It was Saturday, which meant no school. Genesis waited impatiently in the usual place for his friend; Angeal had chores to do on a Saturday morning, and if he went to his house, Ms Gillian would tell Angeal to go and play. After the third time this had happened, Angeal had explained to Genesis that his parents both worked very hard as it was, and the little help that he could offer was important to him.
Genesis had offered to help, too, but Angeal shook his head. His mother would never hear of it, he explained, but the other boy couldn't help feeling like he'd been rejected all the same.
So each Saturday he waited for Angeal to finish his chores and come join him.
His gaze fixed on one spot along the wall. Finally, a dark head appeared above it, and he watched as Angeal climbed over easily. His pockets bulged suspiciously.
Genesis didn't rise from where he sat leaning against a tree trunk, open book in his lap. Instead, he looked down, as if he'd been reading all along.
Angeal stopped when he reached Genesis' side, and fished an apple out of his pocket. "Here, this one's for you."
Genesis accepted the apple – stolen from somebody's tree along the way, although Angeal would never get caught at it - with an offhand shrug. "It's not like I can't get my own apples, you know," he said with a small smile.
It was true. The tree above him hung heavy with apples: Banora White, so called because of the pale white flesh that lay beneath skin so dark a red as to be almost purple. It was just one in a row of such trees, and more rows beyond that: the Rhapsodos orchards were extensive, and said to carry the best apples in all of Banora.
Genesis knew better, and his smiled widened as his teeth bit into crisp, white flesh. It didn't matter which tree they came from. The apples Angeal bought him always tasted the best.