not long after, less elegant but holding herself more gracefully. She reminded Albrecht a bit of his mother, the way she walked.

She looked about as unsure in this house as Albrecht felt.

“Hello,” she greeted him with a careful smile, Albrecht nodded back. It was weird having a normal conversation with someone who basically used to work for him. So it would be best if he just didn't at all, right?

With Friedrich and Alejandro loudly talking on one side of the room, Christoph and Sofia arguing about… lemonade? on the other one, and him and Mia awkwardly sitting on yet another one, not quite knowing where to look and the ridiculous amount of colour in this place, Albrecht almost felt overwhelmed.

Mia softly cleared her throat, “Uhm,” she made, “Shall we go to the garden?”

Albrecht didn't know why they should. He didn't know why they should seclude themselves from whatever was happening here, but he really didn't want to make this even more awkward. So, even if reluctantly, he got up and followed Mia through the glass doors to the backyard.

This house quickly turned out to be an eyesore. Albrecht didn't know how people could live like this every day.

And the garden? God, Albrecht would rather stand staring at the wall than having to look at all that bright and colourful greenery. But that would be considered rude, wouldn't it?

“So?” Albrecht prompted.

Mia looked mildly uncomfortable.

“About if you want your mother to be able to contact you—”

“Do you know what she wrote in that letter?” Albrecht hissed, uncaring about his rudeness now.

Mia stared at him.

“Did she ever talk about me or about the idea of me?”

“She—” Mia seemed to search for words, “She talked about her… memories with you.”

Albrecht huffed, crossing his arms. “So what, like three times total? One of them including your cousin?”

“No, no. It was… each time she talked about you, it was a different part of your life. You as a toddler, child et cetera.”

He hummed, turning the signet ring over in his hand.

“And she wants to contact me because…? It must have been a good reason if you came all the way over here just to get me some pathetic letter.”

Mia looked at him, then. Really just looked him in the eyes for a few long seconds, but she seemed to be analyzing his every move. Even when his eye twitched in the wind, she seemed to follow the movement. Albrecht found that very strange.

“I don't think you quite realize just how much Frau Stein actually loves you,” she said finally and Albrecht really couldn't keep in his laugh.

“No, I'm serious!” Mia added, a hopeless look on her face.

“Then she told you a lie.” Albrecht said coolly. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. They would be going in circles.

He sighed, “It was nice seeing you again, Mia, but please tell my mother that she can crawl right back to where she came from.”

Mia looked almost sad at his words, but nodded without saying anything else and followed him back into the house.

“Herr Stein is back,” Mia called after him. If this was an attempt to get him back to a conversation, the girl really didn't know him.

“I don't care.” 

Chapter Text

Fühl mal, was du denkst, anstatt zu denken, was du fühlst.

fifteen

June passed in a blur.

Albrecht drowned himself in work most days, slept in on the weekends and occasionally went back up the hill with Friedrich where they would talk and talk and talk until the sun had risen so high it threatened to burn them.

Sometime during the middle of July, Friedrich deemed himself ready to go back to work. And Albrecht and Christoph were both too tired of him to make any move to stop him.

So, Albrecht spent the month of July in almost absolute boredom.

But before the ceiling could come crashing down on him, he fled.

He only realized how much the boredom was eating him up when he found himself sitting on a fence on Ralf’s farm one August afternoon, balancing a notebook on his thigh and a handful of eggs in his, well, hand.

The farm was built on the outskirts of the town and rather big in comparison. Ralf lived here with his wife, three brothers and far too many kids for someone his age.

At least in Albrecht's opinion. But what did he know.

The man himself was forking manure while talking without a stop. Occasionally, he'd step on one of his hens, which would cause one of his three dozen dogs to bark.

Really, Albrecht must be absolutely desperate.

“Don't you ever get tired of it?” Ralf asked him while Albrecht was attempting to scribble something down on an empty page.

“Hm?” Albrecht made, not looking up so he wouldn't lose his balance.

“Of doing nothing, I mean. Like I know you went to war and stuff, but how about you go to work sometime?”

“If you know a place that would hire me, feel free to tell. However, I highly doubt that in a town like this I'll get more than a weird look.”

Because in a town like this, every resident had their designated workplace. Their designated spot. 

Some random guy that had been stranded here didn't fit into that system. Some random guy being Albrecht.

At first, he hadn't minded. He'd had enough on his mind to busy him for his time being, but now that he was actually getting better, now that not every noise would inflict a screaming-match inside his head, now Albrecht was dead bored.

And he had thought about leaving. He had thought about it quite some times, because in a different, bigger city, there would surely be space for him. But he had promised Friedrich to stay with him. And as much as it annoyed him now, Albrecht couldn't and wouldn't take that back.

“So, like, hypothetically, when you got shot, what did you do then?”

At some point, Albrecht had started to actually answer Ralf's questions. He wouldn't stop asking anyway, and Albrecht supposed most things he could spill.

“You'd die,” he pointed out, sketching another line in his notebook. When writing had failed him, he'd deepened his sketching skills. Ralf's barn and pasture were finally gaining their shape on his paper now.

“And if the bullet didn't kill you?”

“You'd get sepsis and then die.”

“And if you didn't get sepsis?”

“Then you'd freeze to death because you couldn't move.”

“And if, hypothetically, none of that happened and you got shot on a summer's day not far from a medbay and with some friends' company, what then?”

“Then you'd survive, I suppose. Haven't been there yet.”

That finally shut Ralf down for a while. Albrecht knew it wouldn't last because they'd been playing this game the whole last week already. In, give or take, five minutes, when the silence became too much to bear for him, Ralf would start up again.

Albrecht sighed, “Say, Ralf, when you stumble across a writer's slump, what do you do?”

Ralf stopped forking for a second, wiping the sweat of off his forehead. He hummed, “I just…” he trailed off, “I wait for an opportunity that makes it spark back up, I suppose.”

“For example?”

A shrug, “I mean— sometimes when I look at my wife I just— have to write something, like, lovely, you know?” 

It was so obvious how uncomfortable Ralf felt saying this that Albrecht nearly cringed.

“But what if you've had that writer's block for, say, almost three years?”

Ralf fully put away his pitchfork then, leaning it against the fence next to Albrecht, and looked at him. Like really looked at him.

“So… basically ever since you've went to war.” Ralf followed up. Albrecht nodded, grimacing.

Ralf's forehead wrinkled as he pondered. He looked much older than he was, in general. His light brown hair already had some streaks of grey and there were an array of crows feet around his eyes, the skin around his mouth permanently wrinkled into a smile. There was absolutely no way for this guy to be in his mid-twenties.

“You think it's a, uh… trauma response?”

Albrecht bristled, “I don't have trauma.” 

It was one thing thinking about it, it was a other being called out on it. 

Ralf shrugged helplessly, then lifted his head to comb back his sweaty hair. This summer really was not for the weak. But it was still thousands of times better than winter in the east.

“You could write an autobiography — maybe?”

Albrecht snorted, “Who would want to read that?”

Nodding to somewhere behind Albrecht, Ralf muttered, “I know someone.”

Carefully turning on his spot, Albrecht could see Friedrich making his way over to them, balancing a child on one of his shoulders.

“I didn't know your daughter could read yet,” Albrecht joked but Ralf merely huffed, eyeing the situation carefully. His daughters, he was always very protective of.

When Friedrich finally reached them, grinning, he heaved himself up and next to Albrecht on the fence, situating the child on his lap instead. Albrecht couldn't remember her name — he wasn't sure if Ralf had even told him — but she must be around, what, three years old?

Friedrich playfully knocked their knees together, almost throwing Albrecht out of balance who hissed in return.

“You're off early,” Albrecht grumbled when Friedrich went on to play a game of Hoppe-Hoppe-Reiter with the toddler, “How come?”

Friedrich grinned, eyes squinting against the cruel sun, “Not off, just using my break how I want.”

“If your ideal day consists of stealing my children and burning in the sun voluntarily, then we might have to talk a little talk, boy.” Ralf added his cents, adjusting his straw hat so he could glare at Friedrich better.

“My ideal day consists of working, annoying my roommates and boxing. Kidnapping a child is a nice dish to the side, though.” Friedrich winked.

He was in an exceptionally good mood, Albrecht noticed, had been for almost the whole day. A spring in his step, a tune whistled while getting dressed, actually using his break. He was happy.

His happiness had always been contagious.

“Of course it is,” Ralf muttered, sighing to himself and sitting down on the fence himself. Taking off his hat, he used it to fan air over to his daughter who was giggling happily, raising meaty hands to grasp at Friedrich's hair as it flew around wildly. 

It was getting long, they would have to cut it off again soon.

Sometimes, Albrecht wondered if time took to him as much as it did to Friedrich.

He hadn't cut his hair in three months, either, and it must look downright shaggy by now. But then again, he hadn't cast a look at himself in almost as long, not daring to raise his eyes up into the mirror, too scared of what he was going to see. Too scared to break the illusion.

The illusion that he was getting better.

Because that was what it had to be, wasn't it? An illusion. Simple but horrifying at the same time. Albrecht had lived under so many illusions for so often in his life that he had grown scared of any quiet day. And the quiet days were piling now. Any stack will fall if high enough. And so would this. Albrecht was sure of it.

“What're you drawing?” Friedrich's voice snapped him out of it.

Once again becoming aware of the shirt sticking to his back, Albrecht looked down at his lap. The notebook balanced on his thigh, the pencil in his hand and the eggs — which were getting more and more clammy by the second, by the way — in the other.

“It's called sketching,” Albrecht corrected, a playful sneer in his voice, “and I'm sketching Ralf's barn.”

Friedrich softly whacked the back of his head, scoffing, but when he momentarily lost balance, it turned into a yelp.

Albrecht laughed loudly as Ralf swore up a storm, tearing his daughter from Friedrich's grip.

» «

The door fell closed behind him with a loud thud, rattling the plates stacked on the kitchen shelves right beside it.

When the flat had been terribly cold just three months prior, it was horribly hot and stuffy now.

But no matter how much Albrecht tried to flee from it, there was work to be done.

He gathered up the dirty clothes that had already built up in a corner of their room in the short time Friedrich had gone back to work. Christoph usually washed his own by himself, though Albrecht didn't know where he even found the time for that.

They had finally established the reason for his long days now, though.

Christoph was head over heels in love and he didn't just spend his own shift at the restaurant but also the girl's one so that he could accompany her.

Albrecht found that pretty crazy, Friedrich had only clapped Christoph on the back, laughing, calling him a weird fella.

Albrecht had found that crazy, too.

But it wasn't his job to comment on it, so he didn't.

Not even the water of their shabby bathtub was anywhere near cold and Albrecht nearly groaned in disgust when the disgustingly warm water soaked his shirt. 

He did groan, though, when there was a loud knock on the door just as he'd submerged his arms to the elbow in that absolutely sickening body of water.

Knees cracking from the quick movement, Albrecht stalked over to their thin door, still drying his hands on his pants as he did so.

“Good afternoon?” he asked rather than stated. The number of people directly knocking on their door had come to a total of, like, two in Albrecht's whole time here.

A postman stared up at him. He was, well, rather short. And he looked like he might be the same age as that Maximilian Höfer guy from work and — Albrecht squinted his eyes — they did even look similar.

“Afternoon!” he boasted, “two and a half letters for one… Albrecht Stein!”

Albrecht opened the door a bit wider, crooking a confused eyebrow, “Two and a half?”

The boy shook some paper from his bag, handing them over. Two and— a half. Truly. The third letter seemed to be brutally torn in the middle.

Albrecht turned it in his hands, confused.

“I swear, it was like that when I got it!” the boy near-screamed. Albrecht was very glad most of this house’s residents worked around this time of the day.

“Right…” Albrecht murmured as the postman made quick of his exit, almost leaving a cloud of dust behind.

These were the first letters this month, but Albrecht paid them no mind as he threw them down on the kitchen table next to the growing stack of other ones and went back to doing their laundry.

Mia wrote to them almost every week. But it wasn't rare that the letter got lost in the post station and got delivered in a bundle instead.

Each and every time, she asked if she could give Frau Stein their address now. At least, each and every time when Albrecht used to still read them. He'd stopped a while ago. If they always said the same thing, there was no use in doing so.

Albrecht hummed quietly to himself as he worked his way through the mountain of clothes before him. It took him a while to recognize the melody of it, but when he did he halted in his movement for just a second. 

It was the same one Friedrich had whistled earlier that day, over and over again until Albrecht had shooed him out of the flat, when it had faded over to loud laughter instead.

Puffing out an overdue gust of air, Albrecht threw a glance to the small window of their bathroom. He could only hope for the sun to set soon, but he knew that wouldn't be the case for — a glance to the clock instead — at least three more hours. Another internal groan. Summer days had this unpleasant trait of not passing soon enough.

Wasn't it weird just how much your views could change in such a short time?

A year ago, Albrecht had hoped for days to never end so the darkness wouldn't set so that the shadows weren't as deep, not as long and not as terribly scary. Two years ago he had hoped for them to never end so nighttime wouldn't come, so that he wouldn't have to pretend to sleep. Now, he couldn't wait for them to be over so he could— so he could spend his nights listening to Friedrich's heartbeat right beside him.

Oh hell, he had just actually thought that one out. Uh-oh.

Albrecht cleared his throat, despite not actually having spoken.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. This flat would be the death of him. And if it wouldn't, then carrying the wet clothes down the stairs would. Either by their weight taking him out or him slipping on the trail of water they left behind.

The good thing: He'd spend less time thinking stupid stuff when he was dead.

The bad thing: He'd be dead.

The pros and cons were clearly outweighting themselves in this one.

As Albrecht pinned the clothes to the clothesline they technically shared with their whole building but that no one ever seemed to use, he let his eyes wander the street.

Opposite of them was the fork in the street he'd wandered down months ago. To their left — currently opposite of Albrecht and their small yard — other blocks of flats, as well as to their right. They were in the middle of their town but at the same time at the beginning of it. It was as confusing as it sounded and Albrecht had gotten lost more than once already, thank you very much.

Albrecht had, in all honesty, never really seen any of their neighbours. Christoph sometimes complained about them and Albrecht could hear them move and talk muffled at night when he couldn't sleep, but he had never actually met one of them. Often, he forgot they were even there.

Just as right now for example.

“Mornin’” Albrecht damn near jumped from his skin as a… possibly middle aged man crossed the yard behind him, scratching his impressive belly.

Albrecht did not point out how it almost evening, instead echoing a quiet “Hello” before he turned right back around. He hadn't known his neighbours before and he definitely wouldn't start now.

His neighbour seemed to have an entirely different opinion on that, much to Albrecht's dismay.

“You been livin’ here for long?”

Albrecht could feel his shoulders sag. Talking to Ralf had filled his daily amount of socialising already. To the brim, even.

“Three months,” he answered, clipped.

The man nodded, falling down in a lawn chair as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, a cloud of smoke immediately surrounding him.

When the silence became too awkward and heavy to bear, Albrecht made quick work of pinning the rest of his laundry on the line, almost fleeing the scene to get back to the safety of their flat.

Only when the door closed behind him — once again rattling their plates — did Albrecht allow himself to breathe.

At some point, he started counting down the hours when any of his roommates would finally come back. 

The sun was setting, the windows were opened to let in fresh and cooler air, as well as the unmistakable scent of the countryside that Albrecht had begun to like recently.

He'd already eaten dinner and gotten the laundry back up when he'd seen his neighbour leaving. He'd even stowed it away again and attempted to sort through the mess of Friedrich's desk, but quickly given up on that.

And none of the things he'd done today had raised even an inkling of inspiration to write down something — anything. 

It was annoying and Albrecht was becoming tired of it.

At some point, he'd lain down on the sofa, enjoying the breeze that came and went through the flat. With his eyes closed, he didn't even realize how dark it had gotten.

The sky had changed to a dark blue, the last specks of orange just leaving the horizon, making space for hundreds and dozens of stars.

Albrecht walked over to the open window, stretching his face towards the cool night.

In Ukraine, when he hadn't quite dared to sleep at night, he had spent a long time just staring at the sky. Following the movement of the stars, mapping them.

When he hadn't been able to find those exact stars in Russia, something had unclasped in his chest. Something he couldn't place but it had helped him, in some way. He had felt lighter and not as if the whole earth carried on his shoulders. It had been the first positive change at all during his time at the front. The first of few, but an important one nonetheless.

Albrecht fumbled his notebook from one of his pockets, it immediately falling open on the recent page where his pathetic attempt at writing still stared up at him.

Sighing, he flipped to the next page and drew the first dot.

The second one, bigger now, about a centimeter away. A third one, lighter, right next to it. Going on and on until he had filled every corner of the paper.

When Albrecht raised his head again, he was staring at the exact constellation that he had just put down. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. At least he could get this right. Even if it were just some dots.

He titled the page with that day’s date and the name of their town before moving on to the other, repeating almost the same process but in a different order. Then, he put down a day in winter dating two years back as the date and Ukraine as its heading.

Albrecht flinched when Friedrich flew through the door.

“What is up with you today?” Albrecht hissed, pocketing his notebook.

Friedrich, honest to God, giggled, picked Albrecht up and spinned them in a circle. Albrecht grimaced. He wasn't some girl from a schnaltzy book or something. Albrecht highly doubted Friedrich even read those books.

Friedrich put him down and spinned once on his own, a big grin stretching his face.

“You won't believe it — they're sponsoring me!” he called.

Albrecht helplessly shook his head, “... Who?”

“They are! Them! Albrecht, they're going to make me an Olympian!”

It only clicked then for Albrecht that Friedrich was talking — shouting, rather — about boxing.

“That's great,” Albrecht chuckled, grabbing onto Friedrich's arms to keep him from destroying their kitchen, “That's— I'm proud of you.”

Friedrich's eyes softened, putting his hands around Albrecht's shoulders.

And he looked so happy in this moment, so incredibly delighted, that Albrecht couldn't prevent his own face from breaking into a smile, leaning against Friedrich's body so he could pull him into a proper hug this time.

Friedrich buried his face in Albrecht's hair as he circled his arms around his shoulders in a firm grip, still gently swaying them side to side. Albrecht's face was pressed into the crook of Friedrich's neck instead, but he would rather drown again than complain. 

He liked how they fit together like this.

“When did they tell you?” Albrecht murmured, rubbing circles on Friedrich's back.

“Yesterday,” he got back, “But they weren't completely sure until today.”

“So that's why you've been in such a good mood?”

Friedrich hummed in response, relaxing in Albrecht's grip.

“I'm going to have to move, though. Probably,” he near-whispered and Albrecht froze.

“I'll take you with me, of course!” Friedrich added frantically, pushing Albrecht away to grasp his face instead, forcing them to stare into each other's eyes. His palms felt rough on Albrecht's cheeks.

“And Christoph, too, if he wants to. Shit, no way in hell am I ever going to leave you again.”

Albrecht's heart swelled in his chest, making it warm and heavy.

He leaned into the touch, hands fiddling with the hems of Friedrich's greasy shirt, unsure.

“I didn't doubt that,” Albrecht whispered, “It's just—”

“I won't leave you here. Or anywhere else. Never again, alright? Never.”

Albrecht stared at him, for a second. A quiet moment of getting lost in Friedrich's eyes that were so genuine, so warm and so safe that Albrecht couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright,” he whispered, “I'll have to keep you in on that.” 

Friedrich grinned, pressing a chaste kiss to Albrecht's forehead before he went off to the bathroom, whistling.

Albrecht did not acknowledge the burning blush creeping up his neck and face. 

He didn't. Absolutely no chance. 

Chapter Text

Niemand weiß, wie es in dir aussieht, aber jeder meint zu wissen, wer du bist und warum du so bist.

sixteen

Sleep came easier, these days, but it would still never be good enough.

Albrecht spent countless nights counting the ridges in the wall or ceiling, listening to Friedrich's soft snores as the man held onto him like a lifeline. 

Most times, it were nightmares that kept him up. The resurrection of memories in vivid images but at the same time so much worse. 

It was a wonder how Friedrich didn't wake everytime Albrecht would shoot up, because he was convinced he actually still screamed sometimes. He definitely thrashed, because once he had woken up on Friedrich's right side instead of the left but the blond hadn't even twitched an eyelid.

Other times, it was the heat. Albrecht usually ran pretty cold, so he didn't mind Friedrich, who was the embodiment of a burning surface. But now, in the midst of summer, when even at night, with all the windows open, their flat didn't cool enough to be pleasant, Albrecht couldn't sleep from the sheer amount of almost heavy heat.

Friedrich not leaving a hands width between them did certainly not help that.

But sometimes, on remarkably rare occasions, Albrecht couldn't sleep because Friedrich was the one with nightmares. The hypocrite he was, Friedrich never talked about them.

But when he'd wake with a start, shaking Albrecht from sleep, too, eyes unseeing and shuddering hurried breaths, Albrecht could do little more than to pull him close and whisper comforting little things in his ear until his body turned heavy again.

Friedrich would find his sleep those nights, but Albrecht would stay awake the whole time, ready to catch him from falling again.

Nights like today, for example.

Albrecht sat with his back to the wall, seeking comfort in the cool bricks as he carded his hands through Friedrich's blond hair in his lap. 

Albrecht didn't know what Friedrich dreamed about. He doubted he would ever know. But the man would go from looking soft, boy like and pliant to terrorized, tense and disturbed. 

And all that without even opening his eyes. He had an expressive face, Friedrich, if you knew how to get there. Almost like a book. The first few pages are always confusing or boring, but if you stick around for long enough it might turn out to be your favourite.

Albrecht traced the shape of Friedrich's nose softly with the tip of his finger, a slight smile creeping on his own lips when Friedrich's eyelids twitched in response. He wouldn't wake. He never did. He would have never survived just one day at the front — no matter the muscles, no matter the height, no matter being the perfect Aryan.

Sighing, Albrecht let his back hit the wall

They were increasing — Friedrich's nightmares. It worried Albrecht, the way he was helpless to do anything but help him sit through it. But he couldn't be mad at Friedrich for not telling him, that wouldn't be fair.

None of this was fair. None of this would ever be—

From one second to another, Albrecht was thrown from his head.

Even Friedrich had woken, eyes wide and hands gripping tightly onto Albrecht’s wrist, body half raised.

There had been a noise outside their room. A loud, so very loud crashing noise, followed by quiet wailing and hushed voices.

Albrecht was up and on his feet before Friedrich had even properly moved from his lap. But it only took him the blink of an eye to position himself behind Albrecht, a safe presence to his back as Albrecht pried the door open. 

A safe wall behind him as Albrecht flinched right back from what awaited him there.

Blood. There was blood all over their kitchen floor. 

And two people, though Albrecht only marked that rather dimly, distracted by the sheer amount of deep red, thick liquid and its metallic smell. Distracted by the image of Berthold laying in front of him, staring at him as the life left his body.

As Albrecht tore his eyes away, mostly because Friedrich shouldered past him in hurried movements and obscured his view, he recognized one of the people as Christoph. The second person he held in his arm, she must be a woman.

“Christoph, what the hell are you doing?” Friedrich near shouted. Standing in the middle of their blood soaked kitchen, eyes still slightly reddened, he looked like a psychopath. If Albrecht squinted his eyes, he would look a bit like his mate Franz. 

He too had stood in a bloodbath just before he'd pressed a gun to his head.

“What does it look like?” Christoph shouted back, clearly panicked.

“A goddamn murder scene!” Albrecht added to it, momentarily snapped from his stupor, but not enough to stop his voice from trembling or his hands from shaking.

“What have you done?” words as weak as he felt, Albrecht gripped the doorframe tightly.

The blood was coming from the woman, he noticed. Now that he looked a bit closer, she seemed weirdly familiar. But maybe that was only because she was wearing the same uniform Christoph wore to work.

“I haven't done anything!” Christoph sounded truly desperate now, “I swear it, none of this is my fault, but you have to help me!”

Albrecht raised his free hand, pointing it at himself, startled, “Me?” he repeated, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Christoph actually seemed confused, “Didn't you like, I don't know, stitch some people up at the front? Surely you can stitch her up, too, can't you?”

Albrecht felt like someone had thrown him right back into the lake he'd tried to drown himself in. 

What?

The door frame creaked in his grip as he recoiled, speechless.

“Christoph!” Friedrich hissed loudly, but Albrecht could barely hear him above the rushing in his head. He'd escaped it for so long, why now? 

Why did they have to come back now, of all times? Why now when he needed to clearly think so badly that it hurt his head? Albrecht slumped back against the door with a barely-there whimper when the first scream rang in his ears. Desperately, he raised his hands to clutch at them, momentarily forgetting his hold on the door frame and completely falling backwards.

He must look like a pathetic little child right now, but with Berthold's voice shouting in his head, so clearly as if he were here, not to be such a pussy and to suck it the hell up, Albrecht really really couldn't bring himself to care.

The snow is soaked in blood. Wherever Albrecht looks, he can't escape the red tint. Maybe it's just permanently burned into his vision.

His hands are shaking as he fumbles with his pockets, trying to avoid looking at that particular spot right before him. 

It's not the first time he's seen someone get shot. It wouldn't be his first time seeing someone die, but each time it happens, some lever in Albrecht's head just turns and renders him completely useless.

Maybe Berthold did this on purpose. To force him to get over it.

But that'd be crazy, right? Who in their right mind would let himself get shot at just to prove a point? 

Reluctantly, Albrecht re-adjusts his gaze to the man laying in front of him. 

Berthold's face is glistening from the sweat and contorted in pain, his dark blond hair is sticking to his forehead from the blood he's accidentally wiped there.

He's staring down at the gaping wound in his side.

The one Albrecht's supposed to take care of. And he owes him this, he knows, but that doesn't make it any easier.

“Stein,” Berthold hisses through clenched teeth, staring straight into his eyes now, one hand grasping Albrecht's, which in return holds a knife.

“Stein,” he says again, almost shouting, “Don't be such a goddamn pussy and get this thing done! You're acting like you're the one who's hurt here! Well, surprise, you fucking aren't so if you don't get that fucking bullet out soon, I will—”

He doesn't get to finish his threat because Albrecht's helplessly dug the blade into his flesh, trying to repeat and repeat his task in his head so he doesn't get distracted again.

The knife meets something hard soon enough, something that makes a metallic sound and Albrecht pries his gloves off of his fingers with his teeth to have them poke around, too, trying to get his mind away from the fact that he's fingers deep in the flesh of his friend.

“Suck it up, Stein,” Berthold wails, drawing out each S from how hard his jaw is clenched.

He gets the bullet out, in the end, and it turns out to be the smaller of his problems when Berthold fishes out some needle and thread and demands he sew him back together.

Albrecht pukes his everliving soul out, after. Scrubs his hands with snow and leftover cloth until they’re near bleeding.

Berthold laughs at him from his spot propped up against a tree.

Why does he laugh at him? Because they've been only a kilometer away from a med bay the whole time.

The next time it will happen, the text time it will be Albrecht's turn to patch Berthold up again, he will fail. Berthold will die. And it will be Albrecht's fault.

Albrecht snapped out of it from someone gripping his face tightly. 

Someone being Friedrich, he noticed as soon as his eyes adjusted.

“Listen,” he began carefully and Albrecht knew he wouldn't like what was about to come, “That’s Katharina out there, you know her, and she's very much alive, alright?”

Albrecht furrowed his brows, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.

“I don't—” 

“Yes, you do. She was a kitchen girl back at Allenstein. Christoph was in love with her back then already.” Friedrich said softly, body shielding Albrecht from looking but not from seeing.

“But why's there so much—”

“She's having a miscarriage,” Friedrich replied quietly, “But Christoph can't go to the hospital so we need to figure something out.”

“What the hell?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And with we you mean me, I assume?”

Friedrich shook his head, “That's not what I s—”

“No, but it's what you meant.” Albrecht shot back, causing Friedrich to sigh tiredly. And Albrecht almost expected him to shout, to throw with names he didn't mean just like Berthold used to, but instead he raked a hand over his own face so hard it caught on his eyelids.

“If you can't do it, then at least tell me what to do.”

And, Oh, that's a new one.

Christoph had positioned Katharina — the Katharina, what the hell — on a mixture of their kitchen table and chairs that looked far from comfortable, but as Albrecht risked a look at the woman's ashen face, he supposed it was better than nothing.

The thing that neither Christoph nor Friedrich seemed to actually realize though, was that Albrecht knew not a thing about miscarriages. The soldiers at the front usually had this unfortunate habit of being men.

Katharina looked horrible and absolutely wrenched, but Friedrich was right. She wasn't dead. She probably wouldn't die of this either (at least that's what Albrecht told himself) and this couldn't be too bad.

He was just glad she didn't talk, because he wouldn't have an answer. To anything. As he stood in the middle of their pathetic kitchen, Albrecht's head felt weirdly empty.

It'd happened before. During the Ukraine or when bis comrades had all dropped dead one after another. He supposed it was some kind of… coping mechanism?

“You go and get Ralf's wife,” he quietly ordered Friedrich, who did shoot him a look but took off right after, slamming the door on his way out.

“Ralf's wife?” Katharina echoed instead, voice impossibly weak. 

Christoph, who sat against Katharina's back to support her body weight, both hands clutching hers, pressed a kiss to her hair.

“She’s a midwife,” Albrecht offered, looking away, “With a bunch of kids, too. She definitely has more of a clue about how the female body works than we do.”

The silence that stretched after, simply because none of them knew what to say, was almost too uncomfortable for Albrecht to bear. And he didn't even want to think about how Katharina must've felt. 

Albrecht busied himself by getting a bunch of their non-white towels and old clothes, throwing about half of them into cold water and passing one to Christoph so he could clean Katharina up, before he fully turned away from them, gripping the edge of their sink tightly.

What was this life?

What was this day? And it hadn't even turned four o'clock yet.

There were hushed whispers behind him but Albrecht ignored them, searching his brain for anything that could help now. But there's only so much you can learn from sewing bullet holes and repositioning bones that can help you with a miscarriage. 

He felt helpless. Useless. 

Christoph had something to do, so did Friedrich. Albrecht was expected to do something he couldn't. 

The door nearly hit the wall when Friedrich threw it open, carrying a seemingly frightened woman. 

Frau Müller was a small woman with a rather corpulent body, but that was to be expected after, what, six kids? 

“You can set me down now, boy,” she ordered Friedrich when he still hadn't let go of her, to which he immediately obliged.

“She couldn't run as fast,” he whispered in Albrecht's ear as he settled next to him, them both watching Frau Müller as she stepped up to Katharina.

“Now, love, tell me what happened?”

Albrecht and Friedrich took that as their very direct cue to leave, both turning on the spot to disappear in their bedroom instead.

Albrecht threw himself on the bed, burying his head in the pillow and a muffled groan right with it.

“So, that was— something.” Friedrich muttered. When he turned his head, Albrecht watched him take a seat in his desk chair.

Albrecht simply groaned again, rolling over to his back so he stared at the ceiling instead.

“Mia's been writing again,” Friedrich said after a while, clearly trying to change the subject. Albrecht wasn't sure if it would work, but sleep was no use anymore, anyways.

“I'm aware.”

“Have you read them — the letters?”

“No. She always writes the same thing.”

Friedrich made a humming noise in return, audibly flipping through a stack of paper. The letters, probably.

“You should read this one, though.”

Something landed on Albrecht's chest with a thud.

It was the torn letter from a few days ago.

“Are you reading my letters?” Albrecht asked but with no heat behind the words.

“Come on now, it was basically staring at me.”

When Albrecht made no move to pick it up, Friedrich moved his chair closer, appearing in his direct line of sight.

“You need to read that, Albrecht. It's important.”

Rolling his eyes, Albrecht picked up the letter.

As soon as he completely unfolded it, he noticed the difference.

Mia always wrote in the middle of the paper. Her message would have been nearly unreadable from the tear.

One Frau Agnes Stein wrote on the left side. 

Albrecht's blood froze in his veins, “Friedrich—”

“I know; read it.” Friedrich remarked, nudging him with his foot.

Albrecht's breaths quickened as he skimmed over the lines, his heart pounding in his chest.

The— the— Albrecht couldn't even form his thoughts around it, how could—

He croaked something incomprehensible by accident as he tried to let out a shaky breath.

The audacity. 

There, that was it. The word Albrecht had been searching for: Audacity.

“Hey,” Friedrich said softly, “It's alright, we'll figure something out—”

“No, we won’t,” Albrecht hissed, suddenly angry, “because they have absolutely no right.”

“Albrecht—”

“No, how dare they?” Albrecht sat up, scanning over the page again.

Albrecht

I have found your address in one of the girl's letters.

She told us that you denied my request of getting your address and have not answered any of her more recent letters.

Albrecht, for a man of your age you are acting incredibly childish. To ignore your parents the way you do is near ridiculous, especially since your father and I simply want to talk to you.

As aforementioned, I believe there has been a terrible misunderstanding between the three of us that I seek to solve in favour of us as a family.

So, Albrecht, if you do not answer this letter or reach out to us any other way, we will be forced to take matters into our own hands.

Your father asks to emphasize just how childish you have acted, but that this time he will refrain from establishing consequences.

Awaiting an answer

Your mother

Albrecht was about this close to ramming his fist into the brick wall beside him out of anger, out of the pure need to do something other than scream out in rage.

“Hey…” Friedrich tried once again, but let the sentence hang open. Albrecht could see him carefully looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“You weren't there when Berthold's mother broke down as she was taught of his passing — as she absolutely crumbled into a heap of nothing but sorrow and pain,” Albrecht said quietly, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for just a moment, “Or when Mark and Leonhard's mother and father were both so unbelievably radiantly happy of their sons' return that they shed tears our of happiness — that they jumped in circles and didn't even think about letting each other go.”

He looked up, eyes meeting Friedrich's, who looked so tried that Albrecht felt nearly guilty for keeping him up with his problems.

“And do you know what my parents did?” he asked, whispering, “My father sent me away in the first place. And my mother could barely bear to look or even smile at me. So, Fritz, tell me, can you think of one single good reason that would give them the right of expecting me to turn up to their place to ‘talk things out’?”

Friedrich blinked.

“Exactly, and I can't either.”

“But they're you're parents?” Friedrich offered weakly, Albrecht wondered what he didn't get about “my father sent me away in the first place”, but he let it pass with a sigh.

“They lost that privilege years ago — they might have never even had it.”

Friedrich looked like a kicked puppy and Albrecht frowned, but then he turned away and Albrecht decided not to dwell on it. Surely it was only the exhaustion catching up to him.

With Friedrich turning away, their topic seemed to turn around, too. 

And Albrecht was painfully reminded of the trio in their kitchen.

“So…” he began, “Katharina?”

Friedrich nodded, rubbing his fists over his eyes.

“I've been knowing for a while, to be honest. I found out myself, though, he didn't tell me either.”

“How so?”

“I called his restaurant a while ago to ask him something, and, I don't know, everything just seemed to fall into place when one Katharina Jungkönig answered the telephone.”

Albrecht frowned. Katharina Jungkönig… 

Ah, right, she'd also answered when Albrecht was the one to call. That's why the name seemed familiar.

“And now she's— she was pregnant.” Albrecht concluded carefully.

Friedrich shrugged. “I don't think it was his,” he murmured, “he would've told me, I'm pretty sure.”

Albrecht hummed.

This day wasn't even five hours old but there had already happened so much that he could barely comprehend it all. 

He let himself fall back again and rolled over to bury his face in their pillows, still smelling of Friedrich and the soap he used as hairwash.

To be honest, Albrecht didn't even have a pillow. They had one in this bed to be able to pretend like he did, but it had maybe once been used. Most of the time, Friedrich lay so close that Albrecht could rest his head on the other man's limbs. If he didn't, Albrecht would just lay on the bare mattress.

It was weird to explain, but there was something oddly comfortable about it.

The bed creaked when Friedrich lay down half on top of Albrecht, burying his face in the space between his shoulder and neck. From how Albrecht held his arms crossed beneath his head, the small space fit perfectly.

Friedrich's soft blond hair tickled Albrecht's ear and his breath brushed his neck as Friedrich moved them enough to be able to maneuver his arms under and around Albrecht's chest.

“You are quite heavy, you know,” Albrecht quipped quietly.

Friedrich huffed, “Shut up.”

Albrecht turned his head. But he had miscalculated his actions because this way, their faces were only centimeters apart, Friedrich's tiredly lidded eyes staring down at his own. Albrecht gulped.

The breath that had just grazed his neck was now a shared one.

And for the first time in a while, Albrecht was at a complete loss of words. For the first time in weeks — despite having nothing to do, despite being so bored — his head remained too empty to form a coherent enough thought.

Friedrich huffed contently, eyes slipping shut then and now, arms tightening around Albrecht for a second as he stretched his body out before he nearly melted right back.

Albrecht really, really didn't know what to do with this. Raising his hand at an a-bit-awkward-angle, he gently buried it in Friedrich's hair, massaging his fingertips into his scalp.

And as Friedrich's body grew heavier and heavier on top of his, Albrecht started to finally relax a bit himself, letting his eyes wander the other man's whole face instead of staring at his — now closed — eyes.

It was a bit odd to do so, actually, because they were laying so close that their noses almost touched, but Albrecht managed to make out a light array of the tiniest freckles on Friedrich's nose and cheeks, a bigger, darker one right at the beginning of his eyebrow. Or the few long lashes that hid between the shorter ones, fanning out gently on the dark-circled skin beneath his eyes. A thin scar on his forehead, barely there, a few shadows there, too, from the way he often raised his eyebrows or frowned.

Before Albrecht could stop himself, he was already moving forward to press a light kiss right in the space between Friedrich's eyebrows, lingering to softly press their foreheads together as Friedrich's grip momentarily tightened once again.

» «

At the front, Albrecht had learned to keep track of time so carefully that his internal clock had been almost always accurate.

And he'd tried to keep it up — which wasn't that hard, but since Albrecht didn't need to know the time of day anymore because he didn't have to be anywhere anyway, he often didn't catch how much time had passed.

Just like now.

He must've dozed off for a moment or two, because the next time he really came to, they had moved in that sense that Friedrich was now curled into Albrecht's side instead of on-top of him, face pressed into the side of his stomach and snoring quietly.

Albrecht hadn't really noticed what had woken him until there was an impatient knock on the door, almost as if the person had already done so before.

Carefully, Albrecht slid out of bed, creaking the door open to come face to face with Frau Müller.

“It's done,” she said quietly and Albrecht nodded. 

He felt as if he were in a fever dream.

Meeting Katharina again and under those circumstances was the most random, most unexpected thing to happen in all those months he'd been here now.

Albrecht didn't know where to put his head. Where he should store his thoughts, whether he should voice them or ban them to the back of his mind. This was unknown territory.

As Frau Müller shuffled towards the door, Albrecht did his best to ignore the bloody stains all over their floor. 

How was there so much blood?

The bathroom door was cracked open, revealing a streak of warm light and muted voices.

“And you're sure you will find your way back safely?” Albrecht asked into the heavy silence of their main room, opening the door for Ralf's wife.

“I've been living here ever since I was born down by the church all those years ago, don't you worry about me.” she smiled kindly and shook Albrecht's hand as a goodbye.

Albrecht tried at doing the same, but he wasn't sure if his smile came off all right.

As the door fell into its lock, Albrecht's shoulders raised almost completely on their own, already anticipating what Albrecht's mind still concealed from him.

Most of his body acted on its own, actually, when Albrecht moved over to the sink to wet some rags and start on cleaning the blood away.

Almost all of it was cold by now, some already clinging to their floorboards in flaky texture.

It wasn't long until Albrecht's hands were soaked in blood. It wasn't long until he had to sit back on his heels every two seconds just to remember how to breathe and to take long looks around to remind himself that he was here and not there.

With the ever growing roaring in his ears, Albrecht didn't even notice the bathroom door opening to its fullest until Christoph stepped out, carrying a dazed Katharina who was now clad in clothes Albrecht remembered seeing on Christoph once.

Christoph barely acknowledged him as he stepped around him to get to his room, but he returned before the door had even fully fallen shut.

Sighing, he kneeled down next to Albrecht on the ground and took a rag for himself, beginning to scrub at the stain Albrecht had just abandoned.

“Thanks, man,” Christoph said quietly, “I owe you.”

And it was as if all the pent up emotion, all the anger he hadn't known where to put, suddenly made its presence very clear on Albrecht's tongue.

“I think an explanation is the least you owe me,” he hissed, sitting up to be on eye-level.

“Albrecht—” Christoph started tiredly before Albrecht cut him off again.

“No, because what the fuck?” he seethed, “Are we too noble to go to hospitals now just because we've got some guy at home that we know had to stitch his dying friends back up at war? Man, you think he might do it for free, even?”

Christoph stared at him, green eyes narrowed and mouth opened as if he wanted to say something but decided against it.

Neither of them noticed Katharina until her soft voice carried across the room from where she stood in the doorway of Christoph's room, “Albrecht, it's not like that.”

“Then what is it like? What the fuck are you not telling me?”

Albrecht had raised up to his full height now, one hand still clutching a bloody towel.

“Don’t shout at her,” Christoph hissed, standing up as well and shielding Katharina behind him.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Albrecht took a rattling breath, “‘Get yourself together’, ‘do this and that’ — I'm tired of it.”

Christoph scoffed, crossing his arms, “As if you remember that.”

“I remember every single thing anyone has ever said to me,” Albrecht nearly sobbed, “Do you have an inkling of an idea of just how cruel that is?”

Looking like a right princess, that one. Fuck, the day can't pass fast enough, can it?

Get over yourself! We're a team, if you can't care for the others, the others won't care for you. Simple as that. You know what that means? certain death.

I don't give a flying fuck about what's happened to you at any point in your life. Blah, blah, blah. Get it the hell together before I make you.

Don’t let me die, Abe, f-fuck, please-please don't let me d-die—

Albrecht had clenched his fists so hard his fingernails dug into his skin

Christoph stared down at him with hard eyes, squaring his shoulders to obscure Albrecht's view of Katharina.

As if he were some kind of danger. As if he were the goddamn predator.

A loud thunder rattled the windows of their flat and Albrecht clutched at the kitchen counter tightly, only now registering that he must have moved back at some point.

He hated thunderstorms. Oh, did he detest them.

Not only was there this strong, unforgiving rain that would soak you to the bone, but also lightning strikes that could and would kill you some way or another. There were also thunders. 

Thunders that would crack the sky worse than any strike of thousands of volts of electricity could. That would make you clutch your head between your hands and knees and just pray for it to be over — for the thunders to turn to the sound of bombing instead just so that there was a sense of normalcy or even death, it all finally over.

Christoph's eyes flickered to his hands, up his arms where his muscles rippled under the strength of his grip.

“Go to sleep, Albrecht,” he said finally, voice soft but firm, taking a few steps forward to put his hand on Albrecht's shoulder, though Albrecht flinched away before he could.

Awkwardly hovering, Christoph pushed him to the direction of Friedrich's bedroom.

“I don't need your help,” Albrecht hissed, but made no move to actually get rid of his roommate, “I can take care of myself just fine.”

Christoph made no sound as he opened the door, giving way to Friedrich's sleep-soft body and blearily blinking eyes as the man barely managed to look over his shoulder.

“I know you can,” Christoph whispered close to Albrecht's ear, “I know you don't need my help and I know you can take care of yourself decent enough. But right now I also know that if none of us do something — us as in me, since Friedrich's out — you'll just go and run because it's what you seem to always do and I don’t want any of us catching a goddamn pneumonia from chasing after you.”

Albrecht nodded. He felt like he had to, though he didn't know to what exactly he was agreeing. 

“So,” Christoph concluded, shoving him further into the room, “You go and get some sleep. We can talk it all out tomorrow.”

He pulled the door closed with a noise loud enough to startle Friedrich yet again. 

There were pillow-lines on his face and his eyes could seemingly barely open. His hair was sticking in forty directions.

They blinked at each other for a moment before Friedrich's head fell back down on the bed as he gruntled theatricality.

Albrecht sighed, but peeled the bunched up blanket from his place against the wall and threw it on the ground instead, taking in its former place.

It didn't take long until Friedrich had draped himself all over his body, the steady and slow rise and fall of his chest lulling Albrecht right back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Anfangen ist leicht, Beharren eine Kunst.

seventeen

This would be a bad day.

Albrecht already knew from the heavy feeling all over his body, the unpleasant hollow of his stomach and the buzzing in his ears that wouldn't go away no matter in which direction he turned and tossed.

His restlessness had already woken Friedrich once, who at first had lain curled around Albrecht like he always did but now had moved a bit — just far enough to not touch anymore but not as far so that Albrecht couldn't feel his body warmth as a steady, weirdly calming presence.

It didn't stay that way.

By the time the first light entered their room, Friedrich lay on the most outer corner of their bed, watching Albrecht with furrowed brows.

Every point of touch was one too many. Albrecht had already kicked away from the wall, had banished the pillow from the bed and even ripped his shirt off when his sweat made it stick to his body.

But he didn't want to get up yet. If he got up, he would run. And Albrecht was so tired of running. So tired of running and running and never being able to catch a break in fear of being caught up on.

When Friedrich sighed heavily and pulled himself up to his feet, quietly getting dressed before he opened the window to let in a gust of fresh air that breezed over Albrecht's body so kindly he almost cried. It felt so soft; without any pressure and force — without meaning to hurt.

Friedrich pushed Albrecht's overgrown bangs away from his forehead to feel his temperature, but when he pulled his hand away again he still didn't look any wiser. All the while, Albrecht had clutched his fists tightly so as not to flinch away from the contact. This was Friedrich. He knew Friedrich. Friedrich was safe.

Friedrich's soft words got lost in the buzz of Albrecht's brain, but Albrecht didn't attempt to chase them, either.

The door fell shut, at some point. 

It could've been seconds or minutes later, an hour maybe. Albrecht wouldn't be able to tell.

The sun stood high, the light hurt Albrecht's eyes. He turned again, tucking himself in the small gap between bed and wall, relishing in the cool surface of the brick before the space grew too tight and Albrecht rolled right back out. 

Turning on his stomach instead, he laid down on his arms just so that his eyes were covered but there was still enough space to breathe.

It hurt to breathe. His ribcage seemed too small for his lungs to fill properly, some ribs poking into the flesh. Every one of his breaths shuddered.

He fell asleep this way, apparently. 

That's what he told himself later when it was on him to decide if the things he'd seen were real or a mere dream, a memory resting in the back of his head until he let down his guard.

The sun stood lower now, but it was still out. Still bright. Still hurting. 

Albrecht hadn't moved in his sleep, slipping right back into his pattern in the Ukraine. Arms wound tightly around his body, face tucked somewhere dark so he wouldn't wake up and have to see. 

As the day went on — or at least Albrecht assumed it did — the weather outside the open window drastically worsened. 

The sun disappeared, a nicer touch, really, because it now didn't burn Albrecht's eyes when he looked up anymore. A not-so-nice touch was the rain that had formed alongside heavy thunder and lightning so bright it seeped in between Albrecht's crossed arms. 

An even worse not-so-nice touch was that it rained into the room. Only barely at that, but with enough force for the droplets to hit Albrecht's skin.

Albrecht hated every second of it. It was hard not to flinch each time a raindrop hit his back when the only difference to blood was the thickness of the liquid. This rain was warm. 

It was warm until it wasn't anymore, until the temperature outside dropped, the wind picked up and the thunder grew louder and louder, sounding as if bombs were dropped right on the house.

Bombs.

War wasn't over. 

Albrecht didn't even know how he could forget such a crucial thing. 

How he could forget that it wasn't over.

With all the strength he could muster, Albrecht pushed himself up. If this were really a bomb attack, he had to warn the others. He had to get them to safety. 

Albrecht would never be able to forgive himself if he didn't.

He stumbled out of the door, his legs barely able to hold his body, causing him to nearly fall into the room.

But it lay empty and forgotten.

Albrecht rushed to the bathroom — empty.

He overcame himself and opened Christoph's door, quickly scanning it but there was no trace of any of his roommates here, either.

There were bombs raining and he was alone.

He would die alone.

A sob wrenched itself out of Albrecht's body just as his legs gave out beneath him, leaving him in a pathetic heap on the floor. 

He gasped for air, his ribcage again too small to contain the volume of his lungs. His heart was pounding. It was pounding so loud Albrecht could barely hear anything else over it. 

Could barely thump think thump over thu-thump the thump thump thu-thump thump thu-thump thump thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump —

Air filled him so painfully all at once that it tore Albrecht away from his focus. His ribcage was hurting so bad he could almost taste the bile making its way up his throat, clogging it, making Albrecht clasp his panting mouth shut.

On weak, weak arms, Albrecht pulled himself away. He didn't know where to. He barely even registered what he was doing, his body seeming to act on its own.

The sometimes-rough wood floor dug into his fingers, that he could feel. He could feel the splinters drilling themselves deep into his skin, under his nails. 

Albrecht welcomed the pain for as long as it kept him distracted from his ribs.

When his arms too gave out, shaking so bad that normally Albrecht would question a seizure, he collapsed.

His eyes had become unseeing sometime while in Christoph's bedroom, so grainy that Albrecht could barely make out any shapes. He hadn't really noticed up until now.

Albrecht didn't know where he was. Somewhere in the flat. 

Loud noise rattled the building again. Bombs. 

It only re-hit him then. 

He was alone. Albrecht would die alone.

A sob tore from his chest, so painful that it sprung tears into his eyes.

Albrecht made himself as small as he could, hugging his knees to his body despite the near-unbearable pain and hiding his head between them.

Please, his head was rushing, please.

Albrecht is running, sprinting, even, rifle sticking against his side with every step.

Berthold runs in front of him, four, maybe five meters between them. Franz is nearer, Tobias is beside him. He doesn't know where the twins are, he doesn't care. Can't — not when there's planes flying overhead and the shelter is so. close.

Albrecht is looking at the ground, counting his steps to keep his mind at bay and to make sure he won't trip. If he trips now, it's over. If he trips now, he'll be dead.

Berthold ist already out of sight, hopefully on his way down to the bunker they've spotted.

Franz is next, and then Tobias is overtaking him, too.

Albrecht is out of breath. He's running and he's running but he can’t. Not anymore.

Not when he just broke his ribs a week ago and they're still so goddamn painful.

Leonhard ran behind him, apparently, because now he's at his side — the exact spot Tobias has just been in — and slings a heavy arm around his waist, pushing him forward. And then Mark is there, too, at the other side, doing the same thing.

They really are twins, aren't they? Always copying each other even if they don't mean to.

One step, a second, third, fourth and they're falling. Stumbling down steps and shafts.

Berthold wrenches the door shut just as the ceiling begins to crumble.

It was quiet when Albrecht reopened his eyes — nearly deathly so — and almost cool.

He couldn't see. At least not what was in front of him. 

The air smelled wet, like rain or — or melting snow.

Albrecht turned in order to try and get a better look at his surroundings. 

At least he attempted to.

Something was hindering him. Something was above him, holding him down.

Albrecht stilled almost instantly, breath becoming nearly impossibly shallow.

He didn't tense. Going stiff meant showing that he was awake.

Not that they wouldn't know anyways. But acknowledging it — acknowledging it would make it worse. So, so much worse.

Instead, he screwed his eyes shut and waited. But the only thing that came was the feeling of being utterly pathetic. He'd been in this position countless times, having memorized it, even, but still did he never fight back. Not once. Too much of a coward; too afraid to die. Too scared of the consequences.

Something wet hit him, then. Just barely on the pinky of his outstretched hand. Albrecht couldn't even remember himself uncoiling his wound up body.

Again, and now Albrecht realised it wasn't just something wet but also something cold — snow? It had to be snow. There was only ever snow or ice, sometimes freezing rain. Albrecht couldn't remember one warm day in the Ukraine. 

But if it was raining, or snowing, or whatever else, really, that had to mean Albrecht was safe. They didn't like rain — they always sought shelter and let Albrecht sleep outside. They let him sleep. 

But that meant, that meant—

Albrecht stalled himself and carefully, ever so slowly wrenched one eye open. Just barely, just a crack. Just to catch a glimpse of what was holding him down. Because it couldn't be them.

It couldn't, that wouldn't make sense. That would mean they were playing against their own rules and they never—

Albrecht blinked, both eyes opening completely. 

It wasn't a someone but a something.

It was the underside of a bed.

In that split second of realisation, Albrecht dropped, all of his muscles giving out beneath him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Albrecht let his lungs fill. Let himself breathe in once, breathe out, breathe in a second time, breathe out, a third time, out, fourth, and out. 

Until he wasn't gasping anymore, until his ribcage didn't hurt with every movement and his heart didn't attempt to burst its way out of his chest.

There still was a heaviness in his bones as he painstakingly pulled himself out, fingers not quite catching on the wet floor.

Wet from the rain outside the open window.

The window Albrecht was now leaning against, limbs shaking, eyes unseeing. He held his temple pressed against the cool frame of it, grounding him additionally to his fingers clenching almost painfully.

It was dark out; if because of the heavy thunder clouds or the time of day, Albrecht couldn't tell.

He was drenched, but he didn't have the energy to run. Didn't have it in him to leave.

Albrecht wasn't sure for how long he stood when the door behind him opened and someone with heavy steps entered, then stopped. He supposed it must have been nighttime, then, if Friedrich was already back.

“You're… up,” Friedrich greeted him, seemingly unsure of something. Albrecht heard him take a few more steps, less heavy, likely because he took his boots off. He was coming closer and closer and closer, Albrecht could feel his presence now.

He wanted to move, to shy away from touch and curl himself up where no one would ever even look at him again.

But Friedrich's touch never came.

Instead, he simply came to a stand beside him; eyes fixed on the building opposite them as stubbornly as Albrecht's own had been. Would still be, if he weren't staring at Friedrich now.

Albrecht didn't know if he could talk even if he wanted to. He felt as if there was an impossibly big lump in his throat. Whenever he tried to push past it, it would multiply in size.

Friedrich didn't seem to bother. Or maybe he just didn't even notice. 

Maybe, maybe he knew that his presence was all that Albrecht needed, anyways.

» «

Things changed.

And Albrecht didn't just mean the fact that there was a flower vase on their dining roomtable, or that their flat was clean for once and smelled well.

He also meant Friedrich.

Friedrich, who slept on the sofa now; who didn't touch him at all anymore. 

Friedrich, who barely looked at him and talked to him (a rare occasion nowadays) as if he weren't expecting Albrecht to talk back. And Albrecht didn't. Couldn't, but he didn't even know why.

With the lack of communication, Albrecht had to fall back to old patterns (though he feels rude calling it that, because it wasn't anyone's fault but his own that he couldn't find it in him to fulfill the simple task of talking). Finding things out by himself, for example.

Finding out that his Bad Day had been a Bad Three Days instead. 

And that this had been the reason for Friedrich's weird exclamation, for his hesitance to be around Albrecht at all.

Because that was new, too.

Friedrich kept away for much longer now than usual, sometimes not even coming home.

Not just him, though.

In the week since he found his way back, Albrecht had seen both Christoph and Katharina a total of around an hour, maybe. 

One-hundred-sixty-eight hours and only one of them to spare.

And they weren't talking to him, either.

Infact, no one was talking to him and Albrecht could feel himself slowly go crazy.

Maybe he already was; depending on who you asked, probably. 

Today, he had dared himself to go outside again. This week was a cooler one, the sun not as harsh on Albrecht's oversensitive skin, the noise not as deafening.

He held his clenched hands burrowed deep in his pockets and his head down in an attempt to escape searching glances as he wandered around the streets.

The flat had been empty again this morning. Friedrich and Christoph, he understood. But Katharina? She was still there, her presence undeniable, but Albrecht didn't understand where she spent her time; he hadn't seen her once since the initial incident.

Albrecht felt lonely; alone, even. Though, he supposed, maybe he did deserve it for the number he pulled. Childish, that's what he's been. Acting like a scared rabbit hiding itself in its burrow at the slightest sound of danger. He felt as if everyone's eyes were on him.

Without even meaning to, Albrecht ducked through the doorway of Sofia's bookshop.

She stood at the counter this time, blonde hair pulled back from her concentrated face. Albrecht couldn't tell what it was she was doing, but it must've been binding enough for her not to look up when Albrecht passed the threshold.

She kept the door open during the summer months, Albrecht knew, because the shop would become so dry with all the books and the heat.

“Ah, excuse me, I didn't— Albrecht!” Sofia startled, looking at him wide-eyed, though a smile was slowly brightening her face.

“It's so good to see you!” she said, stepping around the corner and to where Albrecht was still standing beside the door.

He eyed her warily the closer she came, mentally preparing himself for whatever he had to expect now. It was foolish to go here when he couldn't even manage to open his mouth. 

The regret made his throat close up even more.

Sofia opened her arms to pull him into a half-hug, just like she always did now, but just before her skin touched Albrecht's — just before Albrecht shifted his feet to flee — she pulled back, expression completely unchanged.

“You know what? It's way too hot outside to do this, why don't you come around — I haven't had customers in ages.”

And with that, she turned, leaving Albrecht behind to watch her go. 

Albrecht had never been in the backroom of the bookshop — or in any backroom at all, really — so he didn't quite know what to expect when he followed Sofia through the narrow, hidden door around a corner behind the counter.

Though somehow, it was exactly this.

The room was about as big as their bedroom and equipped with a tiny kitchenette and a table with two chairs. But there was a window in the back and the streaming sunlight made the walls appear not as cageing.

Sofia gestured for Albrecht to take a seat and he did; slumping slightly but still watching her carefully as she bustled around a cabinet. 

“So,” she said, pulling out a small plate of biscuits, “life has been busy recently, hasn't it?”

Albrecht hoped she was referring to the whole Katharina thing, really not in the mood to small-talk. Or small-whatever, really. Turned out that he didn't need to, anyways.

“I met Katharina the other day,” Sofia went on undeterred, offering a biscuit to Albrecht while she took one herself, Albrecht didn't take it, “She's definitely looking better. Gosh, what happened is terrible! I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemy.”

The next biscuit she took, she broke down to two pieces and forced one half into Albrecht's (still trembling) hands and shot him a look as she did so.

“Though, admittedly, my worst enemy is Gregor over at the butcher’s because they always stink up the whole street. I doubt it would affect him very much.” she shrugged and silence fell over them.

Albrecht studied Sofia's face as she averted her own gaze, staring off to the salesroom as she slowly nibbled on her biscuit.

He didn't get her. Not really. He didn't understand how she could look at him and take him for what he was and not for what he was supposed to be.

“Have you heard,” Sofia picked back up, slowly reverting her look back to him, “That Gerhard Höfer has an affair?!”

And with that, she plunged into a rant.

It took him a while — up until the clouds outside the window turned a bright purple and pink — to figure out the meaning behind all of this. 

Sofia was distracting him; from what exactly, Albrecht wasn't sure.

He wanted to say from his own head, from the abysses and canyons there, but he thought that would be too far fetched. How would she know?

So, it had to be something else. Maybe she was distracting herself, after all. She did mention how boring her time here was when no one stopped by.

Albrecht was just helping her close up — turning the chairs around, fixing misplaced books and sweeping out some stray leaves — when Sofia stilled in her movement.

Out of reflex, he froze.

This was it, he thought. Surely, Sofia was fed up with him now, would confront him.

He swallowed, waiting for her to turn to him — but she never did.

The… opposite happened, actually.

Whatever she was looking at, it made her eyes bright and her smile soft. In the split of a second, Sofia seemed years younger.

Albrecht knew that look. Oh, he knew that look all too well and it made his stomach clench in… not exactly an unpleasant way; but not in a nice one, either.

Only a moment later, Alejandro whirled into the store, equally as — or even more — happy as his wife.

Albrecht pointedly looked away as they greeted each other.

It amazed him how some people never grew tired of each other — how they were still as excited years in as they had been on day one. Perhaps he'd just grown up around the wrong people; his parent weren't really a prime example. 

“Albrecht, my friend!” Alejandro grinned at him over Sofia's shoulder, gently readjusting her to clap him on the shoulder.

Albrecht did not flinch. He didn’t. But it was a near thing. A damn near one.

“Long time no see, eh?” The way he was acting now was an almost three-hundred-sixty-degree transition to how he had when they were first introduced, Albrecht really wasn't sure what to make of it.

Alejandro didn't seem to mind that Albrecht made no move to answer him and that he was probably looking at him as if he grew a second head.

Albrecht, somehow, felt like an outsider to his own self.

“Friedrich is just around the corner, by the way, if you wanna catch him still.”

Now, if that didn't make it worse.

“You know what,” Alejandro exchanged a glance with Sofia and now they were both looking at him, “I'm just gonna go get him, don't havta walk home alone, that way.”

Maybe if Sofia wasn't smiling at him so kindly and Alejandro didn't look like this was his first day ever, maybe then Albrecht would've found the strength to protest. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Those were a hell lot of maybes for one day.

He watched as Alejandro left and watched as Sofia hovered uncomfortably, plucking non-existent lint off of her blouse or smoothing down her skirt.

“I— I'm sorry about this Albrecht,” she whispered finally.

Albrecht didn't react, he doubted she expected him to.

He felt like a child. 

A child that needed to be picked up from something banal like daycare. Someone who needed looking after because they couldn't do so themselves.

Something akin to anger bubbled up in Albrecht — not at Sofia or Alejandro, not even at Friedrich. But at himself. He was angry with himself for behaving like a goddamn child at his big age.

It died down as quickly as it came when a familiar head of unruly blond hair entered the shop first, the body belonging to it second.

And then there he was. 

A bit crazy, almost, how this was Albrecht's standard reaction to seeing the man that formed Friedrich Weimer. 

To seeing his ducked posture even though he spent more than ninety percent of his life doing sports, or his grey eyes that were only ever so soft in the mornings and evenings when they'd get ready for bed and listen to each other rant about their day.

Friedrich's eyes weren't any soft now, when they landed on him — Albrecht didn't have to be a doctor or professor to know why.

Chapter Text

Du gewinnst schon, indem du versuchst.

eighteen

“We should talk.”

Albrecht had thought they'd make their way home, walking side by side in awkward silence.

Instead, Friedrich had turned right and not left, away from their block and towards the outskirts. 

Towards the hill and the woods; their spot.

They were stood at the exact clearing they always used to go to.

Well, not always.

Once or twice a month when Friedrich grew tired of his ever repeating routine and Albrecht would accompany him, sitting quietly as Friedrich ranted and ranted, pacing up and down.

It was similar now.

Albrecht had sat down on the curve of the hill as soon as it was clear that they'd reached their destination. He held his back to Friedrich, not wanting to have to look him into the eyes and see what Friedrich tried to hide there.

Because Friedrich was bad at hiding and Albrecht worse at accepting.

The sun was setting behind them, casting their shadows. It was how Albrecht could see Friedrich pace and finally come to a stop beside him.

As soon as Friedrich said the words, his legs appeared in Albrecht's peripheral vision, just before the man plopped down beside him.

Close enough to belong together, not close enough to touch. 

Right.

Because they weren't doing that any more.

Touching, talking, whatever, really — they had barely interacted in the past week.

Friedrich sniffled — pollen, Albrecht knew — as he sat in silence, likely waiting for Albrecht to talk.

When it was obvious Albrecht wouldn't, he started to pick at the grass beside him.

He fiddled and picked and fiddled and picked until he heaved a heavy sigh.

Albrecht felt his eyes on the side of his head.

“I don't know what's going on with you,” Friedrich started, voice quiet, “and I won't know if you won't tell me.”

Silence. Albrecht didn't talk.

“It's not like I'm— like I'm mad at you, or something. Because I'm not, alright? Probably don't have the right to be; but I can't help you if I don't know what's even wrong with you.”

A hell lot, Albrecht thought, didn't say.

Another silence followed; heavier, because Friedricht had stopped fiddling and gone over to sitting bone-tight, almost as if he were ready to pounce.

“Four days ago, you fell asleep with me half on top of you,” Albrecht turned his head the other direction, trying to keep himself from looking at Friedrich, “and three days ago, you begged me not to touch you.”

Albrecht squeezed his eyes shut. They never acknowledged it; the sleeping together, the lingering touches — the closeness.

“And I need to know just what happened in the time between.”

A shudder tore through Albrecht's body at the memory — or rather at the lack thereof. He could only sparsely remember anything beside the panic and the pain. 

And the unbearable amount of thoughts rushing through his brain and ears like a freight train.

“You were getting better.” Friedrich sounded bitter with the way he pressed the words between his lips.

Albrecht hummed in a way he tried to make affirmative but came out rather neutral.

“Goddamn, you were getting better!” Friedrich threw his hands up, “What is happening with you?”

“I—” Albrecht's voice was so hoarse and quiet, he took a moment to clear his throat, “I don't know,” he croaked.

He could feel Friedrich still in his spot beside him, could feel the winds come to a stop.

But what he couldn't feel was his heart pounding out of his chest or his hands getting clammy.

He wasn't nervous, or scared.

Talking to Friedrich was easy, he reminded himself. Friedrich was his closest friend and for a reason.

“But you do know,” Friedrich tried, decidedly less harsh; words almost a question.

“But I do,” Albrecht confirmed.

“C’mon, then,” coaxed Friedrich, “You try and explain it and I try and figure it out.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“I'm trying to make it easy, is what I'm doing.”

Albrecht sighed so deeply his whole torso moved with it, but he relented and opened his eyes to stare at the steadily darkening sky in front of them, eyeing the small lights of far towns and villages.

“They tend to… pent up,” he began, for a lack of better idea on how to broach this, “The memories and the flashbacks and whatever you call it,”

Friedrich nodded, placing his hand flat on the grass between them, next to Albrecht's. Albrecht saw it from the corner of his eye, saw Friedrich staring off at the same distance.

“It's kind of like a cup — but a pretty small one — you fill it and you fill it and at some point, it will overflow. And then you stop filling it. Either you empty it in one go, then, or you put it to the side and let it blend into the background. Slowly but surely, the contents will evaporate.” It wasn't a particulary good example, because who would just set a full cup to the side, but Albrecht wasn't working with good anyways. He was working with better.

He stopped for a second, trying to come up with a way to explain it all. Friedrich wasn't dense, per se, but understanding feelings and emotions that weren't his own wasn't his best trait.

“But, since it's your favourite cup, you will remember it and pick it up and fill it again. Maybe you won't overfill it this time, maybe not for a very long time, but it will happen, at some point, if you're not careful enough.”

“But what if I am careful enough?”

Something settled in Albrecht's stomach, then, something light; something that felt like it had a thousand nimble fingers.

“Then, I suppose, it won't happen. But maybe, because you're so focused on not overflowing it, you will accidentally drop it.”

“And if I neither overflow nor drop it — what if I never take it off of its shelf?”

Albrecht huffed, “Then it will become brittle at some point, it will shatter easily because no one paid any attention to it.”

He turned his head, daring himself to look right at Friedrich. 

Friedrich, who was still staring far away. 

“When—” Friedrich broke off, “That was the case back in Allenstein, wasn't it? You— The cup, it shattered.”

Albrecht nodded.

“And you picked that cup back up and you glued it together. But the cracks will always be there, and the strength of the glue will fade over time, and it will fall back apart.”

“Not if I reapply the glue.”

“Not if you reapply the glue.”

Friedrich was quiet, for a moment; thinking. Over the time, Albrecht had noticed that Friedrich would always frown when he was in thought, no matter if he was mad or not.

Though, when he was angry, the corners of his mouth would pull down significantly and he'd get that look in his eyes.

“Will it get better? At some point? Or will it forever go on like this?”

Albrecht's shoulders slumped.

“I don't know,” his voice was quiet, lowering even more when he said his next words, “I'm scared,” he admitted, “I'm so goddamn scared, sometimes, of being back there; of having to go back there, because war isn't over yet.

“I am scared of life.” 

Friedrich tilted his head at the conclusion.

“The only reason I'm living is— is for you and out of spite,” Albrecht stumbled over the words, but now that he could actually say them, now that his throat and brain didn't contradict at the idea of having to talk, he couldn't stop.

“Spite?” Friedrich repeated, skipping over the other part. (Though Albrecht definitely didn't miss the way he locked their pinkies together at the words.)

Albrecht shrugged helplessly, “They wanted to see me fail — they wanted to have me dead. Now I'm here and they're rotting someplace no-one knows.”

“How do you know they're dead?” Friedrich prodded, Albrecht frowned.

“I just do.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“I’m not asking stupid questions if I'm trying to figure out your mind. So, why are you so sure they're dead?”

Fair point.

“Because I saw them die, Fritz. That's how I know.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

Albrecht hummed accordingly.

His eyes lay on their hands. Not quite interlocked but not quite not; their pinkies hooked together softly but tightly. 

It was a gesture much too delicate for people like them.

“Most of the time I… I don't know what to feel because I was never allowed to figure it out,” Albrecht swallowed, “So I, just, need the time, sometimes. I know it's not fair.”

Might as well get it all out, if they were talking now.

“Seems appropriate to be,” Friedrich mumbled and it was only then that Albrecht noticed just how tired he looked.

“Promise you’ll try for me?”

Albrecht furrowed his brows, not exactly knowing what Friedrich was referring to.

“I… promise?” he whispered back and Friedrich's mouth quirked into the tiniest smile.

“Thank you.”

Fully gripping his hand, Albrecht stood and pulled Friedrich up with him.

“Come on, then,” he repeated Friedrich's earlier words, “Let's go home.”

» «

The flat lay quiet but not eerily so.

By the time they got back, the sky had fully turned dark, revealing a thickly woven rug of stars.

They had talked, lowly, on their way; Albrecht having moved his grip to Friedrich's elbow instead and getting all the words out he hadn't talked those past days as Friedrich had shuffled behind him, clearly just barely hanging on.

When Albrecht quietly closed the door behind them, taking in Katarina sitting at the table, writing something in a small notebook, deep in thought and Christoph standing at the small kitchen counter, cooking potatoes and balancing a cigarette between his lips.

It was oddly domestic and decidedly did not fit into the usual environment of this flat. (But then again, Albrecht and his outbursts didn't fit either, so he stayed quiet.)

Katharina smiled softly at them when she looked up, eyes catching onto Albrecht's hand on Friedrich's shoulder for just a moment.

“Good evening,” she greeted them.

“Evening,” Albrecht parroted, Friedrich grunted, softly detaching himself from Albrecht in order to steal a plate of food from Christoph and plop down on the sofa, silently eating.

It allowed Albrecht a moment of distraction to take it in.

To take her in. Katharina.

To put it very kindly, she looked absolutely horrible. (And that was to say something; she had been one of the prettier girls back at Allenstein.)

The dark, heavy bags and circles beneath her eyes seemed to drag her down with their weight and her sunken pale cheeks did her no favours. 

Her hair was mussed and her hands trembled where they clutched the pen.

But, beneath it all, her smile was genuine; putting everything else in shadows, even if it was not as bright as Albrecht remembered.

And Albrecht remembered a lot of things.

A silence followed, one that felt rather awkward and that had Albrecht shifting on his spot beneath Katharina's unrelenting gaze.

“Right,” she said finally, looking just the slightest bit sheepish, “Did Friedrich tell you yet?”

Judging from the very audible groan sounding behind her, Albrecht was very sure he had, in fact, not been told.

Having come to the same conclusion, Katharina sighed and flipped over some pages in her notebook.

“Well…” she paused, casting a look at Christoph who was already staring, “Christoph and I, we are going to move out.”

For a second, Albrecht believed he hadn't missed three days but three weeks. Or months. Perhaps even years. Because, frankly, what the hell.

“We're moving in together,” Christoph clarified, as if as much hadn't been clear.

“That is, uh,” Albrecht cleared his throat, “That is—”

“Nice,” Friedrich interrupted him, gently moving him aside to get to the kitchen, “It's nice and we're happy for you.”

“Right.”

Awkward, was what it was. This moment, at least. 

Katharina cast a sceptical look between the two of them, clearly wanting to say more but even more clearly very unsure.

When Friedrich forced a full-laden plate into Albrecht's hands and, again, gently shoved him in the direction of the kitchen table, Albrecht sighed.

“So… where are you going, then?”

Katharina smiled, just barely so, turning over her booklet and revealing a small map to Albrecht.

“Look,” she pointed to various small crosses, “that's where we are. And that's where Christoph and I used to work and… that is roughly where we've found a flat. Sorry, I think I've set the mark wrong...” She broke off into a mumble.

It gave Albrecht time to think; to really try and wrap his mind around what was happening here.

Christoph and Katharina would leave; they would leave Friedrich and him behind.

Friedrich and him would be alone in this flat.

And Albrecht would lose again — he would lose his people again.

Whether they liked it or not — whether they wanted it or not — him and Christoph, over the course of the last three or so months, had grown close together.

They would never be as close as Christoph and Friedrich were — would never have that brotherly bond — and, hell, they would never be as close as Albrecht and Friedrich, but they were much closer than ever before.

And Katharina belonged to Christoph the same way Christoph belonged to her, as much was clear. Albrecht had never— he'd never seen two people have a level of understanding they did; before, he had thought Sofia and Alejandro were an epitome of what could be called love — but Katharina needed to do no more than look at Christoph a certain way and he'd understand.

Like in this moment, for example, when Christoph stalked over in two short steps and looked over Katharina's shoulder while drying his hands with an old kitchen towel.

He studied the map for a moment, before he reached a finger out and pointed to an unmarked spot, muttering “There” before he turned away again.

“Ah, right,” Katharina hummed, marking the spot with a new cross, “So, that's where we'll go.”

When Albrecht followed her mark, he frowned, that looked an awful lot like…

“My parents live there,” stretching his own arm out from where he had kept it to his side, he showed her a place not too far from her spot.

From his peripheral vision, he could see Friedrich turn his head.

“Really?” Katharina was, honest to God, digging for a magnifying glass now. It wasn't that serious though, was it?

Albrecht hummed in agreement, eyes searching and finding, “And there's the train station — there's a bakery close to it, it's quite nice; you should check it out when you get there.”

It was quiet for a moment, then.

“Yes, we'll— we'll do that, thank you.” Katharina said, voice weak.

There was something in this room — something invisible. Something that Albrecht wasn't let in on, he could feel it.

A secret, maybe; though a secret was a word too light to describe it. It was something deeper, something heavier.

Albrecht cleared his throat, “Is there something I'm missing?”

He could see Christoph still in his spot at the stove; could see Friedrich's shoulders pull up. 

He saw Katharina's guilty face and suddenly, he had an inkling on what was missing.

On what he had forgotten to think about.

“They wrote another letter,” it was supposed to be a question, but with the deadpan sound of his voice, it sounded more like a statement.

Katharina nodded stiffly in the same moment as Friedrich pulled himself up and stalked to their bedroom, causing a number of noises that Albrecht knew emitted from the desk, and returned with a thin parchment.

“You read it?”

Friedrich shot him a look, “Think I have the right to know if there'll be people coming to tear my flat apart, don't I?” he grumbled, no real heat behind his words — something that Katharina seemed to interpret otherwise.

“Friedrich,” she hissed, “Don't be mean. Albrecht has—”

“It's all right,” Albrecht interrupted her, eyes slightly widened in disbelief, “He didn't mean it that way.”

“Well, it sure sounded like—”

“Then you must've heard wrong—”

“Hey, don't talk to her like that,” Christoph chimed in, voice stern.

Albrecht sighed; they were running in circles, weren't they?

“Just give me the letter.” He held a hand out, waiting for Friedrich to hesitantly lay the parchment down in his palm.

They locked eyes for a moment, Albrecht holding his gaze for just a tad longer before Friedrich turned away to pull a spare chair to the table and sank down on it, arms folded in front of his chest.

Albrecht felt as if everyone's eyes were on him, crawling beneath his skin and turning it inside out. Even Christoph watched as Albrecht unfolded the paper, leaning against the kitchen counter while he lit himself another cigarette.

The letter couldn't be a response to the previous one, could it? There were only few days between them, after all. Mail couldn't travel that fast.

But it wasn't even from his mother, Albrecht quickly found out.

It was from his father.

Albrecht,

words cannot even begin to describe how incredibly childish you have behaved. Your mother has told me about it in detail and I will not accept such behavior by anyone carrying our family name.

With the way you have been acting and still do, you bring disgrace upon us. 

You are a shame to our ancestors and splay an embarrassing shadow on any and all of their accomplishments.

Still, it is not the occasion of my writing.

I believe that, in her own letter, your mother has explained to you that we are expecting you to return to our home. 

You have completed your punishment for earlier actions and I am ready to talk about your nearing future.

Foremost, you shall not continue to live in the company of those boys from your school. They are not the right influence for you, especially not that Weimer boy.

We are awaiting a returning letter by the end of August latest, should this not be the case, you shall hear from us otherwise.

Signed

Heinrich Stein

Albrecht really, really wondered how he could have been born with the amount of empathy and sympathy he did, because sure as hell none of those factors could've been passed down from either of his parents. If this was even the right term to describe them, which Albrecht again heavily doubted.

The breath that escaped him was one of resignation, grazing the paper just so.

He wanted to puke. He wanted to cut his father's skull open to figure out just what was going on inside of his head.

Most of all, he wanted a break.

He wanted to cut all ties and leave, go to a place where no-one would recognize him and start his life anew — without anyone knowing anything about his past, without anyone knowing him.

Albrecht just wanted to be able to cross the street without getting glances. War-survivor and soldier weren't his only traits, if at all. And being reduced to it, being reduced to someone to pity.

He wanted a somewhere his parents didn't know the address to, a somewhere no-one could reveal to them either.

He let his shoulders drop with a defeated sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

For a moment, no-one spoke; for just a few seconds, it almost felt as if he were alone.

“Two weeks,” Friedrich stated then, voice quiet and in a tone that now clearly showed he meant it as a gentle reminder and not an annoyed one. Katharina still shot him a look.

Two weeks until Albrecht's parents would come to wreak havoc on the little bit of safety and home he had left.

That left him fourteen days and a few to get to them first.

Three hundred hours and more to figure out how he was going to do this.

Because he was sure as hell not letting people like his parents antagonize the only people that he called his friends and truly meant it.

Chapter Text

Ich hatte nie geplant, dass du dich wie Zuhause anfühlst.

nineteen

Silence was a thing Albrecht had come to appreciate over the years.

Not the deafening type, but rather the natural one.

Natural as in rain splattering against the window in a calming pattern, soft breaths and only the occasional rustle of sheets.

The quiet of a night spent with a roof above the head and without the never-relenting fear of baring your back.

Friedrich's fingers parted another path in Albrecht's hair, tracing the now-exposed skull.

They lay on the bed, Friedrich more or less propped up on the pillow, with Albrecht's head in his lap. 

Albrecht's eyes burned from exhaustion, but he couldn't sleep even if he tried to.

It wasn't unusual that he'd stay awake for days on end out of, sometimes, pure horror.

What was unusual was that he wasn't the only one.

Even more so that Albrecht didn't spend this time tense-muscled and stiff-boned, back pressed to the nearest wall.

It was not often that Albrecht, consciously, let himself be held like this.

He still remembered the first time this had happened — when Albrecht had been trembling and rambling, pleading and Friedrich had stared at him and pried his hands from his face and held them as if they were something precious; as if Albrecht was something worth protecting.

By the time morning had come, Albrecht lay bedded on Friedrich's chest, breath still catching every once and then, as Friedrich held on loosely to one of his hands and rubbed his back with his leftover free one.

Ever since, it had been only a handful of times in which Albrecht found himself in similar positions.

Weirdly enough, it was nearly only then that he allowed himself to think back. To not be catapulted by a force he couldn't control, but to choose to face what haunted him as soon as he closed his eyes.

(Maybe, just maybe, Friedrich's comforting embrace and presence was all he had ever needed to feel anything close to peace, but he didn't let himself dwell on that thought; for it was so fragile, so close to his heart, he feared one wrong direction of mind would shatter it to an infinity of horrors.)

However, it wasn't always that he thought back to his time in the Ukraine, or Russia even; to Berthold and Franz and Tobias and everyone else who he had seen the life flee out of. 

Sometimes, “thinking back” meant only three months. Three months, that felt so much like an eternity that Albrecht struggled to wrap his mind around it.

Because every so often, Albrecht felt as if it were just yesterday that he got transferred to Russia; as if it were just hours since he saw Berthold die. But coming here? Christoph finding him that one sacred day back in May and bringing him here, this felt a lifetime away.

It did not feel like it was just nearing the end of August, just bordering on four months of living in this flat.

Four months ago, Albrecht Stein wanted nothing more than to forget and forget and forget; to carve those images out of his head and return to a normalcy he deep-down knew would never return. Six months ago, Albrecht Stein was still desperately trying to hate the one man he would never ever be able to truly have one mean thought about.

Friedrich Weimer might have been a force of nature, someone who could control what he felt almost even worse than Albrecht did, but he was so deeply rooted into the deepest corners of Albrecht's brain and heart that it was impossible to feel anything even close to hate towards him.

Now that he'd had the time to wrap his mind around it, Albrecht was certain what he had felt all the time hadn't been anger, but grief.

He had been grieving something he had never had with someone he thought to have lost forever.

Albrecht had always found it easier to work around grief than to handle anger.

Sadness, grief, fear — that, he was used to. Anything that went deeper — oh so much deeper beneath the skin and the ribs and the heart — feelings like anger, hate or even the crooked and twisted things like love, Albrecht couldn't handle. Didn't know how to when all the representation of anger and hate had been his own father, drunken or sober, and all the love he had ever gotten to feel had been from a safety-distance, packed in gloves and icy-eyes, half-hearted letters and lies.

Albrecht was scared to be angry in fear of turning out like his father.

Albrecht was afraid of love for he had never truly felt it. (For he did not even know what love truly felt like.)

Friedrich shifted beneath him, moving both of his hands to Albrecht's head to massage his scalp. Times like these, Albrecht wondered if Friedrich was just doing this for him, or for himself also. Because Albrecht couldn't find any reason for why someone would do this for as long — hours had passed since they went to bed, after all.

Saturday nights meant staying up late. Saturday nights meant time spent staring into each other's eyes, trying to figure out the depths and crooked ends of their souls.

Saturday nights meant peace, for once.

But peace meant quiet, and quiet meant being able to hear Friedrich's thoughts. And thoughts, he had many.

Albrecht could barely even remember the time, years ago, when he'd stared at Friedrich box or laugh with his friends and wondered how there seemed to not be one single constructive thought in his head, but now, they seemed to never stop coming. Now, there was an almost constant furrow to his brows that only deepened when his gaze met Albrecht's.

Albrecht wished Friedrich would just speak his mind for once. He feared it was hopeless.

A low thunder rolled across the skies outside, but Albrecht didn't so much as flinch. He was safe here, he reminded himself, safe, safe, safe so long as he never left this embrace; the circle of arms packed with muscle that could fight them all off. Friedrich was on the road to becoming an Olympic Boxer, after all — another thing Albrecht often shoved into the back of his mind and forgot there. Right alongside the fact that Friedrich would have to leave in order to pursue that. (Even though he promised to not leave him.)

There were questions burning on his tongue, questions over questions that he didn't quite dare ask.

Though it was his turn to ask now, wasn't it? 

Albrecht cleared his throat carefully and Friedrich's fingers stilled; waiting.

“Why did you not go back to them?” Albrecht whispered, didn't miss the way Friedrich tensed.

It wasn't a question just who Albrecht was talking about.

“When you left Allenstein, why didn't you go back home?” He clarified still, shifting slightly to sink deeper into the mattress.

But Friedrich remained quiet and frozen in his movement.

A second ticked by, then another and another and another until Albrecht didn't believe he would get an answer tonight.

Despite it all, Friedrich had never been the most open about things, hadn't he? Even though he always encouraged Albrecht to talk and to spit it out and to explain the way his mind worked, Friedrich rarely ever gave anything crucial back.

Albrecht didn't expect him to; he didn't have an inkling about the battles Friedrich was fighting. He didn't have an inkling, but he wanted to have the whole inkwell. 

Albrecht wanted to know what kept Friedrich up at night — what had him trembling and breaking into cold sweat. He wanted to know what had made Friedrich this quiet and frowny when there used to be times when he couldn't have kept the smile off of his face if he wanted to.

Most of all, Albrecht wanted to know why Friedrich did not return home to his parents, when his mother's only letter to Allenstein had obviously meant so much to him.

Friedrich cleared his throat carefully, tentatively.

“I—” he began, and Albrecht could tell from the sound of his voice that admitting his next words hurt him, punished him in a way.

“I was afraid to.”

It was Albrecht who stilled then, barely noticeable from how little he had been moving anyways.

Hearing those words, something inside of him had clicked.

Something that he yet had to name but lay on his tongue as if he had known it his entire life — it didn't fit Friedrich, he knew, but what was it? 

Albrecht didn't dare breathe in fear of losing the train of thought he had.

“Are we playing the asking-game again?” Friedrich asked then and for a moment, Albrecht didn't know what he meant.

And then he remembered, because he always remembered when he lay like this.

He remembered this one significant early morning, when the sun hadn't yet spread her arms but announced her arrival; when Albrecht had feared going into cardiac arrest from the way his heart was beating and beating and drumming against all the sides of his chest, threatening to spill out. (But it did, in the end, did it not? Albrecht's heart had spilled the sharpest edges of its depths and his brain had given way to the darkest and most hidden corners of it.)

They had never put a name to it, but Albrecht supposed the asking-game did describe what it entailed. A back and forth of questions they'd never dare themselves to word out loud in daylight, when the edges of the world were steep and unforgiving. 

The title, at least, fit better than breaking the ice did, as Friedrich had called it back then.

“Yes,” Albrecht said quietly, “But will you answer properly this time?”

Friedrich didn't respond, though one of his hands carefully traced the long scar he knew was on Albrecht’s back. The left side, beginning on the blade of his shoulder and ending just above the small of his back — at least according to Friedrich’s fingers; Albrecht did not actually have a clue as to where this scar was exactly, or if there were more of them on his back, for that matter.

He didn't like to look at them — any and all, wether on his back or his chest, the one he knew was to the side of his stomach or, one of his most nastiest, the strip of pale, ragged tissue and skin to the root of his neck; his hands.

“Why did you not go home?” Albrecht asked again, but Friedrich shook his head.

“My turn,” he stated, “Why do your parents want you back this badly?”

It was something Albrecht had asked himself numerous times already ever since he'd gotten that first letter. His mother had not seemed to care when he'd initially left, but now that his father was back, hell burned hot.

He had his ideas, of course, his suspicions, one more pathetically-hopeful than the next.

So, he settled on his most realistic one.

“I am their only child — their only son. I think they want to ensure I carry the bloodline on. They did send me the signet ring too, after all.”

Because this was the only way they could ensure he got it in case he wouldn’t show up. Because this was an attempt at forcing Albrecht to really think about it, to really show him the consequences of leaving his family.

And it had worked, annoyingly enough. 

It worked in the way that Albrecht spent hours awake at night, turning it all over again and again until Friedrich would start to grumble in his sleep and pull him in.

It worked in the way Albrecht believed he could feel the disappointed glares of generations upon generations of Stein’s weighing down on him.

It worked in the way Albrecht now wore the ring on a chain around his neck — too proud to display it on his finger but too scared to lose it.

He was so tired of being scared.

Friedrich hummed, fingers tracing and mapping; hesitating in their movement every so often, a clear indicator of him thinking.

“I didn't go back home, because—” he started, then paused. Albrecht could hear him lick his lips before he continued, “because I know I wouldn't be welcomed there.”

Albrecht frowned. This didn't fit. This didn't fit at all into the mental image Albrecht had created of Friedrich’s family.

But, then again, he had made it up off of singular references made years ago.

He had to refrain himself from asking, it wasn't his turn to. 

“My father didn't want me to leave, but Allenstein seemed to be such a big opportunity for me. They were seeing my potential and it was my only chance at ever getting a better education. No-one before me had ever even tried to go past tenth grade, did you know?”

It wasn't a question Friedrich expected an answer to.

“But all it did— Me leaving only made it all so much worse.” He finished in a whisper.

Albrecht remembered the way Friedrich had studied his one singular letter over and over, each time with a different expression. Maybe it did make sense. Maybe Albrecht had been too focused on his own nearing disaster that he hadn't been able to see it.

Maybe Friedrich was just that good at hiding it.

Sometimes, he believed Friedrich hid more than Albrecht was said to do.

Albrecht turned over with a huff, landing his head on Friedrich’s stomach in the process.

Silver eyes looked down at him, studied him; followed the movement of their body’s own fingers as they went on to trace the bones of Albrecht’s cheeks instead of his back.

A warmth spread in the planes of skin Friedrich touched, warming Albrecht up to his toes; making his cheeks burn.

Albrecht reached up to grasp Friedrich’s hand in his own.

For the span of a second, they just stared at each other. One second turned two, and two turned almost a whole minute.

“What are you so afraid of?” Friedrich asked finally, voice ever so slightly above the volume of a whisper.

And that had always been the thing, hadn't it? 

Not if Albrecht was scared, but what it was that made him feel like he'd combust at the mere thought of stepping out of what he knew to be safe.

“What are you so afraid of?” but there was too much to name.

“What are you so afraid of?” but there was so much to lose.

“What are you so afraid of?” but Albrecht didn't even know where to start.

Instead, he kept on looking up and into Friedrich's questioning eyes, hoping that, for once, Friedrich would understand without needing to hear the words.

Chapter Text

Der Kummer, der nicht spricht, nagt leise am Herzen, bis es bricht.

twenty

Albrecht sat in the drained bathtub, eyes closed.

His shoulders were tense, and he desperately tried to calm his racing heart with deep, regulated breaths.

Friedrich was perched on the edge of the tub behind him, scissors in hand; snipping and snapping all around Albrecht's head.

And it would be fine, really, or at least resembling anything related to fine, if it were just the two of them.

If it were just Friedrich with his calm, barely-audible patterned breaths and steady hands, it would be better.

But they weren't. They weren't alone, because Katharina was sitting on the opposite end of the much too small room.

“Needs a bit more trim to the left,” she said softly, directing Friedrich in his doings. 

The only reason she was here in the first place, was because Friedrich sucked at cutting hair properly, Albrecht didn't trust himself with anything sharp near his face but he even less trusted Katharina with anything sharp near his face.

Albrecht wondered if it was himself who suffered the most, or Friedrich.

He didn't like this, Albrecht didn't like this at all. But he knew he'd like his parents' reaction to his shabby, outgrown hair even less. 

So it needed gone.

Almost a week had passed now, since Albrecht was shown that final letter.

In those few days, Albrecht had been planning and negotiating.

He had told Mia, who had come around once again, to notify his parents of his sooner rather than later arrival.

He had fought with Friedrich about it.

“Because I won't give your parents the satisfaction of thinking you're alone after all of this!” Friedrich had shouted as his response to Albrecht vehemently refusing him to tag along, and the words still rang clearly in his head now.

So, they had found a compromise.

Since Christoph and Katharina would be moving to a small flat not particularly far from where Albrecht's parents lived, they'd all come and move some boxes over already. This way, Friedrich could come with but under a different guise.

Not that Albrecht found that any better, but then again, he did not like this situation as a whole.

“And now just a tad bit more off of the bangs,” Katharina murmured quietly; a second later, Albrecht could feel Friedrich gather the hair off of his forehead and snip, snap, snip it off.

“And now?” Friedrich asked, almost snippy — no pun intended. It was clear he was still as tense as Albrecht was, their argument not yet forgotten.

“Better,” Katharina agreed, and when Albrecht opened his eyes, he could see her carefully stand up from her position on the closed toilet seat.

She reached out as if to ruffle Albrecht's hair, but he knew just from the way Friedrich was clenching his grip on his shoulder that he was glaring at her.

“Friedrich,” Christoph hissed, sitting on the sofa in the living room and sternly having stared at their situation for the past half of an hour.

“Friedrich,” Friedrich mocked, pulling himself to a stand as well. 

The annoyed huff Albrecht let out did next to nothing to release his stiff shoulders.

Tonight; tonight they would go. They'd board the first of many trains and arrive in the city of Albrecht's childhood sometime around early noon tomorrow.

That left Albrecht little more than twenty-four hours to brace himself.

Friedrich had taken three days off of work for this, another point of argument.

Somehow, sometimes, everything brought a fight. Somehow, sometimes Albrecht wished for time to come to a still and never go on just so he would never have to deal with any of this again.

(Though soon, preferably, so he didn't have to go and face his parents.)

“I don't need you protecting me,” Albrecht huffed as soon as the door closed behind Katharina, leaving Friedrich and him to themselves.

A sound left Friedrich's throat that sounded similar to a growl and Albrecht pulled himself upright in the swift of a second, bringing him to a height of almost eye level.

“Then, for once in your life, at least pretend to be able to defend yourself!”

And, really, that was a quite bold statement made to someone who had survived two years of war.

(Because that was something Albrecht could finally admit to himself, after night and nights of contemplating and whisper-shouted discussions, Albrecht Stein could believe himself to be a survivor.)

“My whole life I've been defending myself!” Albrecht sneered back, moving himself from the corner Friedrich had, perhaps unknowingly, backed him into. 

“Oh yeah? Doesn't seem like it, does it? Acting like a damn fawn is what you are. No won—”

Albrecht stared at him. Really, really stared at Friedrich Weimer; watched a realization fall upon his face in perfect sync of his chest heaving.

But Friedrich didn't correct himself. He straightened and squared his shoulders, as if readying himself for a fight, but he did not correct himself.

“No wonder what?” Albrecht repeated, raising his chin, “Huh, no wonder what?”

He was almost up in Friedrich's space now, staring and staring into those eyes that he'd seen bear almost any and every emotion. But this one; this time, what he saw hurt. And it hurt in a way that only fuelled Albrecht more.

Friedrich clenched his jaw, puffed a breath. Albrecht was not usually the confrontation type of person, was he? Wasn't usually the person to get loud and about, to stand up for himself.

But this was what Friedrich wanted, wasn't it? For Albrecht to defend himself, to have his own back.

They stared at each other. Stared, because Friedrich didn't offer up any more words. Stared, because Albrecht didn't want to back down this time.

He hated eye contact; he'd the way it felt as if people stared right into his soul, discovering his secrets.

But this was Friedrich.

Friedrich knew his secrets; the deepest ones, the things Albrecht would never properly be able to talk about.

This was Friedrich, who stared right into Albrecht's soul, who knew his soul.

This was Friedrich, who used it against him. Friedrich, who had said “No wonder.”

If it weren't for the anger pulsing through his veins so hot he felt like he might burst, Friedrich would be cold with shock, fear.

“No wonder what?” Albrecht whispered again, voice barely quiet enough to be one. His eyes darted from Friedrich's left eye to his right and back again, forth again.

“I never asked you to come with me,” he went on, “I never asked you to take me in and allow me back into your life. I never asked you to talk to me in the first place.”

He paused, “That was all you.”

At that, finally, Friedrich huffed. “And it was you who helped me with the bedding that day. That was you.”

“That was me,” Albrecht agreed, “Perhaps I wouldn't have done that if I'd known what was to come of it.”

Friedrich tensed, eyes hardening.

A low-blow, Albrecht had to admit, because they both knew that he wasn't just talking about this but about it all.

Without meeting Friedrich, Albrecht likely would have spent a nearly normal time at the NaPolA Allenstein. 

He likely wouldn't have written that essay — he wouldn't have tried to drown himself.

He wouldn't have been sent to the front — as early or at all — and would've avoided his troup in the Ukraine.

He wouldn't have attempted a second time.

And he wouldn't be here, in this position, in this argument.

Friedrich's eyes mimicked the movement of Albrecht's, an emotion almost akin to hurt flashing in them before it disappeared.

In that moment, Albrecht understood. In that moment, he got it.

In the split second it took him to register what had just happened, Friedrich already shouldered past him.

Only when he heard the front door shut with a loud rattling of plates and cupboards did Albrecht move, did his eyes catch the mirror to stare at himself.

For once, it wasn't him running.

For once, it wasn't him.

» «

True to their plan, they boarded their first train just past six in the evening.

In true Albrecht behavior, Friedrich did not talk to him. Having grabbed himself a window seat, he stared out into the passing landscape instead; bravely ignoring Katharina's careful and Christoph's stern gazes that traveled back and forth between him and Albrecht.

Albrecht didn't mind. He forced himself not to, at least. He had too much on his mind already to worry about another thing.

Most importantly, the hours until he would step beneath his parents roof again were now counted.

Second most importantly, he had found a creative inkling.

Not too long after he'd first sat down, Albrecht had fished one of his notebooks from his pocket. It was the one with the strangely worn edges despite it never having been used before. However, now that Albrechg had been carrying it around for quite a while already, it looked even worse to wear.

But it was filled now — at least one quarter of the pages were scribbled with cut-off thoughts or observations; sketches of nightskies or small impressions. A journal, perhaps, as you might.

Albrecht had figured that if he didn't concentrate on creating but rather on letting his hand flow in the momentum of his arm, it didn't take him particularly long to bring anything to paper, so long as it wasn't anything too deep, too heavy of a meaning.

This time, Albrecht barely even thought as his pen moved across the paper, bringing circles and lines, rough splays. Rarely did Albrecht ever erase any of his strokes, wanting to be able to see the improvement he'd made.

By the time they reach their first stop, a page filled with eyes adorned the notebook. Pupil-less, all of them, for they were the sole door to a person's door. Albrecht had never been able to read a soul, to understand it. Just once, he did. Just once, for a split second, did he understand.

When night fell, three quarters of their small group were fast-asleep.

That meant all of them, except for Albrecht.

Pumped with something that felt like adrenaline, but couldn't possibly be it, his body refused to rest.

Friedrich had long folded his long legs into a more comfortable position and let his head fall against the window, similar to how Katharina and Christoph sat perched together in front of them.

The soft glow of emergency lighting the only source of light, Albrecht had taken to watching the shadows step and dance around the wagon.

This all, it reminded him. The train ride, so similar yet so different to the one months back, accompanied by his two only surviving friends at the time. The shadows, the same only in kind to the ones that raked along the walls of tents and snowy grounds. His parents’ house on the other end of the journey, now also inhabited by his father.

Albrecht wasn't ready. He didn't feel ready. But, then again, he hadn't felt ready for any part of his life.

He hadn't been ready to leave his home and be thrown around boarding schools for years and years on end, he hadn't been ready for Allenstein. Not for the front, not for returning back, not for meeting his mother, meeting Christoph or Friedrich; Katharina.

The times he had been ready, ready to act, to do something, could be counted on one hand.

Albrecht sighed, moving himself to a more comfortable position.

It was much too dark to make out anything from his notebook, so he had stowed it back away into his trouser’s pocket, fitting it in right beside a watch.

Still polished leather strap, he'd never once used it. A gift from his parents. He didn't know why he'd taken it with him — from the house when he'd fled all those months ago or now, when he returned.

Albrecht didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. 

But his parents had never given him a choice when it came to his life, and they wouldn't start now.

Albrecht didn't know how to prepare himself, how to brace himself for having to step under his father's cruel gaze again.

The last time he had seen him, it'd been days before being sent away; hours after he'd tried to escape. A long time had passed since then, a time where the both of them had been to war.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the balls of his hands to them.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't; not when all he could think about were the bad things. His parents, war, Friedrich's earlier statement.

He would go crazy before he even arrived at the house.

No wonder.

No wonder.

» «

Friedrich was ignoring him. 

Not in the sense of pretending Albrecht were invisible, but in the sense of staring him down but not losing one word.

It made Albrecht's blood boil.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't do this.

Albrecht breathed heavily through his nose when Friedrich's gaze fell on him once again, involuntarily frowning as he watched angry lines into his notebook.

Another pair of eyes, again vacant of their pupils.

Twenty minutes to go.

He opened another page, jutted his pen down. Eyes, words — no wonder, no wonder, no wonder — shapeless forms, names.

Until the ink ran out and Albrecht had to refrain himself from forcing the tip of the pen through a stack of papers.

With roughly ten minutes to go, they reached their final destination — the very train station Albrecht had seemingly just fled to.

As Albrecht strode along the town's streets, the others trailed after him.

When he stopped in front of a fork in the street, Katharina flashed him an encouraging smile, tugging on Christoph's sleeve to make him follow her to their new home.

Friedrich, in his true, new-found fashion, stared at him; grey eyes so closed off Albrecht couldn't even tell if the set in his posture was anger or annoyance, guilt.

Originally, he had wanted to accompany Albrecht up until the house's driveway. 

But when Albrecht turned his back and went, he couldn't hear any footsteps.

He didn't need to turn his head to know that Friedrich was standing there, hands in his pockets and staring after him.

Watching him go.

Just as quietly as he had watched him come all those years ago, when they hadn't yet been separated by war.

No wonder.

No wonder.

No wonder.

Chapter Text

Manchmal muss man nur zwanzig Sekunden mutig sein.

twenty-one

Albrecht stalks behind Berthold, his legs disappearing and resurfacing in the knee-deep mud with every step he takes.

Berthold is already way ahead of him, but Albrecht is still hurting, he cannot go that fast.

An ice-cold bout of rain showers down on them, having already soaked them to the bone an hour ago.

Albrecht is shivering, he's limping and his fingers feel as if they are about to fall off of his hands.

Would be unfortunate, wouldn't it? A shame, really, if he'd die now of something as avoidable as his fingers falling off. Berthold would be raging, for sure, after all, he's only just wasted his last meds on getting Albrecht back up and running a few days ago.

He's not scared of Berthold, not really; after all, he saved his life, didn't he? (Even if Albrecht wishes he didn't, even if he wished he would've just ran and left him to bleed out.)

Albrecht pauses, clutches a freezing-cold hand to the hot, infected wound at his collarbone. It hurts again — it didn't even stop in the first place. But times like these, when Albrecht is freezing and shaking and wishing for nothing else than anything warm — times like these, the wound feels like it's about to burn right out of his skin.

He thinks he can feel his bones rattling from the way he's shaking and shaking; rattling from the tension he's been holding over his body since forever in constant fear of someone grabbing him from behind.

“Get moving!” Berthold shouts over the howl of the wind and Albrecht has to blink through tears to be able to even see him.

Everything about this forest is dull and lifeless, triste. 

Albrecht thinks that, if he could look into his heart, it would be no different.

Autumn was coming, Albrecht could feel it in the stinging harshness of the cold wind. The temperatures had been abruptly declining for days now, no wonder they weren't any better here.

He rightened the collar of his shirt, fingers grazing the scar at the very bottom of his throat.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't do this.

Oh God.

Albrecht was standing at the foot of the driveway of the house. Of his childhood home.

The better part of sixteen years had he spent here, trapped behind walls and his parents harsh words.

Moving to a pre-furnished house in Allenstein had barely changed that. Except that then, he had tried to extend his wings.

And he'd failed; miserably.

He took a deep breath, then another; just like Friedrich had once taught him to. Breathing and breathing until his heart calmed.

For, perhaps, five minutes already, Albrecht was staring at the house’s front door from afar. He was on the property, though not yet at a point of no return.

Albrecht wouldn't call himself scared of this, of what was to come; but the feeling was so similar it made his skin crawl. He knew the feeling. Knew to sort it somewhere along nervous anticipation but, sometimes, knowledge did not make things any better.

His fingers found his scar almost on their own — tracing the long, ragged bit of puckered skin, he let its warmth soak up into his hands.

One breath in, one breath out.

“C’mon, just follow my pattern: breathe in… breathe out…”

Moving his arms to hang stiffly at his sides, Albrecht moved up the driveway and the stairs in long, swift steps. If he'd have hesitated just a moment longer, he wouldn't have been able to do it.

The door opened four seconds after Albrecht’s fist had hit it one, two, three times, revealing a short woman with dirty-blonde hair and wide, grey eyes.

Mia.

Albrecht still remembered the first time he'd met her; a time where he'd been so pumped of shock and left-over adrenaline that he'd had a few blissful hours of being beautifully numb and therefore indifferent to anything the nervous, maybe embarrassed, version of Mia had to say.

Now, she was different. She still had this flight in her eyes that was so different to Friedrich's fight, but she knew him now. At least she seemed to pretend she did; first name basis and all that.

As she stood in the door now, uniform painfully in place and hair combed back into a strict bun, she gave Albrecht a polite smile and welcomed him into the house.

Albrecht felt stiff and itchy out of his skin as he passed the threshold, not daring to take even one step further.

It was different now than it was months ago.

Albrecht didn't fear his mother, he disliked her at worst; but his father, he made the hair on the back of Albrecht's neck stand rimrod-straight. 

Mia walked in front as she led Albrecht to the sitting room; fast but quietly.

The closer they got to the half-open door, the faster Albrecht's heart beat, the louder his blood rushed.

When Mia finally pushed the door open, Albrecht felt like he'd explode alone from the raging noise in his ears and the tightness of his skull around his brain.

Agnes Stein stood, but made no move to physically greet him.

Albrecht kept his eyes on her as long as possible, mapping her out and cataloging the look on her face; anything to not have to look away yet. To not have to look at him yet.

For from the corner of his eye, Albrecht had seen the movement of gim raising himself up from his armchair, much less graceful than his wife but with two times the confidence.

Only when the man cleared his throat impatiently, Albrecht forced himself to move his eyes over to him.

To his father; the reason.

War had turned Heinrich Stein into a haggard man, a visible contrast to his life before. His hair lay thin on his head, whole patches missing, and the furrows of his face looked deeper than ever. The frown that pulled at his eyes and mouth, that was still the most prominent feature — the one thing that told Albrecht the man standing there was real.

“Father,” Albrecht said clipped, nodding once, “Mother.” he repeated the notion, took off his hat.

“Albrecht,” his mother whispered before catching herself, “My son, how was your journey?”

“I have not come to small-talk, Mother.” Albrecht pressed from his clenched jaw, though he immediately relaxed it upon realizing.

From the corner his father was standing, Albrecht could hear a rough huff. 

“They finally got some sense into you, did they not? Took you long enough.”

His jaw clenched again immediately; perhaps a mechanism to keep himself from crashing, perhaps a mechanism to keep his mouth shut.

Agnes wrung her hands, “How about we go and sit? We have prepared a brunch, hoping you would get here in time.”

Albrecht did get there in time. He still was in time. He did not want to have a brunch with his parents when he could be sitting on the worn-down sofa of his own living room instead.

Still, like the pathetic little boy he was, Albrecht followed his mother to the dining room, taking a seat in the very chair he had already occupied back in May. The very chair he had been occupying since forever. Used to, at least.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Heinrich walked to his back, Albrecht didn't like any of this. He felt like a prisoner. A prisoner in what was supposed to be his home.

It was cold in the house, at least that's what Albrecht told himself when his body started trembling.

To calm his unsteady fingers, he nibbled at the crusts in his palm — thin, reopened scars from when the screams had become too overwhelming last night; when Friedrich hadn't been able to help him. It was either the dull pain of his skin or the shrill screams in his head.

Albrecht folded his hands on the table, only sparing his pristine white, porcelain plate a short glance before he forces himself to look straight ahead. To where his parents were sitting, already looking.

“Albrecht,” Agnes tried again, “How have you been?” 

But Albrecht couldn't supress a huff, “How do you think I've been?”

“Not too bad, I assume. Regarding the fact you did not want to leave.” his father grumbled; Albrecht clenched his jaw tightly.

“I do not suppose anyone would want to leave his home quite so voluntarily.”

“I imagine so,” Something tugged at the corner of his father's mouth, “Leaves to wonder why you have left in the first place.”

“This was never my home — and I did not leave voluntarily.” Albrecht reached for the jug of water to keep his hands busy. The surface of the liquid threw tiny waves from the way he was practically vibrating.

“Now you're overreacting.” 

“The time I have been away from here has yet to be a bad one.” Albrecht stated as calmly as was possible for him. It was a pretense, of course it was — he couldn't remember a time where his head was quiet. 

Odd, wasn't it? How you only ever seemed to remember the worst things. Perhaps because they altered the way you thought, but good things changed you too, didn't they?

“Does it, now?” Heinrich Stein chuckled, “I remember me and your mother being taught of your, as is well known, quite childish — what was it called? — attempt at suicide.”

Albrecht gripped his butter knife tightly, “As if that had anything to do with leaving this place.” 

“One would think so, dwelling on the fact that it happened weeks after you returned to the NaPolA, no?”

“It was not the reason.” Breathe in, breathe out, in, out.

“What was, then? Ah, no, if memory does serve right, I do remember quite clearly. 

That Weimer boy, was it not?”

That Weimer boy.

That Weimer boy.

That   Weimer  Boy.

As if Friedrich were some scum.

“That Weimer boy,” Albrecht began; he could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the air enter and exit his lungs, “that you appreciated more than your own son?”

“Now now, I do not like anyone responsible for my son's possible death.” His father wasn't even looking at him, rather focusing on smearing his roll with butter.

“Funny, coming from you, don't you think?”

“What are you saying? We were rightfully devastated to hear of the incident!” his mother insisted, even putting her fork down in order to lean further over the table. She looked pale, dark circles under her eyes. Albrecht eyed her warily.

“So, if I am getting this right, you were desperate to hear of my attempt but did not bat one eye when father proceeded to send me to the front?”

“This is not what I am saying — do not twist my words! But of course I despise the scum that made you want to drown yourself.”

Albrecht couldn't believe any of the words he was hearing. None of it. Every single thing that left his father's mouth made him want someone to twist his own neck; every time his mother agreed with him made him want to do it himself.

“You made me want to drown myself!” he hissed, slamming his fist down on the table before he caught himself.

“Take that back!” Agnes was almost screaming, voice hysterical.

“I will not unsay words that are the undeniable truth — it is not how I have been raised.” Albrecht was so tired of being shut down, of trying to please the people who did not accept anyone but themselves.

“You do owe your mother an apology, son. Do not be childish on this.”

Albrecht closed his eyes, opened them. Breathe in, breathe out.

He finished his coffee calmly, set down the cup slow enough for it to barely make any sound as it hit the saucer. 

“I do not owe you anything. I do not owe you my attention or my presence — I do not owe you a single thing. And lest of all do I owe you something as meek as an apology for stating the obvious truth, that both of you seem to live in blatant ignorance of.”

“Albrecht—”

“But you, you owe me sixteen years of my life; you owe me two years of war.”

“Albrecht Stein!” his father shouted, Albrecht ignored him. For once, it felt doable, for once, he could.

“You owe me myself.” he whispered finally

“Let us all calm down a bit, why do we not?” Agnes said nervously, folding up her napkin and laying a gentle hand on her husband's arm.

Albrecht eyes the gesture. He had never felt so angry.

Anger was a dangerous thing. Albrecht wasn't an angry person, someone violent. He wasn't all that, any of it.

Albrecht wasn't his father's anger; perhaps he was his mother's naivety or her level of ridiculously pathetic, but he was not his father's anger.

“Tell me, is there anything to be calm about? I do not think I am quite aware of it.”

“Tell me, son — tell about what you witnessed.” his mother tried in an attempt to change the topic, still petting Heineich’s sleeve lightly 

“Death, you know, rape and torture. The usual stuff, I think those could be your words.” Albrecht listed, a false lighthearted tone in his voice. The last part, he directed at his father, turning slightly to look at him instead.

“Do not say that.” Agnes pleaded.

“Is it not the truth?”

“This is us trying, Albrecht. We are expecting you to tell what has happened to you. You are not quite the boy we remember, so, do tell.”

Albrecht worked his jaw. His mind rattled and rattled. Thinking it, paraphrasing it, was one thing.

Admitting it another.

Admitting it to himself entirely different.

He fiddled with his napkin, staring at the way the bones of his fingers worked beneath his skin. There was a faint noise in his head — a scream, a cry, perhaps a sob; his own, at least, as much was clear.

He breathed and he breathed, he fought with his thoughts. There was no way around this, he knew. He could try, but he would not succeed. 

If he wanted to give this up, he would have to give in first.

“I already did.”

Chapter Text

Vielleicht ist es besser, wenn es vorbei ist. Aber es fühlt sich noch nicht so an.

twenty-two

The trees rustled in the wind; swaying their long limbs to a melody only they could hear.

Steps echoed in the empty streets, giving a sense of false ordinary.

The air was crisp, no trace of August left despite it barely just so being September.

Albrecht breathed and he breathed, and he breathed.

He walked in silence, the hands stuffed into pockets betraying his tense shoulders and cautiously straight back.

Brunch had gone horribly. Destined to be a shit-show from the start, it had turned out even worse than expected.

After Albrecht had admitted — admitted, admitted oh, he'd never done that before — even if meek, just what had happened, his father had gone off like a bomb.

And so, Albrecht had fled. Again. 

Because that's what he could do best. Being someone ridiculously pathetic and weak, that was, if you were to believe his father. (Which didn't take that much because, for once, Albrecht agreed with him.)

However, and rather unfortunately, his mother had followed him out.

For about twenty minutes now, Agnes Stein walked alongside her son in silence as they made round and round through the rather small but rather expensive town they lived in.

Really, it made Albrecht wonder just how Christoph and Katharina had scored a flat here.

Albrecht didn't know why his mother was here. If she perhaps intended to be a “calming presence,” he didn't know. But she wasn't, as much was clear.

“I—” Agnes began for the third time since she joined, and for the third time, Albrecht gave no indicator of even having heard her. His father's words were too loud to do so, anyways.

She didn't have the words, Albrecht knew, whether it was because she was speechless or didn't actually have anything smart to say. 

Albrecht closed his eyes for a second, another and then a third, opened them again and felt swooping disappointment when his mother was still beside him.

He was so, so tired.

He wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the blanket of his bed and sidle up to the human-radiator that was Friedrich Weimer. To use his (incredibly strong) arms as pillows just like he usually did and let himself be surrounded by a secure, protecting embrace that kept him whole when he threatened to fall apart again.

Because despite what Friedrich had said, despite what hurt or full-on garbage he sometimes spewed, Friedrich was still the only one Albrecht trusted enough to have his back.

Albrecht grit his teeth at the memory of his words, clenched his jaw when he remembered his own, looked away to get his thoughts back in check.

A mistake, he realized a moment after.

A mistake, because now he had free-sight into another street. The street in which Christoph and Katharina were moving into.

And he could pinpoint the exact moment his mother saw him too, Friedrich, because her steps faltered and she stopped stuttering.

For a second, just a moment, Albrecht felt as if time stood still as he watched the muscles in Friedrich's back ripple beneath his shirt as he and Christoph lifted furniture across the street.

Then, as if he felt his stare, Friedrich spared a glance over his shoulder.

When their eyes met, Albrecht's heart started hammering so quickly it felt as if it too had stopped and he shuddered a heaving breath, unable to tear his stare away.

“You've brought him here?!” his mother hissed, but Albrecht barely paid her any mind.

How could he, when Friedrich was staring at him with eyes so full of everything. Emotion that Albrecht knew and could sing songs about or ones that Albrecht could not even begin to describe in his brightest hours.

“Albrecht!” Agnes’s voice was sharp, cutting through tension and fog.

And in that moment, Albrecht made a decision.

One that made his heart clench and contort in ways that Albrecht knew were deeply, utterly wrong. 

But, sometimes, things demanded a price.

Release demanded hurt.

Sometimes, being free meant to let go. And he was so tired of holding on to anything and anyone.

Albrecht tore his gaze away to look at his mother. One moment, a second. He turned again before the third could breach, taking a deep breath.

When he found Friedrich's eyes again, he felt himself shaking his head. Clipped, much too formal for what they were. But he thought that, maybe, Friedrich would understand what he meant.

He could see it in the rise of his tense shoulders, then, that Friedrich did. That they still could understand each other without having to talk.

Friedrich nodded back and Albrecht turned away.

He turned and he left.

» «

Albrecht's skin itched.

It itched all over and Albrecht was, quite frankly, going insane.

A stretch, perhaps, because he probably already was.

Why else would he be sitting here, in his father's study, in front of the man himself?

He was insane. Out of his mind.

“I am leaving,” Albrecht told him, voice as sure and steady as he could get it.

Stare downs with his father were impossible things. Nothing could prepare you for the soulless eyes of the man who was the reason for your existence.

“You are leaving,” Heinrich repeated, one eyebrow raising.

“I am,” Albrecht confirmed, “I do not think I will return.”

Heinrich took a sip of his beer Albrecht had no idea just where it had come from. He swooshed the liquid around his mouth.

“War changed you,” he said finally, long after he'd swallowed.

“Who does it not?”

“I am speaking about your eyes,” Heinrich corrected, “What happened to the fear — the embarrassing level of patheticness?”

Albrecht huffed, but the sound was near void of any feeling, “Things do that to you. You know; murder is a great example.”

Heinrich was silent. 

It was weird, really, how this was the most father-son-conversation they've ever had.

Weirder even, how Heinrich had stopped defending murder as an honour to the Fatherland.

“Do you know how much it takes to kill three people for no reason other than being forced to?” Albrecht went on, straightening up in his chair.

“Not much, you just were not in the right mindset.” his father said the words as casually as he would if he were talking about some banal schoolwork.

“What, in the ‘mindset’ of a soulless murderer?”

“The one of a soldier to the Fatherland.”

“Same difference.”

Father and son stared at each other, both pursed lipped; an image as if you were looking into a mirror.

And that was the thing, wasn't it? It weren't the scars or his eyes’ haunted look. 

It was his stark resemblance to his father, caused by ridges and terrors that now marked Albrecht's own face. 

It was the fact that he felt as if were looking at the man responsible for all his horrors whenever his eyes found a mirror.

It was never Albrecht, it had always been Heinrich. (Then again, was there much of a difference anymore?)

“Are you proud of me?” Albrecht whispered, “You know, now that I have been to the front and ‘changed.’” 

For once, his father didn't shout at him to speak up. For once, his father showed honest reaction to any of his son's words. Reaction in the way his eyebrows unfurrowed or his shoulders slumped, in the way he raked a hand over his face and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“I have always—”

“Do not lie to me,” Albrecht interrupted him, voice lacking the sharpness he wanted to spit at him, “Do not lie to me and say you have always been proud of me.”

Heinrich uncovered his eyes from behind his hand. He looked exhausted. Albrecht imagined himself to look the same.

“There are certain ways to feel about your child; the human you are supposed to raise and show the world, to make a better version of yourself out of.” Heinrich said, “No, I do not suppose pride is the word I would use to describe what I have felt for you most of your life.”

Albrecht had expected it, obviously. Had known what his father was going to say, but hearing him actually do so still hit him square in the chest.

“What was it then,” Albrecht cleared his throat in a pitiful attempt to get over the heavy lump that had collected there, “What was it then, that you felt for me all this time?”

Heinrich considered him. One moment and then a second. For the first time, Albrecht was sure he could see him work his words over; could see him actually think about his next actions.

“Fear,” his father decided, finally, “Pity, perhaps.”

“Fear,” Albrecht repeated deadpan.

His father nodded.

“For what reason?” Albrecht prodded. Never in his life had he felt as if his father had been scared or afraid for him. Never had he felt anything other than disappointment or anger.

Albrecht watched him work his jaw, watched his eyes stray from where they were supposed to be set on Albrecht.

“I was… afraid of how you were going to turn out.”

When Albrecht set to interrupt him again, Heinrich raised a silencing hand.

“I was set on raising you to be a better man than I was—am. Your grandfather, he raised me on harsh discipline. I went through my life with goals set in stone and actions in mind. You were too emotional for your own good. You let yourself feel too much.”

Albrecht bristled. 

“I merely wanted for you to survive. I knew you would not have been able to if you let yourself linger on what other people might feel, if you let yourself think about the pain others might be experiencing. War trained it out of me and so I was convinced it would do the same for you.”

“But I am not you.” Albrecht stated, voice not as steady as he would have liked.

“You are not me,” Heinrich agreed, “And I could not be more thankful for it.”

Silence. 

A silence in which Albrecht was still struggling to grasp the words just thrown at him at the speed of a bullet cutting through the wind, a silence in which father and son stared at each other, gazes filled with emotion unreadable to the untrained eye. 

The only two sets of untrained eyes in the room, for they had never allowed themselves to get past what was needed to simply survive. 

“I wanted you to survive,” Heinrich repeated, “Although, perhaps, I have been the dying factor to begin with.”

For the blink of an eye, Albrecht let that statement sit. For the blink of an eye, he allowed himself the silence in his head that had come with it.

“Why did you want to see me?” he whispered eventually.

His father sighed. A long, heavy sound that made him slump deeper into his chair.

“When I returned from my own service towards the end of May, your mother was quick to teach me of you leaving shortly after you had initially arrived. You had left her a letter, smeared with haste reasonings.”

Albrecht remembered not really seeing his words in his hurry, stuffing the fax of his father's updated status right alongside it.

“She did not know where you had gone. Said you looked near-dead when she had last seen you. She was afraid the letter was a final good-bye.”

Somehow, around many corners, Albrecht could understand. Could understand how hysterical his mother must've been thinking her son was going to kill himself—again. But those corners were too many for Albrveht to wrap his mind around long-term. 

“So, do imagine our surprise when that maid girl caught sight of you. Hours away and accompanied by none other than that Weimer boy, the one person we believed to have pushed you towards your… attempt in the first place.”

“He thought I was dead,” Albrecht supplied, “because you told him I was.”

Heinrich ignored him, “Your mother feared that he would crowd you to death again. So, we got you away from him — whatever the cost.”

“Are you saying that the only time you were ever concerned about my well-being was the one time I was the closest to happy I have ever been?”

“But were you really?” 

Albrecht sat back down from where he had risen in agitation.

Was he really?

His father regarded him, for once, not unkindly as Albrecht stared back, turning the question over again and again.

As he thought about all the fights with Friedrich he had, the disagreements with Christoph he had sat through. Friedrich's accident, Mia, Katharina and her miscarriage. The ever repeating doom of days upon days of screams and crying and voices and hands that came seemingly out of nowhere.

But with those came the memories of Friedrich and the colour of his eyes when the sun hit just right, of Friedrich showing him the clearance in the forest. Of the nights where he'd put Albrecht back together when he'd threatened to fall apart. The memories of feeling infinite; cared for.

“I was not happy,” Albrecht decided finally, “But I was getting there.”

» «

The itching was unbearable when Albrecht made it to the first-floor bathroom.

So unbearable, that his hands grasped the first thing in their reach. And if those were hair clippers, then maybe it was even on purpose.

The same purpose with which Albrecht cut away all his hair, section by section, piece by piece. Getting rid of the memories of hands tangled there, of it whipping his face in the wind, falling over his eyes and hindering him from seeing.

The same purpose with which Albrecht grabbed his head after and let himself feel the left-over stubble as his hands clenched so hard his head felt as if it was going to implode.

And it was still not enough. It was still not enough to scratch that itch even as Albrecht tore his fingernails down his face and his arms and his body and scratched and scratched and scratched; only stilling when his eyes landed on the body-length mirror not far from him.

The body-length mirror that had his exasperated, desperate face looking like his father's. The body-length mirror that showed Albrecht scars and crooked nose as if it were pointing them all out specifically.

The itching was so unbearable that Albrecht stared at his fists in wonder of where it was even coming from.

Still stared at them as they smashed his reflection in the mirror and the skin of his knuckles tore open in satisfying, clean-cut ridges.

Albrecht was breathing and he was breathing and he was breathing, but no air reached his lungs.

He was falling and falling and falling deep and deeper than before but there was no one anymore to catch him.

And he was shaking and trembling and rattling as his eyes focused for just long enough to see his distorted, broken up image in the shard laying on the cold tile.

Albrecht knew this feeling. He knew knew knew it, but he still wasn't ready when the first scream sounded. Growing and growing and growing in volume to overshadow the ones that were following.

The shriller ones of women and children, the desperate ones of himself. Pathetic and ridiculous. Ridiculously pathetic. Pathetically ridiculous.

Albrecht clutched whatever his hands could reach and he clutched and he clutched and he clutched until his screams became louder louder and louder and he realized he had been screaming into the cold tile floor for the whole time and the tile was damp with his breath and his hands were bleeding and his head throbbing and throbbing and his fingers hurt and his ears felt numb and he couldn't see he couldn't see he couldn't see—

His first breath felt as if the one you took when you've been under water for too long. His second hurt, as if his lungs had been too small for too long; out of breath.

Albrecht breathed and he breathed. In and Out. In and Out.

He closed his mouth, eventually; taking loud, heaving breaths through his nose.

His forehead hit the warmed-up tile with a low thud — loud, now, in the recovered silence of the room.

If he strained his ears, he could hear the shield twitching and tweeting of the birds outside the windows.

He fought a wave of nausea as he sat up on his knees, his closed eyes not seeing the blood yet.

He stood, his legs wobbling and trembling still.

When he stood still, finally, he took a deep breath.

And then he turned. And left.

» «

The streets were quiet. Not the same kind of empty-town quiet from before, but the kind of lunch-break one.

Walking between the houses and shops, eyes straight-ahead, he felt as if it were May again. As if it were May again and it was his first time leaving.

From the distance he could already see the house in which Christoph and Katharina were moving into. Having taken a wrong turn already, there was no other option than to pass it, now.

But the streets were empty and so Albrecht didn't find it in himself to care. Couldn't, when he was spending all his willpower on ignoring his head.

And his hands, that he had yet to take a look at; to wrap up. At least they had stopped stinging, having gone over to a full kind of pain/itch soon after he'd left his parents' house’s street.

One step after the other, hands balled to fists in his pockets. Destination in mind.

Albrecht passed the house without so much as a side glance, no matter how much it took. If he hesitated now, he wouldn't go through with it. If he hesitated now, he wouldn't go.

And so he strode as surely as he could, ignoring the one or two passing cars with ease.

It wasn't until he could hear the voice of someone else behind him that he finally stopped.

“Where the fuck do you think you're going?” Christoph seethed.

And, oh, this was a nice touch of déjà-vu, wasn't it? Christoph being the one to see him come and go. 

“Away,” Albrecht shot back, body just barely angled towards Christoph. If he turned now, he wouldn't be able to pull himself back away.

“And why do you think that's a good idea, huh?” Christoph spat. 

“Why do you think it's not?” Albrecht countered and Christoph faltered. They weren't friends, not really, there was nothing about Albrecht that made Christoph hold onto him. There was nothing about Christoph that made Albrecht come back. 

“What am I supposed to tell him then, eh? How am I gonna wrap the fact that you pulled your tail between your legs and ran like the fucking coward you are?”

“You're acting as if that were my problem. Your head’s big enough, I bet there's something in there that's vile enough about me to make him not give a flying damn. Wouldn't even be a lie probably, would it?”

Albrecht could see the set of Christoph's shoulders tense and draw up up up until they were almost level with his ears. He can almost hear him breathe — a snooty, exasperated and annoyed sound that only Christoph Schneider could make. 

So maybe, Albrecht thought, maybe Friedrich hadn't understood. Maybe he hadn't himself. Or, maybe, Friedrich just didn't care enough.

“I'm leaving,” Albrecht clarified in a voice as stern and steady as he could muster up, “And I will keep on leaving until I find the people that truly want me to stay.”

His parents didn't, did they? They only wanted to know he was alive. They only didn't want to have to tell people about their disappointment of a dead son.

And Friedrich? Friedrich was a different matter entirely.

“Are you seriously telling me you think Friedrich doesn't want you to stay?”

Albrecht stared. And he stared and he stared because he didn’t know. But what he knew was that it would eat him up to spend any more time with him while neither of them seemed to really tolerate the other’s presence; when he felt as if he needed to jump out of his skin whenever Friedrich looked at him with anything other than plain passiveness.

“Friedrich doesn't need me,” Albrecht lied to himself, or maybe not — maybe it was true, after all, “He was happier before I was in the picture.”

Both times, Friedrich was off better before Albrecht was there. That had to mean something, didn't it? And it has always been easier for Albrecht to put others' well-being above his own.

Christoph looked at him with a type of incredulous and poorly-hidden disappointment that remembered Albrecht of a kicked puppy.

“Lie to me all you want, Albrecht. I don't care,” he said quietly, “But, and do me that favour, stop lying to yourself.”

And then, Christoph left. He left Albrecht to stand alone in the town he had grown-up to hate. He left Albrecht to stare after him as he walked back to his flat.

He left Albrecht to turn and continue his way.

And Albrecht didn't look back again.

Chapter Text

Am Ende braucht man mehr Mut, um zu leben, als um sich umzubringen.

twenty-three

Breathing is hard when your lungs feel as if they are about to explode; keeping from trembling is hard when it is just above zero degrees and you are caked in freezing mud with water seeping your clothes. 

Keeping yourself from moving is easier when you are literally bodied to the side of a trench, one foreign arm keeping your head close and secure to a foreign, heaving chest and another foreign hand clamping your mouth shut to keep the screams in.

Not screaming is hard when you are getting squeezed while your ribs are broken. Not passing out is hard when you don't know anymore what is blood and what is water.

All that makes Albrecht a strong man, doesn’t it?

Thinking about it, focusing his eyes on Leonhard’s horrified expression across from him and trying to match his ragged breathing to Berthold’s are probably some of the only factors Albrecht hasn't gone insane yet.

Nobody is talking. Not Franz, who can usually barely keep his mouth shut; not the twins, even though they seem to never stop fighting. 

Despite all their effort, a sound escapes Albrecht when a particularly harsh wind disturbs their little troop. His blood immediately turns cold.

Berthold moves soundlessly, but even the rustle of his clothes is loud where it’s right next to Albrecht’s ear.

Now, there’s no arm holding Albrecht’s head but rather a chest pinning him to the cold wall of the trench. He can feel Berthold’s now-free hand travel and travel silently until it’s at his back, just at the blade of his shoulder.

The sharp pain that follows, oddly enough, makes Albrecht relax instantly; makes him slump and his head go quiet. 

The further down Berthold pushes the knife into Albrecht’s skin, the less painful are his ribs, his bloody chest. Secretly, Albrecht hopes for him to jam it right between his ribs and end it.

When the blade reaches just above his hip, Albrecht finally passes out.

Albrecht stared at the barbed wire of the fence and the way his fist closed around it.

One breath in, one out.

He'd been aimlessly boarding trains for so long now, that the noon-sky had transformed into deeper blue colours, accented by the occasional orange or pink hues.

Here, the air was warm; crisp. Smelling of algae and sea-salt.

Albrecht didn't know how he'd ended up here; up north by the coast.

He breathed in, and out. Let the sea air fill him up and up until it replaced all that was left.

His hands were stinging. 

When he opened them, his palms were a wild criss-cross of harsh red lines. Some still oozing, others already protected by brown-ish crust.

They hurt. Whenever Albrecht opened his hands, he pulled the wounds right back open. 

Albrecht averted his gaze to the horizon, to the beach behind the fence.

The waves tumbled high, crashing down on the sand harshly.

Albrecht climbed the fence with swift motions, uncaring about how the wire cut his arms and legs.

The water burned where it met his wounds; streaming in to lie snugly against the flesh.

Dull became the noise of wild currents and ownerless winds when Albrecht's head submerged.

Unimportant became the chaos in his head when he sank and he sank and he kept on sinking.

The water was kind on his skin, cuddled up to his aching legs and buzzed hair. 

One, two, three, four, five…

The light behind his eyes faded and faded. The darkness was winning.

He felt so light.

“You are pathetic,” Berthold whispers to him across the fire. 

Albrecht keeps his eyes on the flames, fingering the edge of the knife as he carves into the random stick he picked up.

It's April, the weather is finally warming up.

He nods, doesn't care whether Berthold sees the motion or not.

He's finding it hard to care about anything, recently. He's tired.

“You could've easily gotten them!” Berthold hisses now.

Albrecht looks up; watches the colours of the fire reflect in Berthold’s small, angered eyes. Albrecht knows he isn't really angry, Berthold says that all the time. But sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference.

“You know I don't do that,” Albrecht counters, cuts a piece off of the stick blindly.

“False,” Berthold growls, “I know you do . I've seen you do it!”

Albrecht closes his eyes, opens them. He's so tired.

“If I had the chance, I would have never killed anybody.” He says finally, voice quiet.

Berthold tsks, “This isn't about choices and chances,” his southern accent is thick, “this is about surviving and dying!”

Albrecht looks at him, and he looks at him for a long time.

And he knows that deep-down, Berthold understands.

He was sinking and sinking, drifting with the currents and, perhaps for the first time in his short miserable life, following the way.

His body was getting used to the low-temperature now, and the water was starting to feel like a warm hug.

Albrecht is shaking; his skin feels loose on his bones. He's shaking and he's shaking and he thinks, maybe, he forgot how to breathe.

There's a heavy, rough hand on his shoulder, holding him in place. A voice near his ear, its owner’s breath disgustingly humid and warm against his skin.

Albrecht wants to cut his ear off and burn away his shoulder.

He doesn't dare move from where his head is directed towards a small group of enemies; two, maybe, three; what seems to be a prisoner near them.

“...eh, Doll? Maybe we’ll let them take a turn,” the voice is murmuring, “ — let them see what's hiding beneath all those layers.”

Albrecht is blinking, he thinks. He feels slow, out of his body. He usually feels this way when they're this close to him.

The voice keeps talking but Albrecht is no longer listening. Let them take a turn, let them take a turn.

He feels himself nod, doesn't really know why he's doing it.

He feels the cruel smile in the voice as he's pushed forward, rifle in hand.

“Good girl.”

Like a leaf in the wind, Albrecht’s body was twisting and turning to the rhythm of the waves — fitting itself to the forms and molds.

“No won—” No Wonder. No Wonder. No Wonder.

‘No wonder why you're so weak’ maybe

‘No wonder why you tried to kill yourself’ too far-fetched

‘No wonder why they made you do it’ perhaps

‘No wonder why they did it’ rather

‘No wonder why they raped you’ bingo.

The steady, calming rush of the water was the only sound in Albrecht’s ears; only accompanied by the sound of air bubbles or scream of the wind whenever his head resurfaced.

“You goddamn egoist!”

“No, I do not suppose pride is the word I would use to describe what I have felt for you most of your life.”

“You're pathetic.”

“Useless piece of shit.”

“How am I gonna wrap the fact that you pulled your tail between your legs and ran like the fucking coward you are?”

“Doll.”

“You just were not in the right mindset.”

“Stop lying to yourself.”

“I wanted you to survive.”

Albrecht was drifting, drifting, he felt so light.

“Stop lying to yourself.”

“Stop      lying      to 

                                      yourself.”

“I  w a n t e d  y o u  t o  s u r v i v e”

“I

      w   a   n  t  e  d  

  you

   t    o

      s     u   r      v i v e”

s  u   r  v i   v   e

Flying and falling.

“I don't have trauma .”

“I don't need your help.”

Falling, falling, f a  l  

                                   l

                                       i

                                            n

                                                    g

Albrecht didn't want to die. But he was so

                                                                  so

                                                                      t i  r   e   d 

Chapter Text

Ehrlich gesagt, tut alles ganz schön weh, in letzter Zeit.

twenty-four

Clouds were peculiar things.

Albrecht had never quite managed to wrap his mind around them.

But now, as the dark sky started to regain some of its colour and the birds came back to life one after another, Albrecht wished he were up there with them. As heavy and inexplicable.

There was water in his ears, distorting his hearing, and sand in his clothes, stuck beneath his fingernails; his hands stung from the salt of the sea.

Albrecht didn't care.

Couldn't.

Wouldn't.

He was alive. 

Alive.

Living.

Livid.

So, so angry.

So overflowing with anger, but too weak to do something about it. Too weak to move his numb legs or hurting arms. Too weak to scream and shout and seethe.

Too weak.

Too weak.

Too weak to even kill himself.

Not once.

Not twice.

Thrice.

He really couldn't do anything right, could he?

Albrecht's eyes were dry from the way he had been staring at the ever-changing sky for what had to be hours by now. They ached every time he blinked; which wasn't often, really. Maybe that was why they ached. Why they were so dry.

He lay, all limbs stretched out, on the damp beach in the middle of nowhere. The waves still licked at his feet, sometimes up to his calves. Albrecht didn't know how he made it here; how he had found himself back on the land.

Albrecht forced his eyes closed.

Two times, he had tried to drown himself now; both times, it had been so different and yet so similar.

The first time, there had been panic. Albrecht had been scared of either outcome; scared to die and scared to live. It had been spontaneous, more or less.

The second time, he had been sure. There was misery and horror and there was a whole hug and the promise of never feeling again. Life and death. He had been ready, had embraced it.

Funny, wasn't it? How the first time, he had been saved, and the second time, with not a soul around, he still managed to survive.

Survive.

Alive.

Living.

Livid.

Albrecht swallowed, his throat was dry. Above him, he imagined seagulls flying their rounds, screaming at each other.

Albrecht wanted to scream too.

He wanted to grow wings and fly towards the horizon until he was small and smaller and tiny and only just a dot in the distance.

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. Never would he know what it felt like to sail through and alongside the winds, to see the world from above and to fly and to fly and to fly away from anyone and anything.

He could flee. He was doing that; away from anyone and anything. But that wasn't really the same, wasn't it?

Albrecht needed to get out of here. Out of this world. Out of this life. He needed away; he needed gone.

He needed— he needed—

But what did he need?

What was it, that made his heart so heavy and his life so inexplicably dull?

What did he need?

You know it, his head was screaming at him, You know it exactly.

But Albrecht didn't. He didn't know. (He did, he did, he did) How could he know he was missing something he had never once felt?

The one thing he had never gotten to experience?

Loved! his head screamed, you need to feel loved!

And Albrecht wanted to shoot himself for being so pathetic; wanted to smash his head in with the rocks that were collecting everywhere for even thinking that way.

He wanted to run right back into the waves and try a fourth time when the sobs started to tear from his scratchy throat, when his eyes began to water way too much way too quickly.

When he threatened to choke because he couldn't find a way between his sobs to breathe; when he couldn't see because there were so many tears.

Albrecht cried. 

He cried and he cried, and he didn't think he'd ever cried this much, this terribly. This painful.

His sobs screamed in the early-morning silence, and he had to painstakingly prop himself up so he didn't suffocate.

He turned, somehow; found his head in his hands and his hands in the sand. Attempted to pull at his hair that was no longer there.

He cried and he cried and it hurt so much. There was so much pain in him, it felt as if his heart were one big balloon and every single one of his rips poked into it, stronger and harsher than the last.

His hands were numb, they felt weird; he couldn't control them as they fell loosely to the ground.

Albrecht wanted to die, he wanted to die, he wanted to die, wanted to die, wanted to die. 

Why couldn't he just die?

Why, when his pain was greater than anything he had ever witnessed, why did God not grant him his single biggest wish? Had he not prayed enough, in his short life? Had he not been thankful enough, in his terrible eighteen years?

Alive.

Living.

Livid.

Heart beating.

Mind rattling.

Head swimming.

Albrecht's body shook from the tremors of his sobs.

He shook and he sobbed until he started trembling and retching instead; until he ran out of air to sob and his body had to take over different resources instead.

Until he was empty. Empty of it all.

Albrecht wasn't dead; he wasn't, he wasn't.

He wasn't dead.

Of course he wasn't.

Because nothing ever went his way; because nothing ever worked out the way that was best for him.

Albrecht wanted and he wanted. 

He wanted to die, to leave this world and to never return.

(He wanted to be loved; to just once be held — hugged, warmly and kindly — and never let go.)

He wanted to not be yelled at. He wanted to be understood, just once.

Albrecht was so, so tired. So tired of it all, so exhausted of living.

When he fell into the sand, face first, his hands were too numb to catch him.

» «

Hours and minutes. Hours. Minutes. Minutes and hours.

Albrecht had never understood how. Why was it always sixty? Sixty minutes, sixty seconds. 

Why was it him? 

Why was it him that needed to survive, to live?

When he so desperately wanted to not?

Landscapes passed before his eyes, behind the window of the train.

Albrecht didn't know how he had made it here; how he had gotten enough strength in his limbs to get up and leave. Maybe because he was best at leaving, maybe that was why.

He closed his eyes; his head lulled against the glass, rattled with the uneven movement of the cart.

Albrecht didn't know where he was going. 

(He did know that was a lie. Another one of the many he had stricken his life out of.)

But there were only a handful of places he knew how to reach by train. Not even. Not even close.

His parents’ house, the train station south to Berlin he had first arrived at back in May. 

And the country-home of the Werner family.

He didn't know how to reach what he had grown to call his home. Had reached it by accident and never thought he'd leave again. Hadn't taken the time to figure out how to get there.

Didn't know if he wanted to in the first place.

Didn't know if he could.

Albrecht didn't know a lot of things, did he?

He didn't know why he couldn't just die, he didn't know why it was always him.

He didn't know why he was traveling down to the Werner’s, he didn't know why he didn't just open his eyes and take a map and figure out a way to get back.

He didn't know what it was that made him this unlovable.

He didn't know, he didn't know.

He did know three things.

Albrecht was so so tired.

Albrecht wanted to die.

Albrecht didn't want to be alone anymore.

» «

The door looked the same as it did four months ago.

Weathered, slightly chipped wood that opened up to a run-down stone cottage that was definitely not big enough to fit its seven inhabitants.

There was still time to turn back around, to leave; but Albrecht's feet were carrying him without him having a say of their direction.

It was afternoon already, Albrecht really had lost all his sense of time. Hours blended together, seconds twisted from just moments to endless. 

How many days had passed since Albrecht left his parents’ house? How much time had passed since he'd failed again?

Albrecht's hand raised automatically, up and up and up until his fist touched the rough wooden door once, twice, thrice.

He held his breath in anticipation, bore his fingernails into his palms out of reflex.

He watched the door open, let his head fall and fall until he could see the striking blonde hair of a child.

Ida, his mind supplied. The youngest.

She stared at him with her big eyes. Big eyes full of innocence and wonder; sparkling with life and childish-glee.

“Leo,” she called eventually to somewhere behind her and clutched the seam of her little dress tighter, turning back around to keep her eyes on Albrecht.

When he could see a pair of feet and the legs belonging to them appear behind her, Albrecht forced his heavy head back up.

Forced himself to look up up up and into the eyes of Leonhard Werner.

For the blink of an eye, Leonhard stared at him; mouth slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed.

“Albrecht?” he whispered then, and he almost seemed worried as he shoved Ida back into the house and closed the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

Albrecht sniffled, he felt like there was still water in his nose.

Leonhard looked different — healthier; his skin had a more natural colour, his hair had filled out. But his eyes, they were the same.

“I don't know,” Albrecht whispered back, hating himself for how desperate his voice sounded.

Hating himself for a lot of things, actually.

“I don't know,” he repeated, and it was getting harder to keep the tremor from his voice.

Leonhard’s eyes flitted over him, from head to toe; taking him in, maybe. Assessing him, perhaps.

Albrecht didn't know. He didn't care.

He wasn't sure why he was here in the first place.

“Come in,” Leonhard didn't touch him, but he still made sure to crowd him towards the door, “Let's get you something to eat.”

Albrecht didn't know what he looked like. The last time he had seen himself — days, weeks, months ago? — he had been pale. Pale and full of dark ridges, full of poorly concealed fury and fear, fatigue. He had met his own eyes in the mirror and not recognized himself. After, he didn't remember much.

He looked down at his hands now, the bone clearly visible beneath the cracking-dry skin, the pink-marks in his palms and the torn skin around his nails.

When he clenched them to fists, he could feel the ache deep and up to his shoulders.

Albrecht swallowed, and his throat barely allowed the movement from how dry it was.

A wind whipped around them that Albrecht hadn't noticed before, and it lapped harshly at his ears and nose.

The inside of the cottage was warm — both in temperature and lighting. 

Leonhard's three sisters were sitting on the living room rug, playing with dolls or talking quietly among each other. 

Mark sat at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand but no longer focusing on it as he stared at Albrecht with the same gaze his brother had before.

The twins shared a single look before Leonhard crowded Albrecht up a slim set of stairs and into what looked like an attic.

Two beds, two wardrobes, a lot of different posters and knick-knacks; a desk. No room for doubt about who this room belonged to.

“What're you doing here?” Mark asked, just like his brother, plopping down on the left bed.

Just as before, Albrecht replied, “I don't know.”

Just as before, he felt like a child muttering the words.

“Did… something happen?” Leonhard was as quiet as he moved beside Albrecht to sit down at the desk, leaving Albrecht to awkwardly stand in the middle of the room.

He didn't even want to be here.

A year and more, he had spent with them; and still he felt like they had never once exchanged words.

“I just—” Albrecht took a deep breath, “Look, I don't think I should've gone here, I'll just—”

“Nonsense,” Leonhard cut in, “the last time you looked like this was when Berthold almost left you to bleed out. So — do tell.”

The words hit Albrecht like a tank, and he could immediately feel his forehead crinkle.

“Berthold didn't leave—”

“Yes, he did,” Mark waved a hand as if to dismiss the topic, “Now go on.”

“No,” Albrecht said, “No, Berthold didn't leave me to bleed out.”

Mark shot him a look, “Albrecht, we've been there already. Now—”

“Berthold didn't leave me to bleed out!”

Leonhard sighed deeply. He looked tired, exhausted. 

Albrecht felt even worse for coming here. He didn't even know what he was doing.

“Right,” Leonhard said quietly, gripped the armrests of his chair for just a moment before heaving himself up, “I'll just…” he trailed off; looked helpless as he wrenched the door open and finally left.

Albrecht looked after him, watched as he disappeared in the warm atmosphere of the living room. 

It was quiet, for a while. Albrecht didn't need to turn to know Mark's eyes on him.

“Where are your parents?” Albrecht asked finally, carefully. 

Mark sighed too, the sound identical to his brother, “Out. They're celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

Silence.

“Albrecht.” Albrecht turned, met Mark's scrutinizing gaze, “What happened to you?”

Albrecht swallowed heavily, fiddled with the loose ends of his stiff clothes. He breathed and he breathed and he breathed. He blinked. He swallowed. He licked his lips.

“I… I don't know what's happening to me.” Albrecht admitted, voice so quiet he could barely hear it above the sound of his — goddamn, fucking still-beating — heart.

“I don't—” he cut off, suddenly unsure. 

Mark studied him carefully.

“Did you—” he paused, mimicked Albrecht in licking his lips, “Did you do it again?”

It.

It.

It.

Did you try to kill yourself again?

Albrecht breathed and he breathed and he breathed.

Alive.

Living.

Too tired to be livid.

Before his body could react on its own, Albrecht forced his mouth to open, “How did you…”

“You look like you did on the day Berthold left you to bleed out.” Mark replied, forming the words slow as if he were talking to a toddler. The “you looked dead” remained unsaid.

“But he didn't,” Albrecht tried weakly.

“But he did.” Mark corrected.

The springs of the bed squeaked when he got up, the floor creaked when he walked over.

“Can I?” Mark asked, obviously trying to sound patient but failing.

Albrecht didn't even know what he meant when Mark was already stepping closer and closer, reached his hands over and pulled the side of Albrecht's shirt up and above his ribs.

Mark's hands were cold where they touched his skin, but after years and months and harsh shouts, Albrecht had learned to not flinch away from them. From him. His troop.

As much as his body bristled against it, as much as his muscles tensed, he didn't flinch away.

But Mark was familiar. One of his brothers. He was safe.

Albrecht didn't watch as Mark mapped something just beneath his ribs.

“Look,” Mark hissed and Albrecht forced himself to tear his eyes from the spot they had fixated on.

A scar. Long, torn around the edges as if his skin were cloth. Stretching from between his ribcage to his side.

“See that?” Mark asked, voice now softer, somehow. Maybe Albrecht had been imagining things again.

Mark traced the thin white line; Albrecht had forgotten about it — many of his scars he had forgotten about; didn't look at his body enough for that.

“Bomb shrapnel,” Albrecht supplied, remembering now.

“Bomb shrapnel,” Mark confirmed, letting go of Albrecht's shirt to situate himself back on his bed, “Bomb shrapnel that wouldn't even have gotten close to killing you if the wound had been closed soon enough. Everyone knew that. Common knowledge that the thing wouldn't stop bleeding on its own, that you were much too close to that explosion to come away with anything lighter than broken ribs — but oh-so-smart Berthold knew, of course, that it was just a scrap, that you didn't need any help.”

“Get yourself together, Steinchen,” Berthold drawls, doesn't even look at him from where he's studying a map.

Their troop parted on accident when that missile hit and they were trying to find a way to the nearest checkpoint.

Albrecht lies propped up against a tree, panting and whimpering. There's sweat beading on his forehead, rolling down his temples. 

Mark is watching him, gnawing his lip. He's been hit too — a cut across his forehead and side of his head.

“It's just a scratch,” Berthold goes on.

Albrecht believes him.

“If we hadn't reached that checkpoint in time and gotten access to Willerg’s kit, you would've been dead. If we hadn't found that sickbay in time, you would be dead.”

“Berthold didn't have any material,” Albrecht defended, crossing his arms.

“Berthold did not give a flying fuck about you.” Mark shot back, louder.

And Albrecht? Albrecht felt like he'd been hit by a bullet.

“Berthold didn't give a fuck about anything. What did it bother him if you died or not? The only reason he kept you around for so long was because he hoped to get some kind of medal.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Alive.

Living.

Not quite livid.

“He— he saved me,” Albrecht fought weakly, “In the Ukraine, he— he—”

Mark's face softened, if just a fraction.

“He was sick, Albrecht. He didn't know it back then — only found out, what, August last year? He was going to die anyways.”

A pause.

“I don't know why he treated you like that.”

Albrecht remained silent.

“I think, maybe, because he knew he'd die before he'd receive any consequences. He lived longer than he was supposed to, in the end.”

Leonhard entered the room again.

Albrecht didn't move. Couldn't. Wasn't able to.

He wasn't even shaking anymore. He was. He was just.

There.

He was just there.

Mark's eyes didn't leave him for a second, “He saved you once, Albrecht, and ever since, you've been acting like he's a saint.”

From somewhere behind him, Leonhard spoke up.

“But he's always been a sinner.”

Chapter Text

Ein bisschen mehr als gestern, ist mehr als genug für heute.

twenty-five

There was a deep pit somewhere in Albrecht that he didn't know how to fix.

Maybe it was in his heart, maybe in his head.

(He wished there was a gaping hole in either of them, preferably coming at him at hundreds of kilometers per hour of speed.)

Maybe, he was just imagining things.

He did that, didn't he? Had been for quite a while.

There were the voices and their screams, the bombs… Berthold. 

Berthold, who had been one big imagination.

Not Berthold Maurer but Berthold. The one Albrecht had called his friend, the one Albrecht had thought to be one.

Albrecht blinked.

His eyes hurt, he didn't know why.

He was sitting on the living room sofa, feeling numb. 

His eyes were following the movement of Mark or Leonhard chasing their sisters through the room, but he wasn't seeing them. He couldn't tell them apart.

His hands were wrapped in heavy gauze, but his wounds still itched.

There was a sparse dinner in front of him, untouched.

And Albrecht wanted to die.

He wanted to stop being someone who didn't know things.

He wanted to stop being unable to let himself feel.

He wanted to stop being so uninvolved.

He wanted to stop tearing up his hands.

He wanted to stop being so ungrateful.

He wanted to stop.

Albrecht's head felt light and his heart heavy. He felt out of place, wherever he went. 

He wasn't meant to lie to the ground of a cold lake or float alongside the fish in the sea. He wasn't supposed to sit in other people's houses and waste their food and water, their time. But he also wasn't meant to sit at his parents' dinner table and listen to them argue, was he?

He blinked.

One of the twins flopped down in the space beside him, jostling him.

There was something more to Berthold having lied to him, wasn't there? 

An underlying message, a warning, that Albrecht was supposed to understand.

(But he didn't know anything, and he couldn't understand.)

(But he knew what it meant, what it was supposed to mean.)

(He dreaded the fact that he thought of Friedrich.)

“Mark's dogshit at country guessing,” Leonhard drawled to his left, Albrecht finally moved to look.

They had dug out a map, though the countries’ names were too small to decipher from here.

Albrecht squinted; his eyes hurt.

“‘That’s Mexico’, he'll say, and it will literally be Canada,” Leonhard went on.

When Mark was pointed a country that Albrecht vaguely recognized as Indonesia, or something like that, Leonhard leaned in again, close, to whisper into his ear, “Watch him say that's Australia.”

A moment passed. 

Mark seemed to ponder.

“I think that's… Australia, maybe?”

Leonhard bumped Albrecht’s shoulder out of pure glee.

» «

Time was an odd thing, Albrecht found.

He felt like he'd been sitting here for minutes, quietly listening to the twins bicker back and forth and shoo their sisters to bed one after another, but it had to have been hours.

The big grandfather clock loudly rang at about two in the morning when the door to the cottage burst open.

In the blink of an eye, Albrecht was on his feet and wide awake, chest suddenly heaving.

But it were familiar faces that entered the room.

Familiar sets of eyes that fell upon him.

“Huh,” Herr Werner made, hiccuping, “I know ya…”

Drunk. Reeking of alcohol. 

Albrecht subconsciously wrinkled his nose.

But he forced himself to pull himself together, wringing his misshaped hands.

“Albrecht Stein, sir, I've been here last May already.”

Herr Werner's glassy eyes studied him. Albrecht could imagine the gears shifting in his head. He squirmed uneasily.

“No, no. I remember ya,” he hiccuped, “that boy, aren't ya? That boy from the, uh, from my boys’ troop, ain't it?”

Albrecht’s answer was cut short by Frau Werner entering the house, decidedly less drunk.

“Ah!” she made upon spotting Albrecht among her sons, “Ah, it's a pleasure to see you again!”

She shook his hand enthusiastically, using both of hers to enclose his. 

She wasn't bothered by the gauze, didn't care about his trembling or surely distorted face.

Maybe, this was how a mother was to truly be like.

“Have you come for the occasion?” Frau Werner went on, not letting him go, “It's a great day, is it not? Fabulous!”

Albrecht very carefully exchanged a look with the twins, who looked right back; disbelief and pity.

Albrecht swallowed, licked his cracked lips.

“The occasion?” he asked slowly.

Herr Werner stumbled back over to them from where he had busied himself with something from the kitchen.

His laughter was loud, bulbous.

“‘The occasion’ he says,” he howled, “Ya hearin’ that, Annegret? ‘The occasion?’ he's askin’!”

When Frau Werner tuned in to the laughter, Albrecht could feel his face heat.

“The war!” Herr Werner announced loudly, “It's over, son! Forever and ever, all around! No more bombs, no more Americans lurkin’ behind fields. No more!”

He kept on laughing, hollering; dancing around his wife and head locking his sons.

But Albrecht tuned it out. 

If by will or not, he couldn't even tell anymore.

The war was over.

The war. Was over.

Over.

“Forever and ever, all around!”

And, weirdly, for the first time in a long long while — an eternity, perhaps — Albrecht could feel his face stretch into a smile.

» «

“Things aren't… perfect, you know?” Mark said later that night, whispering the words into a dark attic-bedroom.

They had set up a cot in the middle of the room, situated between the two beds.

Albrecht lay there, arms crossed behind his head.

The air was stale, up here, and smelled faintly of dust. The tiny opened window right above Albrecht let in a cool, gentle breeze.

“Especially when the girls are screaming,” Leonhard supplied, “...it's hard.”

Albrecht nodded as though they could see him in the darkness.

“Thunderstorms,” Albrecht added and he heard the twins hum and groan in agreement.

“Bathtubs,”

“Doors slamming,”

“Being alone,”

Silence.

Then, Mark shifted.

“I don't think I've been alone much, after..” he admitted.

“We've always had each other, you know?” Leonhard hummed.

Albrecht closed his eyes, opened them; took a second.

He hadn't been alone, had he? He'd had Friedrich and Ralf; God, he'd even had Christoph, Alejandro and Sofia.

“I've had… well— someone.” he ground out finally.

Leonhard huffed, “‘Someone’?” he repeated, “Do I need to dig out my best suit and get myself drunk at a wedding?”

“Hell no.”

“Aw, you sure? The way you've been stuttering and muttering, I'd bet you'd be head over heels with some mystery-chic.” Mark laughed.

Albrecht shifted uncomfortably, “I am sure,” he whispered, “I moved in with some… friends from school, but it's complicated. I don't think I can go back there.”

For a second, there was a silence so thick Albrecht felt as if he were swimming in butter.

Then, one of the twins let out a long sigh.

“Well,” the other murmured, “It's late anyways. Good night.”

It was early, in fact. The sun was already lurking just at the edge of the horizon.

“Good night,” Albrecht echoed, and hoped it would finally be a good one.

» «

Somehow, the end of Summer hadn't reached here yet.

The heat was still sweltering as Albrecht stood in the field, wiping sweat from his skin.

He swung the scythe with surprising ease; the feel of having something as lethal in his hands giving him a false sense of power.

After two or three days of slumping, realizing and fighting himself, Albrecht had caved in to whatever the Werner's gave him.

And if that was manual labour, then so be it.

Albrecht hummed quietly to some song he could barely remember, understanding now why Friedrich always did it.

Somehow, he understood quite some things now.

Most important of all, he thought to understand why he had struggled to know anything.

He had been living in some kind of… bubble, those past few months. Maybe those last few years, even. Perhaps his whole life, although he did somehow doubt that.

But that was besides the point.

He had needed that bubble, his body had demanded it. 

It had needed the cut-off, the ability to comprehend, in order to work properly. 

It hadn't worked, not often; which was why Albrecht was sceptical of his theory at best, but it was something he could get behind. Leonhard had mentioned bodies or minds taking measures to protect themselves, once, and maybe, it all made sense.

But when that bubble had inevitably popped and left Albrecht raw and lacking any form of protective layer, it all came crashing down at rapid speed.

And Albrecht, desperate in his hurt, had tried anything to release himself from the suffering.

He wasn't good; he wouldn't ever be, but he was better. He could understand.

He could still hear the whisper of screams from time to time; more frequent somehow than he had heard the actual screams, but that was better, wasn't it? 

It was much easier to ignore, especially when he was out in the fields and the wind drowned it all out.

Albrecht thought it was better. 

And that was enough, wasn't it?

Panting, he swung the scythe again, taking out a good range of grass. 

When he looked at the small heap he'd produced, Albrecht jumped.

There was a cat.

Sitting there, all polite with its tail wound around its feet; squinted eyes blinking up at him.

Albrecht, cautiously, blinked back.

The right move, apparently, because the cat nestled against his legs, leaving behind traces of white and black fur on his borrowed pants.

He had never been a fan of cats. Animals in general. For no particular reason, really. 

(Except, maybe, that he was envious of their ability to communicate without words; to find love in others and accept so much easier than humans would ever be able to.)