Right.

You hold his head against your chest tightly. You can't explain why he's suddenly crying—maybe because of the children, and you can't blame him. You want to believe those tears are shed because he's afraid he's going to have to miss you. It's a vain hope.

You can still feel the boy live under your fingertips. His blood still stains your hands—how could you have let it come so far? Why did you always feel a need to live up to your father... how could you not have known? Your father isn't evil—or at least, you don't want to think of his as evil. But perhaps he is, because they'd been so small. Still so young, unarmed. If your father truly believed in the cause, he wouldn't have felt the need to lie about who the Russians really were. If he knew it was good, he would've told you straight out that it were children and that they were to be shot at sight. Maybe he felt guilty about all of this—just like you—and you'd like to believe that, but you can't. Because guilt is something a human being feels. Your father has long since been human. He's a monster.

The boy cries against your chest still and you carefully comb your fingers through his hair. You want to think of all the things you could be saying right now—all the things that could make this better. But the truth is, there isn't possibly anything that could make this right. Nothing whatsoever. And you know it—and he knows it, and it's fucking scary to be in this place where you know it's all wrong and messed up. It's scary to be stuck here, between obligation and common-sense and you've never felt so scared in your whole entire life, but at least you're not alone. No. He's with you—and that makes it a bit better.

Which means nothing whatsoever. Because whatever is going on, it's above you, above this, and nothing will make it right. Nothing can fix this. And how is that fair? It's not, and you know—he knows, and it makes it easier to breathe, you suppose. His tears stain your shirt and you know you'll never forget the places his tears touched. You can feel the wetness against your chest and it burns holes into your soul—because if this is enough to make even Friedrich—strong Friedrich, always sober and open-minded and perfect—break down, how can you survive? How do you breathe, when it's all too much to bear, when the very things your father believes in are breaking you down—how do I breathe?

And it's because of Friedrich. He cries against your chest, and you know. It's because of him. He makes everything perfect—even this hellhole, where right is wrong and wrong is right. Even now, when his tears burn your skin, it's really just his bright smile radiating against your shirt. It's messed up but he'll turn that frown upside down and oh, Friedrich. Everything you feel for him should be wrong.

It's just that he makes it so right—like he does everything else. And when he looks up with his teary blue eyes, and kisses your lips, you know it's right. And maybe it's the only thing that will ever be.

AN: If you haven't seen Napola—sometimes called 'before night falls'—it's not a good idea to read the fic, since you'd be at a total loss. I should've said that at the begining... ah well. Let me know what you thought nonetheless.