It was early morning one day, autumn, and classes hadn't even been thought about yet this time of morning. Cold air pushed and shoved its way through the trees and countryside, paying no mind to whoever was out doing whatever, if anyone were to be doing anything. Surprisingly enough, it found people up this early. Dressed and chipper, even. All one would hear if one were to venture out into the breaking dawn would be the rustling of the leaves, the skitter of a squirrel or a mouse, and…a creak?
The noise, an ancient, revered sound, reverberated, bouncing off the trees and their trunks, the twigs and grasses fallen on the ground doing little to muffle the already-quiet noise. It was cold, as mornings are always, but the kisses of sunshine trying to peep through the solid pale-grey clouds promised warmth later on in the day. But the creak interrupted the peace and silence, echoing in its own quiet way, appearing once, then again, once more, four times. A rhythmic pattern, it was, like a back-and-forth motion.
A rocking-chair belonging to an elder couple sitting to enjoy the sunrise, perhaps, or maybe it was a hobbyhorse of some restless child already hyperactive after its restive hibernation. No matter, it wasn't the grandparents or their second-generation descendants. If one were to enter the orchard, where apples grew strong and rich on the thick branches of carefully cultivated trees and their sapling kin, you could see the back-and-forth of the made-with-a-loving-hand wooden swing, for a boy maybe ten years of age, perhaps a year or two younger.
Age agreed with it, its sigh and give repeating over and over gently, as woolen grey-clad legs pumped back and forth, pulling all the possible tension the several-year-old twine could handle to its limit. The wind picked up, breezing over the boy's face, identifying it was a young one, fit to sit in this swing. Not that this boy was the very same the swing was built for. To be honest, he felt rather bad that it wasn't his at all. But he used it most often of anyone, and that was his claim, if still the only one he could make to it.
He was young, younger, rather. More innocent than now, which could possibly be saying something. However, his boots were shined, his shirt starched white, and his hair combed to perfection. If your hair was messy, you were simply not a put-together young man. Which wasn't to say that Ernst Robel did not tend to fall apart at all- he did, as well as any other not-yet-adult in the area could. He just seemed well-organized at first sight, which was better than any who knew him could say.
His feet swung back and forth powerfully, as powerful as he ever could be, as powerful as he'd ever been in his entire life. His mirror-clean heels dug fiercely and immediately into the brown-black soil at the first hint of a sound of a figure approaching; he leapt off the wood panel, pounding his feet against the grassless dirt, hoping he wasn't seen. The other body, another boy, sat in the same imprint Ernst has made for several months now. He held his breath, hoping for the boot tracks to disappear, the wood's temperature from his body heat to go down, his bag- oh, God, his bag. He'd left his bag sitting by the tree.
One might think it almost looked lonely, slumped against the base of the tree the swing hung from, crouched against the junction of trunk and root, where the coffee-bean brown met honey-chestnut brown. The sun would be coming up soon, and light would be thrown against the worn black leather, carefully patched with the tiniest of stitches where the shoulder strap had torn off several times in the past due to strenuous loads of multiple books. Always his Bible, the embossed one with the gold lettering on the cover, and his Latin books, Greek, and his composition book, they were all in there. If someone had one glance at it, they would know.
Ernst's face drained of colour, but watched as Hänschen Rilow closed his eyes, swinging his legs back and forth with the rhythm of the swing to gain momentum. As soon as he reached the pique, though, that almost-horizontal place Ernst loved to stay as long as possible, Hänschen did something strange. He shut his eyes tight and gripped the aging twine with his hands until his knuckles turned almost white, and when he faced the ground again, after another time, he dragged his toes into the dirt, scraping ditches with his boots to lower him closer to the ground.
This was a new establishment. Had the tables finally turned? Was brave, haughty Hänschen Rilow afraid of something for once? Ernst was breathing shallowly. This was obviously something he was not meant to be seen. He felt like an intruder, even though he'd come once again to this section of the orchard without any voyeuristic intention. But he wanted to help him. He pitied the golden Rilow son, whose parents raised him to fear nothing, question nothing, and take nothing from anyone.
Young Ernst took a deep, shivering breath and stepped into the clearing, the apple tree standing straight and silent, not giving him any chance to turn back and hide again once he'd made a single noise. Hänschen's back was turned to him, giving him time to muster up more courage to reach out and place his hand on the blonde's shoulders. The Rilow son jumped almost two feet into the air, sending him sprawling to the ground in a most undignified manner, one unfit for a boy of such experience and stature.
"Let me show you." No trace of nervousness, worry, or a stutter. No break in his voice or a pitch change to be found. Ernst pulled Hänschen up and away from the still-creaking swing, noting but not commenting on the rare undignifiedness and blush spreading onto the blonde's face, neck, and ears. Climbing into the swing, Ernst pushed off easily, pumping his legs quicker than he regularly would have. He again felt powerful, free, but for a different reason. He wasn't afraid of Hänschen this time. Of course, he wouldn't dare to say it was the other way around, but still.
Sneaking a glance at the no-longer-perfectly-composed, Ernst closed his eyes and wrapped his elbows around the twine, steadily approaching the horizontal point.
"Stop! Stop it!" Hänschen's voice rang out clear and loud, cutting through the morning like a foghorn in the dark.
Unprepared, Ernst slammed his heels straight into the ground as soon as those three words were shouted, careening him forward straight into Hänschen's chest. Arms reflexively wrapping around the fallen, Hänschen breathed quickly, taking shallow little gasps to try and send at least some air back into his lungs. "Never. Do. That. Again," he wheezed into Ernst's ear, pressing his cheek against the other boy's.
Eyes met, and Ernst crashed his lips into Hänschen's, barely knowing what he was doing. Their hands traveled along each other, finding things out that eyes would never be able to tell them. Tongues battled for dominance, and furious feelings intermingled until Ernst finally pulled back to take a breath, as red-cheeked as Hänschen.
"I won't," the shorter assured him softly, pressing his lips to the blonde's quickly. "Do you think we should get going?"
"I think we should go home first."
"Why?"
"Look at us," Hänschen said grimly, gesturing to his dirt-encrusted clothes. "It would be improper."
Ernst smiled, a little wistful, a little sad. He had rather liked the new Hänschen, where they were on even ground, where it wasn't always one on top. He had disappeared for now. Who knew when he'd see him again?
"Soon," the Rilow son murmured quietly into the Robel's ear. "Soon."
It sounded like a promise.