Author's Note: This fic is from Hanschen's POV, because I wanted a challenge and, hey, why not? It starts when he is a late twelve, and will eventually move up 'til and past Ernst. It is NOT about pairings—there will be multiple people that he hooks up with, and possibly none that he has a relationship with. I know that it moves a tad slowly at the beginning, but I think it needs to. (In other words, keep reading!) Even if you don't like it, please review! (And no, of course I don't own Spring Awakening, I just own the rights to sing it off-key in the shower.)

I've been finished with my math homework for twenty minutes. On a sheet of paper that I won't hand in, I systematically solve extra equations. I'm working at an unbreakable pace. It's slightly too fast for me, but I like it. I know that it's getting close to supper time, but I put that out of in my mind. Far more important is pushing this pace, winning in this dance of numbers and signs. There are four more questions on the page. I am invested as the problems increase in difficulty and actually become problematic. I am solving, winning, quickening, until—I bite my lip and block out any trace of disappointment as I realize that my second to last answer cannot possibly be correct. I do the problem again, and get the same answer. Drawing in my eyebrows, I retry at an excruciatingly slow pace. I get it right. My multiplication had been off. I sit for a minute: shift my weight, cross my legs, lean up against the wall. It's beginning to get cold, and I let the frigidity emanate through the wall into my back. I know Father will be calling for dinner soon; I am ready to jump up as soon as he does. I let my eyes fall shut and my subconscious take over.

Slightly uncomfortable, I ease into thought of the girls' school that is so near to our own. At lunch today, the teachers let us mingle in the yard, a rare experiment on the social habits of children. Our social habits involved a lot of annoying awkwardness. We are the youngest in the school—twelve, although Moritz Steifel and I are almost thirteen—and no one has yet instructed us on how to act for the girls. My father certainly won't; if he did, he would tell me to stay away from them, that they would only hurt me. My mother, as usual, would have had nothing to say. The teachers have told us nothing; they will tell us nothing. I, however, understand. I know that women make babies, not storks. Not only that, but I know how they make the babies, and what we do to them—do with them. I asked our nurse after Abigail and Friedhelm were asleep. After I promised not to tell anyone, ever, the nurse told me.

Because of this, and because I've seen it, I know that boys and girls kiss. Yesterday, I saw Otto's brother kissing Georg's sister on the lips. Also, there is a certain feeling that one gets when looking at a girl that makes one want to kiss her. Not love, but something much, much worse. The priest says that it is sinful, and that we should never, ever give in to it. This doesn't make sense; everyone that has children can't possibly be going to hell. I think I may be going to hell. I can't help what I dream about; it's not my fault. If it's an exchange, I think I can deal with hell.

A picture of a girl starts to creep into my mind. My father interrupts me with his flat growl.

"Dinner." I am irritated. I sit up, shake my head, and swiftly walk into the kitchen. Father looks up at me, looks through my eyes. "What have you been doing all day, locked up in your room?" His voice is so emotionless that it is barely a question.

"Homework." I don't disengage from our battle of the eyes.

"What subject?"

"Arithmetic."

"And are you doing well?"

I nod. How does he know I'm not lying, like Moritz did to his father when he failed the Latin test?

He gazes for a second longer, and then turns on Abigail. "What did you learn today?"

I see the combination of fear and wonder in Abigail's pudgy face as she plays the game of delving for the right answers to Father's questions. Mother walks in with the food. It is strange-looking and terrible smelling, but I don't comment. I'm sure I've had worse.

Friedhelm, on the other hand, wrinkles up his nose. "What's that?"

Father's head swivels. "Excuse me?"

"It's unappetizing." Friedhelm is proud of his big word.

"Unappetizing." Father mulls the word over. "Friedhelm, you will pull weeds from the lawn for the next two weeks."

"But—"

"One month."

Friedhelm is quiet. I knew that he should have stopped. The last time I did something like that, I was eight. I scrubbed the windows every Sunday for three months.

Dinner is, as always, completely silent. I hate dinner. I can't even think properly in the kitchen. It's stupid, but I always think my thoughts can be heard in the oblivion create by the utter hush Instead of other, more pressing thoughts, I think about today's lesson, so I don't have to study any more Latin tonight. As soon as I finish, Father excuses me and, not quickly enough to be suspicious, I go back to my room, lay down on my bed, and return to my other thoughts.

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