When Hermann was a lawyer he would get a nice, compliant wife and have a whole handful of little blond-haired children, and their parents could die happy. It was the silent fact of the household that there were probably plenty of half-Hermann Rilow bastard children sousing in Frankfurt. As if Hermann ever had to take any responsibility over it.

So yes, Hanschen supposed; he was the angel in that sense, even if it wasn't acknowledged. At least his mother didn't have to cry at night worrying that her youngest son would get in some fight he couldn't get himself out of because he slept with someone's wife.

Lately, however, Hanschen was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she might have to cry at night anyway when her youngest son never got married at all, and never became a lawyer, and eventually never spoke with any of them ever again.

When Hanschen thought of an angel, he certainly did not think of himself. No; that would have to fall upon the shoulders of Ernst Robel.

Ernst Robel, whose big brown eyes Hanschen saw whenever he dreamed, whose soft, mousy hair Hanschen could never stop running his fingers through, whose melodic laugh could rival, Hanschen was certain, even the most beautiful of symphonies.

His parents commended him for helping Ernst with his schoolwork every week. They thought it was such a charitable thing to do; helping out the students in your class that really needed the help. But make sure not to help him too much, Hansi. Melchior Gabor should be your only competition.

Their worries about his schooling didn't bother him. Hanschen rarely thought of how well he did in class anymore, and he certainly didn't worry about university—before, that might have ate him up from the inside out, but he had different plans for the future now. Ernst was what occupied his thoughts, during his waking hours and in his dreams, and that was certainly nothing to complain about. Hanschen might have called it what he was meant for, in fact. God-sent, if you will.

Hanschen was barely fifteen when he and Ernst first truly talked, having been assigned seats beside each other in class that year. He'd seen him around—spoken short words to him briefly when necessary—watched him laugh with Moritz Stiefel—wondered why he was so quiet and poor in class—but their first actual conversation was not until that day. Hanschen had initiated it—Ernst laughed at a side comment Hanschen made after class, and they walked out together, parting eventually on the promise that Hanschen would help him with schoolwork in the future.

Nearly four years had passed since then. Their first kiss was the summer after that first exchange, an awkward and sudden thing filled with fear on both sides; fear of being caught and fear that perhaps it wasn't what the other actually wanted, despite months of tension. Several more days of rolling about together in the grass followed.

Their formal declaration of love came that following autumn in the vineyard, their favorite place to hide themselves away for such things. The last of the lingering fears about doubts in the other's mind were quelled that day.

Those first midnight bedroom visits starting that winter. Hanschen always wanted to laugh when he thought back to those, although they never actually stopped occurring while they were still living under their parents' roofs. The thrill of sneaking out and into someone you loved's room was decidedly unmatched, and so were the talks and other things they did during those visits. Hanschen never felt more godly than in those moments.

Finally before school let out the following year came the mutual understanding that come what may, they would be together. Hanschen thought that maybe he always knew that, somewhere inside him. There was such a connection between him and Ernst that at that point in his life he could not imagine ever parting from him. It was Hanschen and Ernst, and could never be anything else.

From that point forward they talked of their hopes and dreams, and Hanschen wanted nothing more desperately in all his earthly desires than to make those hopes and dreams come true.

Ernst wanted to be a pastor—he had always wanted to be a pastor. He wanted to be with Hanschen and to visit a little church every Sunday and keep cows and chickens.

Hanschen didn't know what he wanted. Ernst was one thing. But he had no outward goals; he didn't know what he was going to do with his life beyond following the set of aspirations his parents had picked out for him. That was all he had ever known before Ernst.

So he decided he would directly go against those plans, the perfectly outlayed expectations everyone had for him. Hanschen did not want to be a lawyer. He never thought about it until Ernst had asked him one day in the vineyard what he liked to do, who he wanted to become, and Hanschen was for once struck dumb.

(And that was just another thing Hanschen loved about Ernst. He made him think; he made him dream; he made him wonder why no one else was seeing the things he was seeing.)

There they were now, adults, absurdly, ready to face the world. Ernst said goodbye to his parents, to his town and friends, and made his way off with his best friend Hanschen, off to preach in some other place and make himself a new life there. It's what his parents wanted—he was becoming what he always promised, surely.

Hanschen did not say goodbye. Rather, he left, leaving behind nothing but disappointment within his family, no warm invitations to visit back home any time he liked. There was plenty of shouting, and pleading, and accusations slung at him in the short amount of time he took to explain to them that he was leaving.

Truly, he didn't care. Like his younger years, he still thought about how his mother would cry at night when her little angel Hansi dashed her hopes and failed to become his brother's perfect copy, but those were no longer thoughts of fear. He was explicitly glad that he wasn't doing what they wanted. How could God have ever intended for that to be his life? There were other saints that needed praying to.

Waiting for him elsewhere were rolling fields of green, townspeople who didn't know his name, little living things that needed taking care of, and a sense of purpose within Ernst Robel's soft, gentle hands.