Robert
The courtyard might be Anthony's new favorite place within Newton's Cradle.
The classrooms had their charm, the dorm rooms were comfortable, the offices were pristine. But... The courtyard truly WAS the breath of fresh air it was designed to be. Crisp, even. The trees, benches, and running water of the fountain made it a perfect place to unwind. 
Troubles seemed to lift off of one's back when they crossed the threshold. 

...Maybe that's just him, in truth; as an adverse effect of being inside for a 95 / 5 ratio of your days. Not leaving the building, always under supervision.
At least the Cradle ditched ONE of those detriments.
No matter what the circumstances, he was seated in the courtyard, on a bench, a larger canvas for words and sketches in hand. It looked quite a bit larger than his pocket-sized papers, crammed with information to the brim, which is to say it was a normal sketchbook. Paper with tooth and texture, apt for charcoal and other unique mediums of creation.

As what seemed to be early morning sun filtered inside, he took in the smell of the place... Like the scent of the earth after rain. Calm.
He wasn't wearing a smile of any kind, but that doesn't mean he wasn't happy.
In fact, this might be the happiest he'd been since arriving, and the fact he didn't even BOTHER to wear a smile only emphasized this fact.

He sketched the beginning of nothing-in-particular, abstract shapes that would form something eventually. He'd just have to see where his brain — and by association, his pen — would take him.

A shuffle, seemingly from... Above (He thinks?), caught his attention before he could get all too far in his artwork.
His eyes narrowed on the trees, scanning around. His demeanor shifted ever so slightly with the possibility of another's presence.
The Hawthorne Effect:
Behaving differently when aware of being watched. A psychology staple.

Anthony, like many, falls victim to it.
A soft smile appeared as he waited for someone, anyone, to show themselves.

It likely wouldn't leave without confirmation.
Hazel
Owen had shed winter as cleanly as a the snow had slipped from the branches in his hands. The sun warmed his cinnamon-spattered cheeks, dappled under pine needles, and plucked the threads of purest spun ruby and amber from his low ponytail and drawing them out against the warmer green.

His favourite songs from the '70s had thawed out with him, warm and crackly production flowing through his ears, light like drifting pollen in his precariously-positioned arms and legs. The scaled thing, the fearful one curled in his chest snored peacefully, despite the height; he trusted the trees, thick and wise, the breathing earth. 

The music rushed forth, and the youth spread his fingers to encompass it, shutting his eyes and opening his shoulders, his back, his lungs to the sweet humming under his skin. A foot clad in a skate shoe that had seen better days (hailstorms ago) even drifted to hang off his perch, so carefree was he.

It was pleasant, how much someplace so far away could still feel like home when he took away the image of concrete and foreign dirt.

*Open, open... 'cry, beautiful dancers, wake up from your sleep! Ahh, gentle romancers,* 

"**Ow**, what the—"

Shortsighted, too, was he, spun right back into the trunk, hand picked cleanly off of his branch like an apple—a quick twist, just enough of a tug, and bright red glory coming tumbling right down.

Under that (now much more careful) ratty shoe's weight, a smaller branch snapped and fell before Owen could fall into another few's unexpected cradle with a disgruntled shout; he watched under his sore shoulder as it fell toward someone sitting below through a frantically-awoken spell of crackling red ether, skin tingling and raw.

"Aah! Look out below, b-branch to the head!"

Owen's voice rang through the courtyard, by now used to projecting its curled vowels and trilled *R*S. From where the stranger sat, a pair of wide brown eyes peered apologetically through the tree's outstretched hands of green.
Robert
The shuffling had gained a voice, and thus confirmed Anthony's theory that he was not alone. Never seemed to be. Not in Newton's Cradle.
He gave a wide-eyed stare at the boy positioned a few feet above him, blinking a few times to properly register that he was present, above-ground, and watching up.

As a small branch or two cracked off the tree and hurdled towards him, he calmly (but quickly) adjusted himself and his sketchbook a bit to the left, barely dodging any sort of collision. His eyes snapped over to the fallen tree limb, staring at it contemplatively. 
Then they drifted back over to this new fellow. New person.

**"Hello."** Was all he really said, calling up a bit and raising his voice just enough to be heard clearly from the ground. His tone was stable and calm, like a still body of water. No ripples to disturb the peace.
A moment of silence and slightly awkward eye contact passed between them, before Anthony cleared his throat and got the conversation ball rolling.
...At an admittedly slow pace, yes, but the fact he persisted this conversation at all was a step in a longer journey.
'Grats to him, he guessed.

**"...Why are you up there?"** He asked, still using a slight bit of volume. 
He tilted his head only slightly, surveying this tree-climber.

Perhaps it was calming to view the world from a higher point. Feel like you're above it all. Feeling free, yet able to fall and break every bone in your body at a single wrong step. 
It took elegance. Guts, too.

*I wonder how long he's been there.*
*Wish I noticed him sooner.* 

He eyed him with curiosity, waiting for an answer.
Setting his sketchbook next to him, it was clear where his attention was focused.

All eyes were on this stranger.
Hazel
As the two of them blinked at each other, a wide, crooked smile cracked on Owen's face. Equal parts nerves, adrenaline, and an otherwise downright lovely mood, the boy in the tree grinned like a rather sincere-looking lunatic.

"Morning!", and then he was all out of ideas.

There was a branch across his shoulder blades, digging into bone; he moved to be hanging off it rather than supported by it, gently shaken pine needles tumbling down. The movement loosened the soft plates of dim red encasing his back, the morning air sweetly cooler on his damp skin after the ether sank through.

"Oh! Well, 'cause," He started, swinging slightly from where he hung from his hands and knees. The motion was lovely against the swells of sound still in his ears; if he'd been alone, Owen would have just hung there, swaying, feeling gravity stretch his shoulders well and deep.

"'Cause, um. I mean, same reason you're down there, probably. Nice place to be alone, it is." His grip shifted on the branch, long auburn hair tossed by a high breeze. "With, with the trees."

Early mornings in green places were places the veil was thinner, Owen had always thought. The dew and the newly born sun caught in the same golden slice of time, everything unfurled halfway, no one speaking but the birds. When Owen hadn't yet wound himself into a clean (-ish) thing of words and a straightened spine, he was moss, birdsong, stirring dirt. The couple of chords before he got to playing the melody, he thought. It had been someplace like this that he had shown his splayed sense to his love, so kind to his soul were the trees.

Perhaps, then, he was disappointed to have tumbled too soon into the condensing eye of another person that morning, but it was a fine mood indeed that they had caught him in.
Robert
He was evidently in a very good mood. No danger to be found. No reason to be on edge.
There was no snake in this garden. If there was, he was hiding very, very well.

He listened to each and every word the stranger spoke, listening to the intonation and diction of each syllable. 
He took note of his carefree attitude, and his *Strength*, hanging off the branch and relying on his upper body weight to let him do so.
A shut-in like Anthony couldn't do that.
*He seems happy.*
*This is a happy place for him.*
*Maybe it can be a happy place for me too.*

Because Anthony was always wound. He was always a clean, outer presentation of clear speech and ideals; perfection's poster child. Never unclean. Never a hair out of place, or any thoughts to couple it.
He thought he'd have to do that here too.
Maybe not.

Maybe he could BE a mess, here, maybe he could sink himself into the river that was his running inner script, with no fear of visibly drowning in it. 
Seeing this boy, swaying gently from the branches, looking as if he himself BELONGED there, gave him hope.
There was hope in this garden.

*He said it was a nice place to be alone.*
*I don't know if I came here to be alone.*
*Maybe not consciously.*
*But a part of me wanted company.*
*That's a strange thing to come to terms with.*

He continued to gently stare up at him, not a shred of scrutinization in his gaze.
He stared at him with reverence. A bit of envy.
He never learned how to climb a tree. Never got the chance. A robbed childhood will rob you of the knowledge of how to properly experience one. And he HATED being robbed of knowledge.

**"Yeah,"** He called up.
A pause passed as he contemplated asking his next question.
*Good idea.*
*Bad idea.*
*It's so neutral it just might work.*

**"Can you show me how to come up there?"** A hint of nervousness in his tone. 
**"It looks..."**
*Fun. New. Exciting. Fresh. Oppurtunistic.* 
**"Nice. Above everything."**

This was a selfish excercise in fufillment. The stranger might say no, might laugh at him for his inability to do something this simple. That was always a factor.
But his intuition told him that wouldn't be the case. Not with him.
Hazel
Owen had gotten used to the feeling of eyes on him, at least when he was on stage; usually it was expectant, frantic, half-crazed already, which made sense considering his chosen genre. Freaked him out if he dwelled on it too much, but Owen knew exactly what those eyes wanted, and delighted to give it to them.

This gaze was strange, though. He couldn't put together what it was expecting, but the other's un-phrased impatience wasn't crawling up his neck—just looking.

"Yeah?" He unhooked his legs, now hanging right-side-up. "Y-yeah! I mean, it is, isn't it. A moment, just," He trailed, now more excitedly clambering down the tree. Practice had turned it into the smallest number of fluid motions; feeling his intuition working well was good, even making his thoughts run clearer. He hit the ground with a heavy *Thud*, on a wide, sturdy stance.

"What's your-*Uff*-your name, then?" 

He stood before the unfamiliar boy (and looked *Up*, what, an inch and a half?), then, in his shirt with the arms and bottom end hacked off and favourite cargo shorts sprinkled with bark, and grinned again, crooked and easy. Owen fiddled with his earbuds, shifted on his feet, tightened his long ponytail, bounced off of places on his face to be looking; nose, ear, lock of hair over his forehead, but never quite his eyes.

His own, the other would notice, bore delicate flecks of gold.

True as the earth was cold and haunted, Owen was thrilled to share his domain, to have been asked—this one seemed to see the same peace in it, and that was a precious thing, not to mention one he knew he could connect to someone with; one loosened loop of the knot. He only hoped he'd be an alright teacher.
Robert
This boy was proving to be interesting, to say the least.
Laid-back and aloof. Not a care in the world. 
He was... Free. 

Several things came to mind when the word slinked its way to the forefront of his thoughts.
*Free.*
Like flowing water in a river, not rapid, not still. 
Like a piece of bright fabric being carried across the wind, as if it belonged there.
Like music. Nothing specific about it, just music. Notes that danced around the air, entrancing you with their sound.
This boy, who he'd yet to learn the name of, felt free. A swirling display of emotions and attributes. 
And Anthony couldn't get enough.

Watching him descend was like watching some kind of majestic creature in their habitat. When he stuck the landing, thoughts flew to him once more.
*How could someone be so UNBOUND?*
*I want that too.*

Anthony was pressed and pristine — as always — a contrast ultimately evident when he looked down on this potential companion. A sage green sweater vest that allowed him to look right at home amongst the trees, his brunette hair combed and styled as perfect as he could manage.
The edges of his hand were black and grey with charcoal, the one strand out of place in his persona, in his appearance.
He liked this boy's asymmetry. He liked it a lot.

**"My name is Anthony Solace."** The practiced words flew out once more, easily coupled with a textbook: **"And yours?"**
There was something about this time, though. Something that felt more real.

Anthony rolled up his sleeves lightly and with elegance, resting them slightly above the elbow. Preparing himself, as he sighed.
*Show me everything,* The light in his eyes beckoned.

**"I'm probably not going to be very good at this."** He said so gently and quietly, admitting it for his own sanity. If you set your expectations low, you couldn't be disappointed. 


He locked eyes with his company once more.
**"I want to try, though."** 
A small smile rested in his cheeks.

Perhaps the perfect, pleasant boy could take a backseat this morning. Just for this morning.
Hazel
"Owen. Edris," The auburn boy answered, as though he had to flip through a box of words to find the right ones, scanning the backs like his vinyls. Still half asleep, he must've been...

Anthony. Odd lad. He didn't stick out his hand or anything, but didn't wave either. Owen felt a little odd, not doing anything with his hands; not that he was really compelled to, but there was something about the order of things that he'd come to predict, and it was a pressing feeling, disturbing a pattern.

After an awkward second, he raised his calloused hand *'hello'*. While Anthony was talking again. *Whoops.*

"Ah, s'alright!" 

He pulled idly on his fingers, feeling for the satisfying *Pop*.

"I'll probably be just as good a teacher, then," He said, laughing a little, "Considering the way I learned was just—just being seven and unattended for five minutes. Consider yourself already more sound starting off!"

His words crackled off of his tongue like sparks out of a new bonfire, every which way in a quick, musically-accented kilter all his own. Jokes aside, though, he wondered *Muchly* About how this sweater-vested kid would fare up a tree—he seemed sincere about it, which drew Owen's easy earnestness toward him; it had been a little while since he'd made an odd friend in the early hours, and the boy would admit that those sorts were usually his favourite. The charcoal ground into the lines of his otherwise-smooth hand indicating, he wasn't so keen to stay as cool and manicured as he was.

Not that he had anything in particular against the smooth, manicured types, but there was a certain ease he felt around those who didn't weigh their hearts against it.

Waving Anthony toward the tree, then, Owen took a long swig from the water bottle propped up on a root and peered up through the branches. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

"*Never* Climbed any of these, ay?"
Robert
*Owen.*
*Owen Edris.*
*Owen Edris. Remember that.*
*A boy of loose ends. A boy who's comfortable with that prospect.*

Owen spoke with a carefree attitude, a sense of authenticity filling his lungs. His laugh was made of the same air, light and flowing with the same substance they were breathing in.
Anthony couldn't help the jealousy that infested him. It wasn't based in malice, or some need to *Take* What he couldn't have, but it WAS jealousy. Owen had a childhood. He LEARNED to climb a tree himself. He had the time. The freedom.
Anthony didn't quite have that. But that didn't mean he wouldn't have a chance to understand it, to own it for himself.

He let out an equally small laugh at his comment, visualizing the boy getting it down to a science. Picturing it.
*This is so wildly immature. Unprofessional.*
*I'm ecstatic.*

In all honesty, Anthony was wondering how he'd manage climbing as well. He wasn't muscley or even passably strong, more lanky than other factor.
But he had elegance about him, didn't he? He had a way of navigating situations with a small, unobtrusive presence. This should be easy. It really should be.
He just needed to find his footing. That was all. 

He stepped forward at Owen's instruction, as if he were breaking some kind of barrier that had held him back. A barrier he hadn't even thought to touch; let alone stomp on the pieces of.
It wasn't a big deal. To spend time doing something leisurely or fun. It wasn't a big deal to break the mold a little bit.

...
Those were lies. This was MASSIVE. With each step closer to the literal force of nature — the looming tree, as it was, — he felt a bit more elated.
A bit more like a person, and not a machine. 

He shook his head. **"No. Never."**
He looked up at the thing, running one hand along its bark. Lost in thought. 
His eyes then snapped over to Owen, excitement and light breaking the layers of the brown. A small, intrigued smile following along.
**"Show me how it's done, Owen."**

**"I'm listening."**
Hazel
Now considerably more awake than he'd been before he was noticed, Owen's ears turned a little pink. His eyes darted here and there, a twitchy smile unsure of how to form, exactly, tugging at his mouth. Confidence in him tickled, was all—not that he was particularly starved for it these days, but Owen took it to heart.

"I, um well," He sputtered, stretching his strong arms on the branch above him and hopping up onto another that stretched out at his waist-level. "It-it's more about psyching yourself out than what steps you ought to take. Stay moving, build a good momentum, and the way opens up. You, um, you figure out what to look for." He laughed, softly, the sound disarming. "Since that's not really practically helpful, *Hah*, follow close, I'll be slow starting up."

The next couple of moves upward were simple enough, smoothing out Owen's uncertainty in how he phrased this, reinforced that. He moved slower than he normally would, easy to track, he hoped; he wasn't exactly sure what he would need to explain and what was best learned by just risking it. Expert though he was, he knew well how tough the latter was. *What an odd request*, asking to be taught to climb a tree in the backyard. He stopped after another couple of feet to let Anthony catch up, watching how he moved.

Did this kid have much confidence in himself? He had said the opposite, but maybe that was to seem humble. Owen watched him closely, the dewy air quiet in his lungs.

"Careful there, on that thinner branch—hop on that next one quickly, it can't quite hold your weight!"
_ _

Anthony seemed to really want to be *Taught*. Something about that didn't quite rub Owen the wrong way, but it struck him as odd, and he chewed on it, rocking on his heels. The auburn boy had never much liked people in his business; he had learned to play his instrument mostly by observing, squirming and shouting when his mother had tried to adjust his fingers. If something sounded wrong, he wanted to discern what it was on his own—to feel like *He* Was the one doing it, learning to know, not just to mimic. Climbing things agreed with him because, well, the only way was up; his victories were squarely his own, indisputable from the top of the towering beauty he had scaled.

Owen didn't routinely think of himself as stubborn, but perhaps Anthony brought that trait forward in his mind by contrasting it. Flattery was flattery, of course, but the auburn boy still didn't quite know what to make of the lad's approach.

Then again, he was probably forgetting how daunting this pastime was to someone who hadn't even attempted it; being left in the dust was about as fun as being manhandled. Perhaps jumping straight into observing a stranger so closely was making him antsy.
Robert
He took note of Owen's behaviors, presumably to mentally scribble down and take record of anything he could. 
Oddly enough, that wasn't quite where his head was at.
Sure, he NOTICED that Owen's erratic smile couldn't find one place to rest, or that the tips of his ears had flushed, and he NOTICED his frank hesitation at having someone's attention on him. He knew these things.
But that isn't what he... Cared about, right now.
He cared about taking back his autonomy. Having this moment all to himself. 
The little things could be just that right now. Little things.

He watched his movements like a hawk, and scanned the branches he moved about so elegantly. Looking for little notches, small indents that could serve as footholds. 
He watched him scale the first couple feet, but he hadn't moved just yet.
*It's about psyching yourself up.*
*You can do this.*
He stared upward, looking as if he were starstruck.
*This is your freedom.*
He nodded to himself, slowly.
*Grasp it and take hold.*

He got his hands around the tree, balancing, and started to climb.
It was tedious. He heard Owen's callouts a bit too late, slipping a few times. He was getting bark and tree bits all over his clean, pressed self.
This was possibly the most alive Anthony had ever felt. 
A smile — one you could even describe as CHILDISH — crept across his lips as he got closer to Owen; the summit he wanted so desperately. 

His logic couldn't DARE drown out the excitement he was feeling at this seemingly mundane act. He couldn't be swayed by the reasons his brain was inventing. He was living in this moment and he was *Living* At all. 
After enough near-accidents, a few bouts of quiet, nervous laughter, he shakily made it to where Owen was perched.
*Look at me,* His eyes seemed to say, both in reassurance of himself and in search of validation.
*I made it.*

He breathed a bit heavily (from the exercise or the joy, it wasn't clear), the smile still occupying his cheeks.
**"Hahh... Haha..."** He laughed breathlessly, and looked up at Owen with nothing short of a star's light in his optics.
**"That... That wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it'd be..."**

He looked at his hands for a moment. Looking for the confirmation that they had brought him up here. That this was real.
Above it all, it was better then 'nice,' as he had assumed.

God, this feeling didn't even have words.