Author's Note:

Oh Good lord, it would appear I'm at it again. I guess I can't seem to leave the two alone ;).

This is just one of the couple of F/A centric stories I have in progress. I spend so much time drafting and writing these stories only to grow all self conscious and be too nervous to post them. I've even started neglecting my own original writing, I love this pairing so much!

I would really, really appreciate feedback as I begin to add later chapters, because sometimes I feel I do a bad job keeping them in character/remembering that this all takes place in a highly prestigeous National Socialist academy.

I feel I give them way too much free time ;). I have many chapters finished, and will upload them in the following days to come...

und jetzt ein Bisschen Deutsch ;). Diese Geschichte will ich auch mal uebersetzen - Deutsch ist aber nicht meine Muttersprache, und daher wird's auch eine Weile dauern bis ich alles uebersetzt hab. Ich will das zwar uebersetzen weil ich mein Deutsch bzw mein "Creative Writing" (wie sagt man das auf Deutsch eigentlich?) ueben...

On with the story:

Chapter one

I never meant for him to discover those notes. And now that things have gotten so much more real, impossible to take back, I wish I'd never written them. That emotions once so easily pushed away, with the force of denial propelling them, have become relentless gargantuan roars in BOTH our minds, well, I can only reiterate, I never meant for those notes to be found.

I could tell Friedrich had to get used to the newspaper room. As a poor Berliner boy who'd only known the manual aspects of a physically oriented life, I could tell it took him some time to adjust to the quaint silence of hearing his thoughts; the quiet room, with the window, the typewriter, the long wooden table...

At first the inky smells and clacks and my noisy musings festered and irritated at his nerves like some sort of an allergy, but as he grew closer to me, the newspaper room neared his heart just as swiftly.

The light brown door with the intricate iron castings that swirled along its edge was always bolted and shut. It was more or less my private room, for no one else has such an interest in the production of the school newspaper as myself. Only once we became better friends did Friedrich begin going into the hitherto deserted but roomy quarters, for that was where he was bound to find me.

I was an idiot for not taking better care to clean the newspaper room, especially considering Friedrich's visits evolved from pleasant rarities to necessary constants; at first Friedrich only needed someone to edit his essays, and suddenly the spellings of our language were so carelessly tossed away in favour of our distracting and enticing conversations—ones that lasted until well into the early hours of morning when we'd let time escape us.

And that's the thing; time seemed to stop and outright disappear every minute I spent with the boy who was rapidly becoming my first and only best friend. It was hardly any sort of noticeable moment before those conversations morphed into whole entire thought processes and exchanges, which in turn slowly faded to shy smiles and blushing eyes, to soft laughs, and hot cheeks if one of us forgot to avert a gaze that went a second too long.

It seems quite careless, and only because it was careless. It was an unspoken routine that Friedrich would come find me shortly after dinner in the room, where we could spend time together without the other boys and their scrutinous jeers and accusations. Together, we were without the pressures of our elite destinies drilling into our minds and innocence. I would dim the lamp so its light wouldn't interfere with the natural aura of the setting sun, which we would watch every night, our awe for those twilight shaded bows and arches of night never dwindling no matter how many times we'd seen them.

Then the sky was black, and I knew nothing but Friedrich Weimer. The sweet, open, friendly yet powerful blonde had my attention from the moment our eyes met. And that is why I am in this mess.

I'd shown him my essays and mountains of poetry, scribbled stanzas and edited lines not causing him to blink even an eye. Through showing him my journals and sporadic ideas, I'd become so comfortable with him knowing everything my mind had ever known, felt, and concluded.

My feelings about this Napola, our fates, Germany's iron will, the Führer, to whom I'd sworn "total allegiance" somewhere around my seventh or eighth birthday. About animals and the sea and sky and history and literature, and other nations and cultures. I'd trusted him with ideas and wishes no matter how silly and pointless they were; he always seemed so captivated no matter what, and it was with that same captivation I'd listen to him when he told me his' thoughts.

But no matter how close two boys get, they always have their secrets; and herein comes the act where I play the fool; I'd written these secrets down.

I was in love with Friedrich. It didn't take long—around October, perhaps? As much as I enjoyed and cared about the other boys, I wanted to be with only a certain one. I hated it when he would spend too much time with Siggi or Christoph, for I too was well aware of their enticing smiles and their good looks. Hefe's jokes and warm personality, I felt, brought a colour to Friedrich's cheeks that made me in turn just as flushed with envy.

All this worrying meant nothing, however, because no matter how dashing Christoph grinned, or how hard Hefe had Friedrich laughing, his eyes would lower, only to dart back up to meet mine, narrowed in a nameless affection meant only for me. Our eyes would catch, and our faces would weaken, our eyes would fall soft, and we were in a world all our own.

Too many occasions had Friedrich lied to the boys who'd invited us both to do many things about the amount of homework and studying he had, only to meet me in the newspaper room, not a drop of energy expended on educational stimulus.

I'd become so careless and exposed that I'd begun to dictate my growing feelings for this boy onto paper, and I would feel so warm and okay, and my father's cruel words and sayings meant nothing in those moments; my mind knew and wanted nothing more than Friedrich.

We'd been talking about my writing, about how my father thought my works weren't worth reading and how my mother claimed they were masterpieces without ever having read a line before; Friedrich smiled brightly as he asked if it would be okay for him to read an essay or two; naturally I said yes but leave it to me to hand him the letters and not an essay that didn't reveal my deepest feelings for him.

I spared in those love letters of longing admittance not a detail of my admiration for him; thus one can imagine how painfully embarrassing it was for me when he began to read them, his grin slowly faltering into an emotionless husk of silent shock, his brows crinkling in as each stanza pounded into his mind just how much I love him.

I'd stood, frozen and ashamed, but when I thought he was to turn and leave, when those painful seconds leading up to the meeting of our eyes after he'd read them—he smiled. He simply smiled. It was sincere and heartmelting, and never before had I felt such genuine affection and emotion from someone so wonderful.

We didn't speak, we just smiled.

That was three days ago.

Of course things have gotten rather strained since my unintentional confession. We haven't spoken at all, something I definitely don't observe thanks to coincidence. I'd scolded him for his viciousness in the ring two days ago, for being so ruthless and cruel. I reluctantly went to his boxing match, but couldn't stay due to the inexplicable and irrational jealousy that flooded my limbs as I watched Christoph and Herr Vogler wipe the sweat from his bruising body and caress him confidently. That and his harshness in the ring had made me rather angry as well.

I can tell he knows I was bothered, even if I don't mean to be. I knew these were silly reasons to be so flustered, I truly did.

I gulp as I round the corner, toward the showers—I know he has to be there, says my instinct. He tended to be there, I'd begun to notice, for it remained a hiding space from the instructors and unwanted interaction in general.

I'm careful not to let my boots echo too loudly, afraid their resonance would end up scaring him away in moody irritation. Instead I approach the blonde carefully, who looks out the window, shoulders slumped as his arms lean against the sil of the window for support.

I tuck my hands in my pockets, making sure to near him with a careful silence so as to warn him of my approach while trapping him in it at the same time. I feign a nonchalant leaning against the tiled wall, Friedrich hoisting himself from the sil and facing me.

I keep my eyes darted on the white floor, anxious and uncertain as to how to approach "this"—whatever the Hell "this" was—for the last words exchanged were indeed heated, and to carry on as if they had simply been lukewarm would seem tactless. To ignore those words, I think, would simply be more awkward than if I were to address the fact that I felt so terrible about it all, and God he's so handsome, and God I'm so confused...

"What you did, earlier, to Peiner " I begin, my tone quiet, and only now do I trust my eyes to lift and meet his.

"That was really brave of you..." I whisper, falling silent and awaiting his response.

He looks to the side, silent, his aura heavy, lost in thought, as if he thinks I'm lying, or making it up.

"Friedrich," I begin, feeling at this point that I might as well just apologise to him for giving him such a hard time two days ago, as if he could have done any different than to hit that boy—even if I don't approve of such violent sports.

"I'm sorry about the other day," I can barely hear my own voice; the air is still stilted with his contemplative weight and I can see his lips smile, just slightly, and it brings me to blush I grow internally embarrassed, my weakness for him knowing no bounds...

He shakes his head, smiling everstill.

"Yeah, about Peiner—I mean, I didn't want' to hit him, but—" and I stop myself from grinning, because Friedrich's eyes scan mine, silently begging for my approval.

Of course he wanted to hit him, but that he would say otherwise to simply make me feel better...

"He asked for it," I smile outright, and I step closer to him as Friedrich smiles fully as well, those dimples setting into his skin, and I swear I melt through this very floor...

Yet of course this awkward sort of shuffle, laced with the burning question of "what should I do or say?" still hinders our speech, our voices quiet, and our demeanors are not as carefree as when we were simply friends—not that we're anything different now.

We are nothing official, after all, considering that we'd fought quite nastily no more than 48 hours after growing aware of the other's feelings by accident; of course leaving us with no time to discuss where to take our friendship or whether or not it was best to end it before we grew more irresistible than we already are...

I've fallen in love with him, but rationale still remains king to my methodical sense of cognition; to stop the relationship now, before it developed any further, would be most wise. My father doubts my worthiness as is; if he were to ever figure out how I feel about Friedrich, there's no doubt he would outright disown me...

And thus it is some sort of uncomfortable, unapproachable status that neither best friends nor boyfriends would interact in. I feel even strangers would interact with each other in a warmer than our dispositions these past few days.

"Would you like to come home with me this weekend?" I ask suddenly, and Friedrich can't help but turn to face me completely, meeting my own confident gaze.

"My father is celebrating his birthday," I add with a sheepish quietness.

A few seconds go by, and I swear I can see Friedrich think before nodding.

"I'd love to..." and it only hits me now that I can hear the pitch of his warm voice again and I feel the tension between us draining.

"Then you know to bring a suitcase, I'm leavi—we're leaving tomorrow morning,"

Friedrich nods.

"So then that means we get out of Friday lessons?" he asks, and I smile at his hopefulness, his eyes so bright...

"I guess so."

And we stand silent, but this silence has a prickly static to it, an almost positive' tension, and I know both of us are holding back an onslaught of just emotion, feeling, things we want to say and yet, even as the dreaming writer I may be, no means to say it—

"I've to go...essay," I blush, Friedrich nodding curtly.

"I'll see you at dinner," I whisper, because it would be tacky if I were to fall to my feet and beg for him to please sit next to me like always, and not sandwiched in between Hefe and Christoph—

"Albrecht..."

And I can't take another step through the doorway when his voice reaches my ears. I turn around, curiously awaiting his question.

"The letters, that I found—saw—read—accidentally—" he blushes, and he stutters a little, and it is damn near the sweetest thing I've ever seen.

"Is that really...how you feel about me?"

I nod. And he smiles.

Our eyes remain caught in a dreamy tug of war, Friedrich wrapping his arm around my shoulder. And we walk out together. It may not be hand in hand, or locked in a kiss, but it's with him; it's a start.


Alright, so what do y'all think? Lemmie know :)