Chapter Text
People in town talk. People in town talk about people, and places, and things. Angeal is no stranger to stranger’s words; he grew up poor after all. His father was a mercenary that died too young leaving a wife, a son and a great-sword as his only legacies. People talk. And not always kindly.
So he turns his ears to other words - kinder words like the infamous rumour that the apple trees around the Rhapsodos estate were the best in the world. Rumours like their trunks were fat with life; the apples they bear, the sweetest and juiciest. As if the call of life existed only within the compound of the Rhapsodos family. That wasn’t by any coincidence. Their land was well cultivated, well loved by the son of their landlord. The boy spoke to his trees like beloved pets, like family. He picked his apples and studied them, scrutinising every detail from the state of the ground, to the rainfall, to the seasons, to the animals that come to visit. Birds and bugs picking at the sweetest fruits.
Angeal was simply doing what he did best, sneaking around, climbing trees, stealing apples. And yet the biggest temptation continues to escape him. The largest tree in Banora, most favoured by the rich man's son, is sitting right in the middle of the Rhapsodos estate.
Jumping the fence, Angeal scours the area until he sees it. The largest white apple tree in Banora; its low hanging fruits with blue skin and white flesh in his line of sight. Licking his lips, he turns left, right; sprinting quietly on private grounds. The bark on this targeted tree is cracked and dry, rough even under his weathered hands. Angeal grins to himself. Finally. Mine.
”What do you think you’re doing?”
With a yelp of surprise, Angeal finds himself back on the ground, head and back throbbing, scratches on his palms from the cutting bark. He gingerly opens his eyes to the sight of an upside down boy. His red hair braided down the side of his face, brushing loosely on one shoulder; his thin eyebrows delicately scrunched up in displeasure. The landlord’s son tapping his foot on the ground right beside Angeal’s head.
The boy sighs. “Move, you’re in my spot.”
Angeal rolls over, dumbstruck as the other boy sits under the tree and opens a book. Stunned that he hasn’t chased him out.
“If you wanted an apple,” he murmurs, not even bothering to look his way, “there’s plenty of other trees in the orchard.”
He fidgets in place - the richest boy in their village is talking to little old him.
”They said this tree has the best fruit.”
Annoyed, the landlord’s son stares at him. Nodding to a fruit an arms length from Angeal, he says, “Then take that one.”
“But It’s not as satisfying then,” not without a challenge.
The boy stares him down with those big blue eyes like he’s looking for an answer. And for some reason Angeal would never understand, he seems to find it. Genesis puts down his book and begins to climb. He perches himself on the highest arch of the bowing tree, touching the blue skin of the apples gently as if touching the most delicate flower. The boy scrutinises everything until finally, Angeal hears the satisfying thwip of an apple picked from a branch.
The boy reaches down, arm outstretched, white apple perched on his palm. An apple for Angeal - carefully curated and picked by a cultivator's hand.
“What’s your name?”
”Angeal.”
”Genesis.”
Angeal grins opting to take a bite out of the offered apple instead of telling him the whole village knows who Genesis Rhapsodos is. After all, people talk. And not always kindly.
But it turns out the rumours are true. The best white apples come from the Rhapsodos orchard, where Genesis reads under the shade of the twisted and bent trunk of his favourite tree.
The townsfolk praise the cultivators for their hard work but Angeal knows better. It's his friend’s warmth that gives life to their trees. Quiet and reserved. The younger boy never once ventured into Angeal’s territory of town troublemaker. If Genesis hadn't caught him attempting to steal one of their apples, they never would have met. And if Genesis hadn't given him a chance then they'd never have become friends. The redheaded boy extending an arm, an apple, a gift of friendship offered on the palm of his hand and Angeal had accepted. The sweetness of the apple juice can never compare to anything else from that day onward.
But, Angeal figures, since Genesis has already seen him at his worst, then he may as well keep seeing him at his worst. He's a tree climber and a food thief and there's always plenty of apples the townsfolk won't miss. But he never steals from the Rhapsodos orchard. Never tries again. It's silly, but he imagines Genesis would feel the loss of every apple.
And as their childish stature stretches into gangly teenaged limbs, when honour and loyalty is learned and earned; when friendship and apples are given freely. Angeal carries the heavy weight of that responsibility like the sword on his back. But there would always be a part of him that's a little adventurous, a little loose.
So he goes sneaking around, stealing time, stealing moments with the Rhapsodos boy. Until the two friends steal away to Midgar to follow the path of dreams and nightmares.
"Why do people keep saying I drag you into trouble? I put myself in trouble, Angeal. You're just the moron that tends to follow."
"Well someone has to take care of you."
“Just can't leave well enough alone, can you?”
"Genesis, the reason I don't get into trouble is because I don't get caught."
"Caught you stealing apples."
"And the only reason I get caught is because I'm with you."
Genesis is amusing. Genesis is frustrating. Genesis is special. And for some goddess forsaken reason, the younger boy trusts him. Angeal knows he'll spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of that trust.