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Albert didn't really know why he suddenly bought a pair of knitting needles and several skeins of dark blue, gray, and red wool. He just wanted to make a handmade Christmas gift for his family. But he wasn't nearly as good as Louis when it came to cooking. So, on impulse, he picked up some knitting supplies, thinking he could try to make a winter gift.
That night, after Louis had fallen asleep and William was resting, Albert lit the oil lamp on his desk. He opened a slim book on household crafts he'd borrowed from the library and flipped to the chapter on knitting. The simple illustrations showed deft hands holding needles, yarn looping neatly into patterns. Albert tried to follow both the drawings and the instructions.
At first, the needles felt stiff in his hands. He gripped them too tightly, and the yarn ended up tangling on itself. More than once the thread slipped, or a stitch unraveled, leaving him with nothing but a messy tangle that looked like yarn pretending to be fabric. His first attempt ended with a long, heavy sigh. He told himself he'd try again tomorrow.
On the second night, he tried loosening his grip, paying closer attention to the book and being more patient. Still, the result was a disaster. The yarn coiled around his fingers and frustrated him to no end. For a moment, he considered giving up on knitting anything for William and Louis but Christmas was coming fast, and maybe he should prepare a different gift instead.
And in the nights that followed, he kept stealing time once the house was quiet. Slowly, his fingers began to adapt. His first stitches were uneven, some leaving gaping holes. But one by one, the rows began to take shape. The cloth wasn’t neat, far from it, but Albert could at least call it fabric.
It took him nearly three weeks to finish a single simple scarf. The deep red wool had turned into a long strip full of imperfections. Holes here and there. Sections too stiff from tight stitching, others too loose and flimsy. And yet, when Albert held it in his hands, it was warm.
It was the first thing he’d ever knitted himself.
After that, Albert wanted to get better. He wanted to make something more than a scarf, something William and Louis could actually use without it falling apart.
William had looked genuinely happy when he received the scarf. But it wore out quickly because he used it so often. Albert noticed how his brother chose to keep the fraying scarf rather than throw it away. That small gesture made Albert want to knit something sturdier, something that wouldn't fall apart so easily.
A blanket. That was what he wanted to make next.
The reason was simple. Even late at night, Albert often found the faint glow of William's lamp leaking out from under the door of his room or study. More than once, Albert knocked only to find William sitting with an open book or staring absently out the window, lost in thought.
William had a habit of staying up far too late. His body was fragile, but his mind never seemed to rest. Albert knew it wasn't good for his health, but he also knew it was useless to forbid him. William always insisted he was fine. Words Albert had heard far too often and rarely believed.
Knitting a blanket was going to be much harder than a scarf or gloves. The size, the amount of yarn and the patience required. He wouldn't be able to finish it in weeks. It would take months.
He started the project the very next day. He went to the shop and chose the best wool he could find. He picked a pale cream shade with soft gray undertones—colors that felt right for William's quiet simplicity. His fingers brushed over each skein, making sure the yarn was smooth yet sturdy, something that wouldn't fall apart easily.
Back in his study, he sat down with the large needles in hand. Sometimes his fingers cramped, sometimes the yarn rubbed his skin raw, but he kept going. There were times he miscounted the pattern and ended up with stitches too loose, forcing him to unravel hours of work. Frustration was frequent, but his resolve never faltered.
Once, Moran caught him at it. He leaned against the doorway with a half-smirk.
"You're really serious about this, huh?"
"Of course. A gift for Will has to be special, he'll use it more often than anything else he gets."
"…Why does it sound like you're bragging?"
Albert didn't deny it. He was bragging. Other than Louis, he wanted William's time more than anyone else’s. He couldn't help resenting how often William spent his quiet hours with the others instead of with him—though Albert had no one to blame but his military duties. So he knitted with one thought in mind if William had this blanket, then even in those long nights, he'd still be with him.
Seasons shifted. Winter to spring, spring to the edge of summer. Night by night, stitch by stitch, the blanket grew longer. By the time the next winter loomed, Albert finally held the finished piece in his hands. A large, heavy blanket with a simple but tidy pattern. The color was soft, the stitches firm, and when touched, it felt both warm and smooth.
That night, like so many others, he found William sitting near the fireplace, his eyes dulled from days of sleeplessness. He looked as though he was either nursing a headache or carrying the weight of some heavy thought.
Albert approached, carrying the blanket he'd kept hidden in his wardrobe for a week, along with some sweets and tea to ease his brother's night.
"Will," he called softly.
William turned to him. "What is it, brother?"
Albert didn't answer right away. Instead, he carefully draped the blanket over William's shoulders and lap. William stilled, his fingers brushing the warm fabric. His eyes widened, then softened with a light Albert rarely saw.
"You made this yourself?"
"I did. For you. So you won't feel cold on the nights you stay up too late."
And so maybe the nightmares you've carried can finally fade.