He puts the book down. Breathes. Brushes hay off of his pants. Looks up at the sky, up through the hole in the roof of the hayloft. Little stars twinkling, just barely. The hole isn't that big. He leans against a bale of hay and just breathes. Listens to the crickets. He should probably be getting home soon. He had told Mother that he was going to be back by dark, and it was certainly after dark by now…the sky looked almost black. But the book was so good.
His fingers curl around the book, closed on his index finger to save his place. He refuses to dog-ear a book page. He remembers page numbers, where he left off. He reads six books at a time and can remember each page he had left off on. They mattered so much to him. He was willing to put in effort.
He sighs. He hasn't done his homework yet. 80 lines of Virgil and however many equations. He can probably copy from someone tomorrow. Hanschen would have everything right but he would never let him. Ernst would too, but Hanschen wouldn't let Ernst help him. Maybe Otto or Georg. He could feign sleepiness if they had gotten anything wrong on him. Moritz wasn't even an option.
Sweet little Moritz. He couldn't remember the last time he had brought Moritz to his hayloft. As soon as he would enter the dusty place, it was relaxation, home, his muscles warmed and loosened and he could feel. He would sit down on the hay, crack open a book, and become. Moritz would talk, and talk, become nauseous at the sight of words on a page. He loves him. He truly does. But he could smack him, kick him, beat the sense into him. Stupid little Moritz. Why couldn't he see the light already?
He feels bad for these thoughts. He shakes his head and tries to open the book again. He can't focus. He wants to talk to Moritz. He could visit him tonight. Climb up to his window, knock on the glass. Smile as the boy jumped from the sudden sound, and scrambled to open the door. Moritz would smile that smile, that sweet smile. He always wanted to kiss him. Those lips, chapped, bitten, Moritz always bit his lips when he cried. His eyes stained with red, blood raising to the surface from the tears all wiped away, stained with black, from the fear of sleeping. Moritz never found a break. No solace. Melchior could find solace in his arms. His company. Nobody made him feel like Moritz.
He takes a deep breath in and looks up again, up at the stars, away from his words that made his best friend cringe.
Hanschen, self-proclaimed Otto von Bismarck, could read. Definitely. He imagines him sitting, in that room he had been in once to pick up homework that had been passed around to nearly every boy in the school. Dark room, bed, pictures on the wall. Nothing much. Books. He saw books. Hanschen was an intellectual, just like him. Just like him. He and Hanschen weren't too different. Maybe he could take him to his hayloft. Put up with the rude remarks. Sit down next to the boy and live. Breathe.
Ernst could hold his own, he guessed, too. He remembered overhearing Hanschen calling him a sentimentalist multiple times in the past. He could imagine laying in the hay with Ernst, looking up through the hole in the sky, or maybe going out to the field by the hayloft to get a better view of the night sky. There would be stars. Lots of stars, brighter than this night. They could talk, or they could just lay there and enjoy each other. Ernst seemed like a dreamer, kind of spacey. Melchior could enjoy that. Someone to absorb him. Ernst was like a sponge to him. Soft-spoken because he listened more often. He was sweet. He would accept him.
Otto would laugh. They would sit up, not lie down, legs crossed and laugh at each other. Bring a smile to his face. Otto was funny, amusing a lot of the time. He was honest; he would tell him the weirdest things and expect him not to tell anybody, even though Melchior always went ratting off to Moritz, who would undoubtedly scream his responses in the silence of the classroom. Otto never seemed to mind though. He was open. He seemed to expect it.
Georg was an intellectual too. He could just feel it, even if the boy didn't seem like it. He played music, that was a feat. Melchior could read books, he could understand sentences, phrases, emotions displayed through wordplay. Georg could look at dots on a paper and create something beautiful. Melchior always had to think before he wrote something. Georg could slip his fingers across ivory and create a masterpiece, be a masterpiece.
Or a girl. Any girl, he hadn't seen any in so long. Sit. Talk, see if she was mindless and guided by her hormones or truly interested in conversation. He could woo her with words, make her swoon, or expect a roll of her eyes and a one-up. He wanted a girl who could keep up with him. Someone who could help him on his quest to rid this town of all that tied it down. They would dance over each other's words, touch, feel, communicate love and passion through their lips. Make love to his future. He feels his fingers twitch.
He breaks from his trance, remembers his dream from last night. He lets a small chuckle escape from his lips. Moritz's terror of 'sticky dreams' had left him experimenting with different ideas as he went to sleep. Sky blue stockings on his legs with a modest dress showing a bit of leg. Moritz wasn't the most attractive girl but he was so adorable in his own way. Melchior bursts out laughing, can't believe he's even thinking about this. Tries to imagine Moritz with breasts and can only see the boy looking at himself in the mirror, simply flabbergasted with himself.
He has to tell Moritz about this. He can see the boy's face now, horrified, he'd probably avoid him all day. Hopefully he'd go to bed the next night and have a dream about his beloved Melchior in drag.
Why is he thinking this? He shakes his head, still laughing, and lets his body tip over, his side in the hay. He relaxes, comfortable, raising his legs into a somewhat fetal position. Hay wasn't the best pillow but it would make do. His book is forgotten on the other side of him, closed, page lost. Oh well. He'd find it later.
He yawns. Since when was he sleepy? He had Latin to memorize when he got home. He wasn't looking forward to that. If the teacher called on him tomorrow, he would just raise a point on...oh, he would find something that he could raise a point on. That would get him some time. His stomach was developing its own sort of protective vest against smacks by the stick by now. It felt like leather.
He doesn't want to fall asleep on the ground. Mother was probably scared out of her wits already, he couldn't go home at three in the morning claiming he had fallen asleep. She wouldn't believe that. He pushes himself back up into sitting position, feeling the room spin around him. He wants a smoke. He wants to go to sleep. When he gets home, he'll roll a smoke and lie in bed. Let himself breathe some more. Gosh, he really wasn't as interesting as all the girls thought he was. He mostly just breathed. Everyone just breathed.
He can't remember what his book was about. He picks it up and dusts it off; it doesn't have a name on the cover or binding. He doesn't feel like opening it up again. He pushes himself to his feet and brushes his pants off, pulling up his socks. Time to go home. Get in bed, breathe, decide how to be entertaining tomorrow.
He has a nice laugh. He knows that. Moritz coaxes it out of him a lot. He looks damn good in a suit, and he knows how to roll a smoke. Girls find him dreamy, the boys find him moronic. The boys see him with an iron stomach and a head full of knowledge. He is dangerous. They see him as dangerous, at least. He wasn't dangerous. He just breathed a lot.