Work Text:
He dreams of Friedrich at night. The dreams are loaded with meanings, heavy in silence. He dreams of him and wakes up in the morning with an aching cock, not knowing at first why, but gradually, over the course of the day, fleeting images of Friedrich in the dream would enter his mind, haltingly at first.
While Dr Vogler drones on about the superiority of the Aryan race – Friedrich lies on Albrecht's bed and smiles at him, cheeks dimpling, hands folded behind his head.
Reading 'De bello gallico'. They are outside in the trench, alone. Standing that close to each other that their breaths mingle. He extends his hand, hesitantly at first, touching Friedrich's uniform's lapels. Trailing down over the sword belt. And this is when Friedrich's broad, big hand closes over his, warm, his thumb stroking the back of his hand softly. Softly gasping inwards, he quickly sneaks a look at his friend, sitting next to him and engrossed in the Latin passages.
He doesn't know what came over him, to think of his friend like that. He has read about the old Greeks - how could he not, being what he is: the literature-loving pacifist – or the bookish weakling, to put it in the crude words of his father.
He knows that they – the Greeks of old – weren't averse to men loving men. When he first read about it, it was at first a source of shocked fascination to him – fascination, because he hadn't known until then that such a thing could be possible; that a man could love another truly in every sense of the word.
He can't remember feeling like this about another boy before. Sure, he has admired the physique of other boys working up a sweat exercising, seeing the sheen glisten on their chests, following the flow of corded thigh muscles. But like he said, it always was just admiration – and maybe some envy at their athleticism that he did not possess. Nothing more.
Bending over his plate, cutting up the schnitzel. He's alone in his room, pages and pages and pages, half-finished beginnings and ends scattered everywhere, scribbling furiously, searching for the right words to tell his story. A warm breath next to his ear, hands massaging his cramped shoulders, and he lets the pen fall from his hand. Leans back, back into the comfort that is Friedrich. The hands continue their slow, sensual massage. Dipping into his collar, trailing along his exposed neck. Opening the first button.
He shudders inwardly, stopping the passage of the fork to his mouth. It felt so real. And just in that moment, unconsciously looking up to Friedrich sitting across him, he meets the other's eyes. Albrecht feels strangely exposed, as if his dream's self longing is written across his face. A faint blush is creeping up Friedrich's face – almost as if he could recognize the longing, as if he could see the dream's snatches playing out in Albrecht's eyes, and a shard of fear cuts through Albrecht's dazed mind. But then Friedrich's mouth stretches into a quick smile, gone in a blink, and his friend is bending over his plate again, mashing up the potatoes.