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As most nights were in Germany, it was painfully cold. A cruel wind snatched scarves from around warm necks and sent them tumbling forever and ever into the swirling gray sky, never to be seen again. It was this sort of weather that had Hanschen craving some company. After a brutal psychology exam, Hanschen had stumbled from the university hall and barely survived the trip back to his apartment before collapsing into the inviting nest of his bed.
More than two hours later, his eyes cracked open, searching blearily for the nightstand clock. The numbers were unforgiving as they informed him he'd missed dinner, and his stomach churned in agreement. Sighing, he rolled out of the covers and moved to the kitchen in the dark, not awake enough to turn on any lights. The cabinets were bare, obviously, since the rest of his day had gone so swimmingly. Finally, he blew the dust off a lonely box of Velveeta mac and cheese and put on his only pot to boil. He needed something to fill him up in the meantime, but before he could pull out the secret whiskey kept stashed behind the fridge, something outside made him freeze. Was that . . . Yelling?
Padding quickly to the window and parting the blinds, Hanschen gaped incredulously at the scene playing out three floors below. On the slick asphalt, a half dozen guys threateningly circled a single figure, yelling out inaudible phrases as he cowered in the center. Suddenly one lurched forward and struck the loner across the face, spinning him around in time to meet the fist of another. In a second he was down, and the group converged; kicking, punching, yelling.
"Hey!" Hanschen screamed, pounding his palm flat on the window until it seemed ready to shatter. The men on the ground looked up quickly, but Hanschen was already sprinting for the door. The staircase seemed to close in on him as he flew down one floor, then another, and another, until he burst out into the icy night.
The street was empty.
"Did . . . Did I just witness a murder?" Hanschen mumbled, turning and looking for anything to clue him in on where the assailants or victim had vanished. He stood for a few minutes in the wind, waiting, until he couldn't feel his toes. Reluctantly he turned to return to the heat of the lobby and call the police, but a noise stopped him in his tracks. So he waited again, listening, until he once again heard the soft moan coming from the alley beside his apartment complex. Without waiting to think that the men could be lying in wait to beat him into amnesia, Hanschen ran to where the noise had emanated from, the . . . Dumpster? Quietly, Hanschen lifted the lid, propped it against the brick wall behind it, and peeked inside. A boy was nestled amongst the black plastic bags and open newspapers. He looked almost peaceful, laying there, as if he were sleeping. Then Hanschen caught sight of the blood staining the front page underneath his mouth. The kid was hurt; badly. Looking around the empty plaza for anyone to call the hospital, or the police, or someone, he realized with a start that no one else had witnessed the incident. Or, if they had, no one cared enough to do anything about it.
"Please . . . "
Hanschen turned. The boy was trying to sit up, his girlish eyelashes fluttering in pain. Blood matted down his silky chestnut hair, and his left eye was shiny and already beginning to swell shut. The entire left side of his face shone crimson with blood from his lips and scalp.
"I need to go inside and call a hospital," Hanschen explained slowly and clearly, in case the stranger had suffered any brain damage. "Just stay here." Without waiting for a response, he turned to go inside. Suddenly an iron vice closed around his bicep, nearly scaring him out of his skin. The boy was fully up now, gripping his arm, eyes wild with fear.
"No, please, you can't . . . They’ll just find me again, I can’t pay bills, I . . . I don’t need a hospital . . . I’ll just walk home, please . . . "
Something close to pity fluttered across Hanschen's heart.
"You’re obviously not in the best state of mind to be making these decisions, don’t you think?" He asked, not really expecting an answer. But regret immediately filled his chest as tears flooded down the boy's red cheeks. He looked so small, sitting in the dumpster, shivering in his thin coat.
Finally Hanschen sighed. "You'd be an idiot to walk home in this weather. I live right here, come up to my apartment and I'll clean up . . ." He stopped just short of saying this mess, and settled with motioning vaguely to his own face.
"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to be a burde-"
"You're coming." Hanschen said shortly. "Now get out of the dumpster."
The boy opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish before gripping the edge of the metal bin and attempting to hoist himself over. Without warning he went limp and pitched toward the ground. Hanschen, fast but not fast enough, caught him after the stranger’s shoulder slammed into the ground with a sickening noise. Wincing, Hanschen checked to make sure he hadn’t died while crawling out of the trash bin. He was out cold. Completely unconscious. And now his shoulder was either broken or dislocated. With a sigh, Hanschen bent his knees, tensed, and straightened quickly, throwing the boy over his shoulder with a strangled grunt. He was light, but also taller than Hanschen expected, and slightly awkward to carry. Also his clothes smelled faintly of garbage and blood. At least there was a working elevator in the dingy building, so he wasn't forced to climb three flights of stairs with a lanky boy slung around his neck. No one was standing around, so he also was freed from the strange looks he would've received from his neighbors.
Finally he entered his own safe, warm home, and carefully laid the boy down on his bed. As one does with bringing a stranger into their home, Hanschen carefully removed his shoes and jacket (taking special care not to further damage the shoulder), then slipped the boy’s wallet out of the coat’s front pocket and examined the contents. Thirty-four dollars, a paperclip, countless movie stubs from films too abstract to be popular, and a student ID for the same college Hanschen attended. He studied the picture, and then the boy's actual face, hoping to elicit a spark of recognition. Nothing. Maybe he had passed by the boy on campus, but it hadn't been anything worthwhile.
Ernst Robel. 19. Brown Eyes. It was a fitting name.
Though he didn’t want to wake him up, Hanschen couldn’t let the blood dry on his face. So he fetched a bowl of hot water and a dark washcloth and began slowly sponging the red off his pale face. Ernst’s skin was porcelain freckled across his neck and nose and those soft, pink cheeks. The thick eyelashes Hanschen had noticed earlier fluttered in whatever horrors had caught Ernst in his unconsciousness.
Finally, most of the blood was washed away, revealing Ernst’s face in all its sweet, marred beauty. Bruises ringed the entirety of his left eye and reached dark fingers across the bridge of his nose, and his lower lip was cleanly split in two. A hot protectiveness oozed into Hanschen’s throat at the thought of a gang of boys beating up on Ernst, outnumbering him more than six to one. It was despicable. But still Hanschen couldn’t help but wonder why? What had Ernst done to anger those boys so?
Hanschen sniffed, wondering if someone had lit a fire downstairs. The water! Groaning softly, he ran to the kitchen and turned down the heat on the fiercely bubbling pot of water.
“I’m doing much more running than I expected today,” he muttered sourly, roughly dumping in the uncooked pasta. A soft mewl sounded from the bedroom as he punched in the last number on the microwave timer. He peeked around the corner to see Ernst writhing in pain and clutching his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” Hanschen asked, quite uselessly, as his guest was most certainly not doing alright.
“M-My shoulder,” he panted. “It hurts, oh God, it hurts so bad.”
“It’s probably dislocated,” answered Hanschen, very matter of fact. He perched on the end of the bed and helped Ernst sit up. Beads of sweat were on the boy’s brow as he gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Talk to me about your life, Ernst.”
Ernst stared at Hanschen as if he had just asked him to give a lap dance. “What? How do you kn-know my name?”
“Your wallet. My name is Hanschen, by the way. Hanschen Rilow. Tell me about yourself. What you like to do, what your classes are like, your best friends, the love of your life . . .” As he talked, Hanschen allowed his palm to float over Ernst’s distorted shoulder while keeping his other hand spread across his jutting shoulder blades. He needed a solid grip if he was going to get this right the first time.
“Well, I, uh, I’m majoring in English. Cl-Classical European literature, in particular. And I like watching movies. Mostly indie films, but also superhero stuff, and . . . “
He kept going, babbling about his life. All the while, Hanschen rubbed large, even circles across his back, calming him down. Eventually his breathing evened out enough so his stutter disappeared.
“ . . . Cause, you see, my roommate, Georg, he likes to -”
Without warning, Hanschen slammed his palm into Ernst’s shoulder, popping it back into the socket. Immediately Ernst screamed in pain and doubled over protectively, sobbing wildly and rocking back and forth gently.
“I’m . . . Sorry,” Hanschen said softly, continuing to rub Ernst’s back in slow, warm loops. “Your shoulder was dislocated, and I couldn’t let it sit there. I’ve done you a favor actually, though you may not feel that way now. And anyway -”
The timer went off, signaling the pasta was cooked.
“- I hope you like Velveeta. And for God’s sakes, take off those clothes, they smell like garbage.”
- - - - - - - - - - -
Twenty minutes later, the two boys were on the couch eating mac and cheese out of Hanschen’s favorite coffee mugs. Ernst wore an old sweater of Hanschen’s that hung off his thinner frame, but was cleaner than the clothes he had been wearing in the trashbin. His eye looked absolutely awful, but the swelling in his lip was slowly going down as he alternated between pressing a towel of ice to the wound and scarfing down pasta. After a period of silence, Hanschen couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.
“What happened?” He inquired bluntly, not sure if there was a more polite way to ask. Ernst sighed, and set the mug onto the side table.
“They’re all in my linguistics class.” He spoke so softly Hanschen was forced to shift closer, their knees touching. “They must have found out I was . . .Um, that I was gay.”
Hanschen didn’t say anything as Ernst lowered his head and gently touched the bruises under his eye. Slowly, he continued.
“All of them play soccer, and I just quit the team. We spent a lot of time in the locker rooms, you know, before and after practice, but I wasn’t out to any of them. So maybe they thought I was purposely hiding that from them so I could see them naked, or something. And they . . . They were waiting outside my dorm when I got home, and I ran. I just r-ran away, I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t care, I didn’t know what they were go-going to do to me when they ca-caught up -”
Sobs wracked his body as the stress and pain of the situation finally crashed over him. Of all the people to break down in front of, Hanschen probably wasn’t the best option, as he had absolutely no experience in these things. Slowly, not wanting to cross a line, he turned sideways and drew Ernst into his arms. The boy clung to him like a lifeline, shaking and trembling. He was so cold. Colder than the winds outside. Never in his life had Hanschen felt more useless. Every shiver, every tear from the boy in his arms made his heart stutter, as if he were feeling all the same emotions.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into Ernst’s dark hair. “I’m so very sorry.”
Suddenly, Ernst drew back, staring at Hanschen with his mismatched eyes: one red from crying and the other black with bruises.
“Why are you helping me?” He whispered, his long fingers digging into Hanschen’s forearms. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know that no one deserves to be beaten up and left in a dumpster,” Hanschen retorted. “Besides, you’re too attractive to freeze to death, it’d be such a waste.”
Ernst choked out an incredulous laugh and smiled for the first time. Straight white teeth, slightly crooked lips, a vision of better things to come. Whatever cold remained from the dark night melted at that grin, and all self-control went along with it.
Hanschen closed the gap and pressed their lips together. A slight metallic taste tinged the kiss, but neither was focused on the blood. Ernst’s hands slid up until they were tangled in blond curls, and Hanschen’s palms were big and warm, pulling Ernst’s hips into his own. They’d met only a half hour before, but every inch was familiar. Every shared breath, taste, and touch felt like waking up from a lifetime of dreaming.
Finally Ernst pulled back, his breath coming in soft pants.
“Hanschen, we should -”
“Who cares?” He interrupted, already freezing over from the separation, desperate to pull Ernst close again. “Who cares what we should do?”
“I do.” That stopped Hanschen in his tracks. They sat staring at each other for a while before Hanschen sighed.
“I’m not letting you walk home,” he reiterated. Ernst laughed lightly, and their lips met again.
“I know. You have a perfectly good bed here.”
So they shared each other’s warmth through the night, and waking up to Ernst was easily the best morning Hanschen had ever had, bruised or not.