Work Text:
He dreams of what he should have done.
In his dreams, he does not lose his head. In his dreams, he shakes away the hands of his comrades and jumps back into the hole in the ice. In his dreams, he dives until his lungs hurt and the cold permeates his very bones. In his dreams, his outstretched fingers grab one of Albrecht's cold hands. In his dreams, he is strong enough to drag his friend back to the surface, and as if by miracle, they find the hole again, and soon the grey winter sky is above them, and their breath rises in clouds in the cold air. In his dreams, Christoph and the others take Albrecht's shivering form from his frozen arms, rub him dry and lead them to their room in the castle. In his dreams, they lie down on their cots and span the distance between their beds with their arms, link their fingers, never let go, and Albrecht smiles at him despite his chattering teeth.
Here, his dreams end. It doesn't matter whether they are both dismissed from the Napola in disgrace, sent to the Eastern Front, thrown into the cells in the basement or disciplined severely in another way by an enraged Gauleiter.
Sometimes, he thinks even dying together would have been almost unbearably sweet.
The night before the boxing match, he doesn't dream.
That's when he knows he has already decided.
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