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A horrible, piercing beeping slowly crept into Friedrich’s consciousness. He had an overwhelming urge to yell at whoever had left that annoying, squealing machine right next to him while he slept.
His eyes began to open slowly, but it took a tremendous amount of effort — as if someone had poured glue over his eyelids.
When he finally managed to crack them open just a little, a blinding white light pierced through the narrow slits. It was even worse than the beeping.
Why would anyone turn on that awful, cold lamp right above his bed while he was sleeping?
He tried to open his mouth to say everything he was thinking, but his lips refused to cooperate — all that came out was a weak, muffled “hmm.”
His second attempt at opening his eyes went a bit better. Above him, a white ceiling slowly came into focus — with the same blinding lamp that had dragged him out of his blissful sleep.
He let his gaze drop and noticed he was covered by a white blanket. The walls around him were white too.
Why is everything so sterile and white? Did I die? Is this… heaven?
The only thing that stood out against all that whiteness was a black television mounted on the wall, staring straight at him.
Some colorful images flickered on the screen.
Do they have TVs in heaven?
Suddenly, he felt a pleasant, calming weight on his hair. It made him close his eyes in satisfaction. Someone was gently stroking his head.
But the weight disappeared quickly, and he opened his eyes again, trying to find the source of that comforting touch.
Turning his head to the side, he saw another figure — one that wasn’t white.
It was a man in a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves and dark chestnut hair. He was sitting on a white chair, and his light blue eyes looked at Friedrich with slight concern.
— You’re not white, Friedrich mumbled with a tangled tongue.
— What? — the dark-haired man asked, finally smiling. The worry in his eyes slowly began to fade, replaced by mild confusion.
— I said, you’re not white, Friedrich repeated, as if stating something completely obvious. Like “two plus two equals four.”
Albrecht lowered his head and let out a quiet chuckle. — Ah, that’s what the doctor warned me about.
— What’s a doctor? — Friedrich asked seriously, raising his eyebrows. A little wrinkle of confusion appeared between them.
It seemed to him that he was speaking clearly and understandably, though in reality, his voice sounded like a slowed-down recording — slow, drawn-out, and slurred. Albrecht had to strain to catch the meaning of each sentence.
The handsome man with chestnut hair started explaining something — about the surgeon who had performed an operation on him a few hours earlier.
But Friedrich was no longer listening.
A sudden tingling in his leg distracted him — the familiar sensation after sitting too long in one position, when movement feels like a thousand needles piercing your skin.
— Ow! — he cried.
— What happened? — the expression on the dark-haired man’s face instantly turned serious again.
— Leg, — Friedrich said shortly.
Albrecht glanced from his eyes to his leg and back again, a few times, as if trying to assess the situation. Then he quickly pulled the blanket aside and looked — everything seemed normal.
— What’s wrong with it?
— It hurts, — Friedrich mumbled.
At that moment, he felt cool, gentle hands touch his leg. He flinched at the unexpected cold, even let out a soft gasp, but soon the careful, soothing strokes along his numb leg began to bring relief — and a strange kind of comfort.
His face relaxed into a sleepy smile. — Thank you… Who are you?
— I’m your husband, Albrecht replied patiently, gently covering him with the blanket again.
In that instant, somewhere in his chest and throat — deep inside himself — Friedrich felt a sudden, warm rush of happiness. He let out a quiet giggle.
His eyes darted across the ceiling, the smile faded, and in a slightly offended tone he said:
— I don’t remember our wedding.
Albrecht scratched the back of his head, clearly thrown off. Friedrich’s sudden shifts in emotion — from touched to offended in a matter of seconds — both confused and amused him.
And his questions… they came one after another, so odd and unexpected that Albrecht simply couldn’t keep up with answers.
— Oh! Wait… — he said suddenly and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a black leather wallet and carefully opened it.
His face changed at once — for a moment, his eyes softened with such genuine tenderness that even Friedrich, half-dazed as he was, couldn’t miss it.
Albrecht took out a small photograph and handed it to him. — Here.
Friedrich looked at the picture. It had been taken at night, somewhere outdoors. The soft, warm glow of yellow streetlights lit up the darkness like thousands of fireflies, creating a cozy atmosphere — nothing like the cold, blinding light of the hospital lamp.
In the center of the picture stood the two of them. Both were dressed in dark blue suits, though Friedrich wasn’t wearing a jacket — just a vest over a shirt with a few buttons undone.
The picture had likely been taken with a regular phone — the image was slightly grainy, but that only made it feel warmer, more alive.
Friedrich examined it closely: his hands were resting on Albrecht’s waist, while Albrecht’s arms were wrapped around his shoulders.
They were standing so close that it was easy to tell — this was a moment from a slow dance. A moment someone had captured by chance.
His gaze dropped — to the hand holding the picture. On Albrecht’s ring finger was a black wedding band with a thin silver stripe running through the middle.
— Did it come back to you? — Albrecht asked gently, tucking the photo back into his wallet and turning his attention to Friedrich.
— Um… was our wedding outdoors? — Friedrich asked, his voice uncertain as if a memory was slowly surfacing.
— Yes, — Albrecht nodded and placed his hand over Friedrich’s, softly stroking it. A wave of warmth spread through Friedrich’s body — such a simple touch, and yet so full of tenderness.
— And did we have a big cake with little toppers on it?
— Yes… well, except for the toppers.
— Why weren’t there any toppers?
— I… I don’t know. I don’t remember, — Albrecht said with a helpless shrug.
— I want one with toppers.
— It’s too late for that, love. You know that, right? The wedding was seven years ago.
— Then we need to have another wedding, Friedrich replied stubbornly, like a child who had decided not to back down.
Albrecht dropped his head, hiding a smile. There was something absurdly touching about how a grown, 35-year-old man was genuinely upset over the lack of little toppers on a wedding cake. — How are you feeling?
— Desperately thirsty, — Friedrich groaned, shutting his eyes. His mouth felt so dry, it was as if he had spent days wandering the desert.
Albrecht gently ran his fingers through Friedrich’s light hair again, brushing his fringe back in wide, relaxed strokes. —Not yet, my love. The doctor said no water for now.
He reached for the remote and turned the volume on the TV up slightly. The room filled with soft but familiar sounds — the roar of a crowd. An excited commentator’s voice rose above the noise.
Friedrich opened his eyes as a familiar rhythm broke through the haze — a steady thump-thump, mixed with the distant hum of the crowd. He slowly turned his gaze toward the screen — and froze.
Under the harsh lights of the ring, two boxers circled each other, lunging in and out with calculated strikes. And one of them — light hair soaked in sweat, tousled and gleaming under the spotlights, blue shorts with a silver stripe — was him.
Him.
Friedrich.
Punch, dodge, another punch — and the commentator’s voice rang out in the background:
“…and there it is — Friedrich Weimer’s signature move — lightning fast! And look how he catches his opponent with the counter! You’ve got to see this!”
And then — his face. Filling the entire screen. Focused. Determined. Angry.
Friedrich blinked, feeling a strange mix of pride and surprise. Like he was seeing himself from the outside for the very first time.
Like that fight had been a dream.
Or maybe… this was the dream?
He shifted his gaze to Albrecht, who was watching him silently — with the same tenderness he’d had a few minutes earlier, when holding the photograph.
— I… I look cool, Friedrich whispered.
Albrecht smiled.
— You’ve always been cool, love.
Between rounds, the broadcast suddenly changed. Instead of the fight, black-and-white footage appeared on the screen — rows of young men in military uniforms, identical haircuts, straight backs, stern faces. Flags fluttered in the wind, and marching columns moved in formation across the frame.
A woman’s voice spoke:
“A documentary about the elite Napola boarding schools. How ideology, discipline, and loyalty were shaped from an early age. Watch this Sunday at 9 PM on our channel.”
Friedrich slowly turned his head toward Albrecht.
— What do you think… if we had lived back then… would they have taken us in? — he asked seriously, his tone oddly at odds with the childlike nature of the question.
— Umm… — Albrecht was once again caught off guard by one of Friedrich’s strange, unexpected questions.
— I don’t know.
— Well, they definitely wouldn’t have taken you, Friedrich said calmly, studying his hand as if seeing it for the first time — and smiled when he noticed a matching ring on his finger, just like Albrecht’s.
— Why’s that? — Albrecht asked, raising his voice slightly, already bracing himself for something odd.
— You’re too… soft, Friedrich said, but with tenderness.
They liked everything strict there — order, marching, command and execution. And you’re the kind of person who strokes my hair and worries because I’m not allowed to have water. How would you survive in Napola?
He giggled, looking at Albrecht through half-lidded eyes.
— You know, if I had really wanted to get in, I would’ve gotten in, Albrecht said, his voice rising.
— Yeah, sure. And a week later they’d throw you out for excessive empathy and overly kind eyes.
Albrecht opened his mouth to answer — but just then the door creaked open, and a nurse quietly stepped into the room. Tall, tired, dressed in a white coat.
— Gentlemen, she said almost in a whisper, but with enough authority to make both of them freeze, - This is a hospital. It’s nighttime. People are trying to rest, and you two are throwing a party.
Albrecht immediately dropped any comeback, hunched his shoulders like a schoolboy caught cheating, and mumbled — My apologies. We’ll be quiet.
Then he covered his face with his hand and sighed. — I just got into an argument with a man who was under anesthesia a few hours ago.
Friedrich smiled without opening his eyes — smugly, like he’d just won something important. Albrecht sighed, then leaned over and poked him in the shoulder with his finger. Not hard, but definitely pointed — a quiet “That’s for your smart mouth.”
It was the only way to retaliate without waking up half the hospital.
— Albrecht?
— Yeah?
— I still want a cake with toppers, — Friedrich mumbled sleepily.
Albrecht smiled. The idea of a wedding cake with little figures seemed ridiculous — especially at three in the morning in a hospital room.
But with nothing else to do, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened a browser, and typed:
“Wedding cake and cake toppers”