The air gets sharper with every day that passes by, heralding the approach of winter. Noses turn red in the morning, little puffs of cold rise from the boys' mouths when they do their exercises outside, gritting their teeth to not make them chatter because of Peiniger's cruel jokes.
Hot tea is served afterwards, and Albrecht's not the only one who wraps his hands around the warm cup as long as possible, sipping the hot liquid. He watches as the BDM girls weave through the labyrinth of tables, carrying huge steaming pitchers. They remind him a bit of the maids at his parents' home although the maids would never attempt to flirt with him with shy looks and small smiles. It's not what Albrecht's used to, but his mother has often told him that he's a handsome boy and so he returns the smiles just as shyly.
He shrugs at Christoph's sly remarks about him being the girls' favorite, glancing at Friedrich who's almost as shy as himself which sets them apart from the other boys. Even Siggi blushes and stammers something about a girlfriend back at home.
He prefers the quiet atmosphere of the school newspaper's office, the steady clack-clack of the typewriter and the warm light of the desk lamp. Here, he doesn't feel like the odd one out.
But when Friedrich joins him, bringing his homework with him and claiming that the other guys are too loud, Albrecht doesn't mind. With Friedrich, he doesn't feel lonely and neither does he feel like an outsider.
They feel - together. As strange as this sounds, but Albrecht likes it when he can listen to Friedrich's even breaths, the pen scratching over paper and from time to time he looks up to watch Friedrich. The blond head is bent over the notebook, his broad shoulders hunched up and Albrecht watches his strong hand handle the sleek pen with delicacy, forming looping lines without effort. Sometimes that pink tongue will peek out from between Friedrich's full lips and Albrecht will feel a strange heat pooling in his belly and he'll look down again, his cheeks burning.
Friedrich never notices.
And Albrecht doesn't know if he should be glad about it.
All this changes, though, when he invites Friedrich home to his father's birthday.
Because it's all for nothing when he's facing Friedrich in the boxing ring in his father's cellar, his own fists raised in a farce of Friedrich's powerful stance, asking - no, begging him with his eyes to finally give in, to give himself up to this madness created by his father's egomaniac ways fuelled by his comrades' laughter and hoots, crowding the stuffy air around them. When he sees Friedrich's fear and confusion and worry, something boils hotly in Albrecht's belly and he chooses the only way out of all this - to tear down everything that they created so carefully and lovingly between them with a charge borne out of hopeless fury at everyone, at his father, at his cronies lapping up every word and suggestion, at his frail mother, and at Friedrich.
Because Friedrich made him feel like this, this weird hot feeling in his belly and dreams at night that he remembers with a hot pang when he's brushing up against Friedrich, feeling the strength contained in the lithe frame. Because Friedrich doesn't know what he's doing with his looks, the summer-blue eyes open and warm and trusting, too trusting, and that blinding smile with the dimples that gets bestowed on Albrecht far too often. Because Friedrich has decided that Albrecht is the one he comes to when he's feeling down because he misses his family, or when he has to admit that he isn't too good at spelling words and needs help with his essays, or when he just wants to talk about grand future plans which always involve the two of them, and it's all just so damn unfair.
So damn unfair that Friedrich has taken Albrecht's friendship, cautiously granted, and turned it into something bigger than itself, something that is too much for Albrecht and not at all for Friedrich, and Albrecht continues to hit Friedrich again and again, feeling hot tears threatening to spill out of the corners of his eyes as he yells at him to fight, to show his true side and, in a strange but nevertheless fitting juxtaposition, to prove and disprove everything they are. Were. And will be.
When Friedrich's right hook comes straight at him, it's almost a blessing. Almost, and Albrecht gives in, gives everything up as his legs buckle under him and he hits the floor, this one quick second lasting a terrible eternity. He has sacrificed the most important thing in his life, and it's all been for nothing, for his father who has won again and won't it ever end?
When he's gathered himself up with the help of the rough hands of one of his father's cronies, he stumbles away to his room but can't help catching a glimpse of Friedrich getting hugged by his father who's laughing with pride and has forgotten all about his one son. It should hurt but it doesn't - yet, as the physical pain numbs the mental, his head throbbing and he steadies himself on the wall as a bout of dizziness threatens to overtake him, but soldiers on, away from the raucous laughter and cheers fading away as he walks upstairs to his room.
The darkness envelopes him, caressing him as he peels away the shirt, letting it fall to the floor - the maid will lay out a new one in the morning for him - and crawls into bed, shedding the socks and then his shaking hands fumble with the belt. Finally the trousers are off and into a heap on the floor, somewhere in the near vicinity of the shirt, and Albrecht doesn't bother with the rest.
The blankets cool his hot skin and he curls up into a ball, his eyes scrunched shut, pressing his hot face into the thick eiderdown pillow, wishing he could just get smaller and smaller until he'd disappear, and no one would ever wonder where he's gone, not his father and not his mother, and Friedrich could take his place and it will be as if there never was an Albrecht Stein, and this thought comforts him in a strange way, a quiet pain tinged with wry acceptance.
Later, much later - he doesn't know how many hours it has been because he tried to find sleep and couldn't, shivering under the lukewarm clammy blankets - there's someone at his door, hesitant knocks on the sturdy wooden frame.
"Albrecht?"
Go away, he thinks, closing his eyes, go away. But of course Friedrich doesn't listen, and he feels the slight draft and hears steps nearing, just as careful as the knocking. Maybe, just maybe, he's already gone and Friedrich won't find him and -
the mattress dips, and then Friedrich's hands are on his body, points of pressure on his thigh and his shoulder, spreading blessed heat even though the thick blanket. "Albrecht? Are you asleep?"
Albrecht swallows a little sob that wanteds to escape his throat and shakes his head in answer, not trusting his voice to not quaver. The hand on his shoulder tightens and he feels Friedrich's hot breath fanning out over his ear, smelling the rawness of the vodka his father prefers. "I'm sorry, so sorry for hitting you, I -"
Friedrich's mouth feels hot and wet against his palm. They're so close, and Friedrich's so warm, and Albrecht wants more, wants with a deep yearning that burns in his belly. "It's fine," he whispers, "it's not your fault." Whose is it, then? Is it his father's fault for being a maniac with an ego that could rival Goering's and for being a man who preferred hands-on sport to bookish talks? Or is it Albrecht's fault for bringing Friedrich home with him, knowing perfectly well that his father would prefer the boxer boy with the easy grin to his own son, the dreamer and poet? In the end, none of it is Friedrich's fault.
Albrecht's palm is still resting against Friedrich's lips, warm and moist breath dampening his skin. When warm fingers curl around his hand and pull it away and down, he lets it happen, lets their fingers entangle. He lets Friedrich scoot closer, lets him put an arm around him, burrowing underneath his head, lets his head rest on Friedrich's chest. He lets it all happen, feeling strangely detached and yet as wide awake as he has ever been.
"I - I don't, I didn't want this to happen," Friedrich's fingers following the curve of Albrecht's jaw, brushing over his lips and coming to stop on his cheek, "I didn't want to hit you, ever, but, -"
"But I told you so," Albrecht says, his lips tingling from the soft touch. He resists the urge to lick his lips, to try to taste Friedrich, and he's thankful for the thick eiderdown that separates their bodies. He has always enjoyed Friedrich's easy openness, the careless friendly touches and nudges, and this is just the way the Berliner is, and of course a drunk Friedrich would be even less hesitant about touching another boy.
And while it's feeding the slow heavy burn in Albrecht's belly, the rational part of his mind points out coldly that this is not what he actually desires, not what he repeatedly dreams about, only to wake up wet and sticky. This is something else, and it's not fair to Friedrich, and so Albrecht says, "You're drunk, Friedrich, go back to your bed and sleep it off," gruffly enough that Friedrich will overhear the hidden silent plea.
"Don't want to," and then Friedrich's hand cups his cheek, warm and heavy and Albrecht closes his eyes at the sheer gentleness, starkly contrasting with the merciless strength that lies in these hands which he has witnessed himself. "Want to -"
"Friedrich." Albrecht doesn't want to talk, not at all, not when it's all so raw and so complicated and so confusing, especially like this, and he feels adrift even when he's being held tightly like this and he wants more, wants to feel, and this is when he blindly turns toward Friedrich.
The first touch of lips on lips is hesitant, but just when Albrecht pulls back, there's a sudden warm pressure on the back of his head, fingers scrabbling over his hair and Friedrich's lips close over his, warm and sure and - it has to be a dream, it just has -
- but then, it's also so overwhelmingly real, almost painfully so, especially when his lip gets caught in between Friedrich's teeth, and he hisses, licking over his lip instinctively to soothe the pain and suddenly Friedrich's tongue is there, too.
Albrecht gasps, but the sound is partly swallowed by Friedrich's tongue muffling it, licking into Albrecht's mouth and there are still faint traces of the goose they had for dinner, rounded off with a foreign sharp tang that has to be the vodka and whatever else Friedrich has drunk with his father.
Friedrich's hand tightens its grip on Albrecht's head and his tongue grows bolder with every feint and parry that it carries out, coaxing Albrecht's own out to duel, and Albrecht wonders where he has learnt to do that with a small pang of jealousy before he gets drawn into the passionate kiss, forgetting everything else, the circumstances that led to this build-up, their present and their future, much-dreaded.
They're caught in this short moment of eternity, breaths growing ragged and Albrecht feels himself getting hard, his dick swelling and throbbing in the close confines of his shorts and the twisted and tangled featherbed and he grinds down on Friedrich's thigh in between his, because it's what he needs to do, again and again, the kiss heating up and growing sloppier, saliva everywhere and their heartbeats are impossibly loud in the silence of the room, and it's too hot, and -
"Albrecht," whispered wetly against his lips, a hand coming to rest along his jawline, again with that impossibly careful gentleness, "I - are you -", and Albrecht nods, knowing what Friedrich wants to say, to ask, and presses a hard kiss onto the other boy's lips, softening it when Friedrich's lips open up under the assault.
He feels a hand tugging at the feather bed, trying to pull it out of the way, and after a few tugs that are rather ineffective because of the way Albrecht's wrapped into it and around Friedrich, he finds himself suddenly on his back again, blinking into the darkness because Friedrich's gone - no, he isn't, he's here, he's here, his whole body flush against Albrecht's. The cloth of Friedrich's trousers rubs against the bare skin of his legs as they get entangled with Friedrich's, and he groans when he feels a hot heavy weight against his belly, but then Friedrich's tongue is back in his mouth.
He feels as if fever has overtaken him, a sudden hot flare that engulfs his whole body and he gasps for air, his legs jittering and Friedrich's broad back is suddenly not enough for Albrecht to hold on to, it's all too much, kissing and touching and thrusting - they have somehow developed a rhythm, Albrecht bracing himself when Friedrich pushes down, feeling the damp spot on his lower belly spread, and then he's pushing up against Friedrich's hip almost like a dog in heat, and this comparison rushes what little blood is left in his body to his head as he suddenly realizes what they must look like, like this.
There's not much finesse involved, it isn't exactly what Albrecht had imagined, sometimes - blushing hard under the cover of darkness, not able to stop the sordid imagery playing out in his overactive mind - but right now, it's perfect, more than, and it's just what he wants, their inexperienced fumbling and the breathtaking kisses and the shared warmth. He's usually cold, so cold, but Friedrich never is, Friedrich is warm, as warm as the sun on a July day at midday.
Something coils up in him, hot and unforgiving and it has to give, and Albrecht draws Friedrich's tongue into his mouth as he puts a stutter into their rhythm, shuddering hard against the warm solid body on top, his hands fisting into Friedrich's thin undershirt, and suddenly everything springs free, like a wild swarm of birds soaring towards the sky, a bright mess of wings and beaks and claws, and Albrecht's body just gives out, all strength seeping out of him together with his release.
Friedrich's still hard against him and just when Albrecht has caught his breath again, blinking dazedly up - so this was what it was - he moves again with determination in every thrust, the hot length of his rubbing slickly in Albrecht's release. The pillow dips and stretches, and Albrecht knows - without having to see it - that Friedrich's hands are gripping it hard on either side, have to grip it that hard that his knuckles must be whitening, and when Friedrich's lips touch his, he readily opens up to the onslaught, still suffused by bliss.
Soon, all too soon, it's over as Friedrich bears down against him once, twice - and then slumps down with a big shudder as if he were a marionette whose threads have just been cut, the groan muffled against Albrecht's throat. A few more shallow thrusts that carry forth more spills of the wet hotness seeping through Friedrich's trousers and it's all over.
Albrecht's eyes are open although he still can't see anything, Friedrich's weight not having become too heavy for his slight frame yet, and he listens to their heartbeats evening out. The poet in him is already searching for the words how to adequately describe this event whereas the dreamer is content to live in the here and now, to savour everything. The sharp scent of Friedrich's sweat, mingled with his own, the faint remnants of Friedrich's taste in his mouth, Friedrich's sweaty strands plastered against his own cheek, the rise and fall of Friedrich's chest against his own, the short puffs of air against his throat, cooling his heated skin.
"I - Albrecht -" and his palm covers Friedrich's mouth again.
"It's okay," he whispers into the darkness. "It's okay."