SA Fanfic - Every Living Thing

[arqueete]

To do:

1) Finish Sarah's birthday gift
2) Read Uncle Tom's Cabin and write an essay on it
3) Write the new GTC script
4) Work on my summer homework for Pre-Calc
5) Work on my summer homework for AP US History
6) Retrieve a copy of and read Upton Sinclair's The Jungle
7) Write a fic for RFU's birthday


Title: Every Living Thing
Fandom: Spring Awakening (musical with one reference to play)
Rating: PG-13
Pairings:  Take a deep breath and prepare yourself: Georg/Hanschen and a little implied Georg/Anna. Take another deep breath. It's going to be okay. Keep an open mind.
Words: 3764 - in 8 parts
Summary: A Georg-centric story. Though Moritz and Wendla's deaths are certainly tragic, consider also those who were left to witness their absences.
Notes: This is a very belated birthday gift for dreamsofstars. She only prompted me with Georg -- the story went where it liked from there... The sections are separated by music terms and definitions.

I said "Please,
Don't talk about the end,
Don't talk about how
Every living thing goes away"

– Jon Foreman, “Learning How To Die”

Semplice – simple, unaffected

He'd been taking piano lessons for a while now. It was his mother's thing -- she played piano, his grandfather played piano, his uncle played piano. Not that this ever did any of them any good in the long run, but that's just how things went in Georg's family.

A year ago, Georg changed instructors. Fraulein Grossenbustenhalter was an impatient woman. Very controlling and exact, not quick to praise. Day to day, he found himself eye-level with the delectable curve of her breasts. Polite society had done much to try and keep young men like him in line, things in the way of high necklines and floor-bent hemlines. However, their attempts to crush children's imaginations were not entirely successful yet, and Georg's imagination was quite vivid.

That had been music to Georg. An obligation to his family, an excuse to feed his fantasies a little. He could name the notes, finger the chords, define the terms. Music. Right?

Pesante - Heavy, ponderous; with weight

It rained at Moritz's funeral. Georg stood with the other schoolboys, staring off into the reaching layer of clouds, somehow too bright, not ominous enough to be the cause of a storm on a day like this.

The preacher's words were like a measured, clear counterpoint to his swimming thoughts.

He should be sad, he thought. He should feel sorry for Moritz, should realize the gravity of his death. That was obvious, wasn't it? Simple. But, Georg trudged home, his face soaked only because of the rain.

At home, he paced his room. There was a knot in his chest, and in his limbs a hunger for movement, to heave with sobs or shake with laughter or somehow express something he could not put into words beyond metaphors.

He rushed down the stairs, feet heavy on the steps, but as soon as he reached the bottom he wished he would have taken them slowly, appreciated the occupation.

The Zierchnitz family living room was decked in shades of mahogany and cream. The furniture was meticulously placed, dusted... "Living room" was an oxymoron for them. Against one wall there was the piano, family photos and trinkets on top, a sheet of music above the keys. Decisively, Georg pulled out the bench and sat at the piano. His fingers brushed against the keys, shaking slightly, he couldn't fathom why. He looked at the music a little blearily, as though he was seeing the shapes for the first time. It made him think, though, and that, he figured, was an improvement on his current situation.

He didn't reach the second bar before the cloud of his mind made him slip up. He knew better, he could play the whole song flawlessly a month ago -- but when his fist came down on the keys in frustration, a clatter of dissonance to be left unresolved, it wasn't because of the music.

He didn't know why he was so angry -- was this anger? Is that what you called this feeling?

Georg took a deep breath that failed to calm him, this feeling bubbling in his chest, his hands more than slightly trembling now. He brought his fingers to the keys again and launched into the song. It was clumsy and fell in and out of key, the sixteenth notes rushed, and gradually it lost clear resemblance to the music in front of him.

When the last chord of the song rang out he brought his hands to his eyes to wipe at his tears.

A Tempo – return to the normal tempo, as after a deviation

After the funeral, things went back to normal. They still had homework to do, chores to complete, free time that was too little to put to waste... Everything about their lives told them that it was no big deal. Move on. So they told themselves this, too.

After the funeral, things went back to normal. This was a lie.

There was something there, in the wake of Moritz's existence, that hung among them without words. Sometimes it was somber, the awkward silences in their conversations. Sometimes it was a persistent agitation, a feeling of repression.

Among all these inward frustrations, Georg finally found a conversation with an outlet.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he said lightly.

Hänschen smirked slightly. "Moritz Stiefel," he said simply.

The name hit Georg harder than he expected. He thought about changing the subject -- did he really want to have this conversation with Hänschen? But, at the same time, he didn't really know what this conversation was, didn't know how he felt about the suicide anymore -- and a part of him hoped maybe he could find resolution this way.

"What about him?" Georg's tone was a forced casual.

Hänschen chuckled, a sound that was deep in his chest and always a little mocking, Georg thought. It unnerved him. "Exactly -- what about him? Funny how everyone is so quick to forget he was even here."

"I think it's very sad," Georg said, a reaction that was sudden and almost seemed to slip from his lips like something forbidden.

Georg expected Hänschen to laugh in his face, but instead Hänschen stared at him intently with a look that was... maybe a little amused, maybe a little contemplative. Georg had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time he'd find Hänschen difficult to read.

Piacere - Pleasure; without restraint

Sometimes Georg felt like Hänschen was bad news. He radiated a sort of dignity that was beyond their years, and sometimes, the way he picked apart the very society Georg had thought himself naturally a part of gave him chills sometimes.

And, the truth was, he liked it a little. Hänschen made the world sound like something that could be categorized and controlled. In the same breath that he made what Georg thought were broad ideas into simple language, he made everything seem very new and exciting, planted ideas of potential courses of action that were daring and honest. To Hänschen, nothing was taboo, the only wrongs were the choices that did not lead to benefits. There was no hiding behind words that smoothed everything over -- and that was exactly what Georg needed right now, he knew, and it was not something his censored world was giving him.

His mother was concerned. She told him that she felt like she was watching him changing, and that she was afraid he was no longer the well-rounded and respectable son she set out to raise.

Hänschen's name was never mentioned, but Georg was sure it was implied. He wasn't sure he was angry. It was almost a relief, a sort of assurance that he was not a part of this collective attitude of proper and improper that Hänschen was telling him to loathe.

It was this independence through his dependence on Hänschen that lead him up to the other boy's room, despite what he'd heard, and more, what he suspected.

Hänschen's room was plain, neater than he expected. Strangely, that was the only dazed thought he could produce as he sat on Hänschen's bed, staring at the wall. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel, what this was supposed to be, but in that moment it was eerie, daze-like.

It didn't seem wrong or unnatural when he transitioned to Hänschen's arms, the aggressiveness of his kiss. Georg had never been kissed before, but still he could only produce rather distant observations. He wasn't afraid of being caught -- in fact, it was that thought more than the action itself that made his heart pick up speed. The impatience of Hänschen's touch tugged at ideas and sensations Georg had always struggled to keep private, but the thought of stopping didn't occur to him. It didn't seem like an event or some sort of milestone as he let himself draw pleasure from Hänschen's touch. He knew he'd have to return the favor -- with Hänschen, everything you did for someone else was to get something for yourself.

Hänschen made Georg feel empowered; Georg gave up his power to Hänschen in exchange. Give and take.

Unruhig - restless

The sun was shining the day of Wendla's funeral. Georg stood far from the group of mourners, his hands tucked in his pocket awkwardly. He watched the girls weep; he examined the mother's pallid face – not lacking in emotion, but rather, looking as though it had suffered so much expression it had none left to give.

Georg hadn't known Wendla Bergmann – not really. A few words in passing, maybe a wave from across the road. This level of acquaintance carried it's own sort of grief – that knowledge that that's all he and Wendla Bergmann would ever be, that Georg would never have a chance to know her better now, that he could not ever really empathize with these people huddled about her grave beneath the heat of the sun.

He didn't belong there, and the scene left him feeling solemn and otherworldly. Georg turned away decisively, heading back down the hill.

Hänschen stood at the foot of the hill, watching Georg approach. He thought perhaps he should've been surprised to see him there, but somehow he couldn't muster the effort for such thought.

“Watching Wendla Bergmann's funeral?” Hänschen said in an almost amused tone, as if Georg would've been doing anything else.

“Yes,” Georg answered tersely, letting Hänschen fall in step beside him.

“Did you hear how she died?” Hänschen said in a tone that felt superior, making Georg tense defensively.

“Some kind of sickness,” Georg responded, though he knew he was walking right into whatever tantalizing gossip Hänschen was trying to impart on him.

“If you call children a sickness,” Hänschen retorted.

Georg's steps slowed to a halt. He didn't want to know, he told himself – it was none of his business and Hänschen's gossipmongering only continually frustrated him.

He didn't need to say anything -- Hänschen read him easily. “She was carrying Melchior Gabor's child. Her mother wasn't too pleased...” He left Georg's imagination to fill in the space.

“That's... unfortunate for her,” he choked, though the words sounded fake and unempathetic to his ears.

“Hadn't you wondered why Melchior Gabor got sent off?” Hänschen replied, chuckling a little, and Georg realized he hated that laugh more than anything.

“It was none of my concern,” Georg said, not looking Hänschen in the eye.

The other boy touched Georg's arm, looking almost affectionate for a moment. “Come down to the lake with me,” he suggested.

“I'm already late for my piano lesson,” Georg replied, a knot in his chest.

“Well, if you're already late, why bother?” Hänschen said in a sultry tone.

“Because it's important to me,” Georg snapped. He shrugged off Hänschen's hand and walked briskly away from him, the mourners, Wendla Bergmann's sins and everything else but the simple comfort of the scheduled event awaiting him.

When Fraulein Grossenbustenhalter asked him why he was late, Georg told her he was at a friend's funeral. He was surprised to find that she was a little gentler after that, but he didn't need it today. He lost himself in the technicality and expressiveness of the music with a vengeance.

Gemessen - restrained

Georg didn't speak to Hänschen after that day. A little squabble was never something to keep Georg from reconciling with friends in the past, but Hänschen was not like Georg's other friends. He wasn't entirely sure if a relationship composed of mutual use was really a friendship after all.

It baffled him that he could find himself in this place. He thought that change was gradual, but like the suddenness in which Moritz Stiefel and Wendla Bergmann turned from people to merely names, he felt like the life had been drained from him. Hänschen had made things make sense for him. He almost hated him for that – for how, without Hänschen's philosophies to fall back on, he felt like his own thoughts were nothing of substance.

He threw himself into his schoolwork and spent his free time at the piano, practicing endlessly. With Moritz gone, Melchior sent away, and Georg and Hänschen avoiding each other, Georg was not eager to go outside and seek company among the other boys. As long as he stayed inside with his books and the piano, a beast which spoke the feelings he could not put into any other language, he felt that maybe he could put off facing those three losses as fact until he could take their absences for granted. It was bad enough that he felt them every day at school, why should he force them upon himself in his free time also?

At the dinner table, Herr Zierchnitz inquired as to what Georg had been up to after school the last few days. When Georg said he'd been up in his room doing homework, downstairs playing piano, his mother commented that he was doing very well with the piano.

Then his parents exchanged a look, one of those quick glances, that said more to Georg than the entire situation.

Attempting to avoid any conversations, with him or behind his back, about his recent introvertedness, the next day Georg pulled on his jacket and headed out into the chilly November afternoon.

It hadn't been all that long since Georg had traversed this trail into the woods, to the clearing where the other boys were likely to be found on an afternoon like this, but a kind of anxiety settled in his bones. For a moment he stopped, staring at the ground, trying to think what he might say if he did meet people, but he chastised himself for his hesitation and kept walking. They were just his friends, right?

He did not encounter the boys in the clearing, however, but rather two of the girls. Anna and Thea sat side-by-side on a wide tree stump. Anna was slouched over a little, her feet turned slightly inward and her fingers twisting through one of ribbon-tied pigtails. Thea, on the other hand, sat very still, her feet together and her hands folded in her lap, staring into space. Despite their opposing postures, the girls both seemed to share the same air, and that was one of silent lamentation.

Georg was about to turn to leave them alone, but Thea had already seen him approaching, and spoke out in a subdued tone. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Georg responded politely, stopping and staring in a way he was sure wasn't polite, but he wasn't sure what else to do with himself.

Anna stopped her fidgeting and suddenly sat up very straight, staring at him with wide blue eyes as though it had been a long time since she really looked at anyone. “It's so chilly out today,” she said in a distant voice that did not match her expression.

“Yes... I could've sworn it was warmer when school let out,” Georg responded awkwardly, unconsciously rubbing his fingers together in his pockets.

“I think so,” Anna responded. Thea was now staring absently at her feet, seeming to have removed herself from the conversation now that Anna was involved.

“Well, I suppose...” Georg said softly, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“Yes?” Anna said.

“I better be headed back,” he said quickly, not knowing what more he could say to the solemn pair.

“Oh...” Anna said, as though she expected some other response. “Have a nice evening, Georg,” she added, her voice faltering on his name as though it was difficult for her to voice aloud.

“Goodnight,” Thea said without looking up.

“Goodnight...” Georg said, turning and leaving at a brisk pace, feeling like a weight was lifted off of him when he was out of their sight.

Georg was far from free from social obligation, however, as he found himself stopping in place and exhaling slowly as he faced Hänschen and Ernst coming up the path.

“'Evening, Georg,” Ernst said in his usual peppy tone. Hänschen said nothing, but he didn't need to. The slight smirk on his lips and the intensity of his stare showed that the end of his communications with Georg had been of no emotional consequence to him.

“Hello Ernst – Hänschen,” Georg said, in a show of apathy.

“We haven't seen you outside of school the last few days, Georg – not feeling well?” Hänschen inquired smugly.

“I've been fine, Hänschen, thanks for your concern,” Georg said in a forced cheerfulness he wasn't aware he could muster. “I'll see you at school tomorrow,” he added with finality.

“Yes,” Hänschen said boredly, and Ernst nodded emphatically.

“Good evening,” he said, feeling something like pride wash over himself as they nodded their goodbyes and went their separate ways. He could handle himself.

Senza - without

The next day, Georg hurried up to his room and scrambled through as much of his homework as he could handle in a sitting, and then pulled on his jacket. Now that he felt he had sort of defeated Hänschen and the hold the other boy had had on him, he felt empowered. This relieved feeling was accompanied by the logic that if he could try and resolve one of the other things plaguing him, perhaps he could finally feel at ease with himself again.

As Georg walked briskly in the direction of the graveyard, though, he was feeling gradually less determined. He could already see the gravestones on the hill looming before him, and something was settling on his chest that was more than the anxiety of the previous day, a feeling that hadn't pressed on him with such a vengeance since Moritz's funeral.

When he started up the hill, it was with weighted steps. His breaths became shallow, like those that proceed sobs, and he almost thought, again, of turning around. He was already at the top of the hill, however, and leaving now without facing his friend seemed unimaginably cowardly.

Georg brushed his fingers absently over the tombstones as he passed them. So many people – but all that was left of them for him to see were names. Dates. Some inscriptions.

He was caught by surprise when he saw another figure in the graveyard – brown curls pulled apart by the ties of two white ribbons, resting on a back that was trembling with quiet sobbing. Quietly, trying to avoid the scattered leaves where he could, Georg approached a distance behind her. What he read before her did not surprise him.

Here rests in God

Wendla Bergmann
Born 5th May 1878

Died of Anemia

27 October 1892
Blessed are the pure in heart

Anna turned suddenly and stepped back, startled, when her eyes fell on him.

The only thing Georg could think to say, faced with the gravestone and his bitter memory of Hänschen's words on the last day they spoke as friends, was, “Was she a good person – Wendla Bergmann?”

Anna pressed her lips together, one hand playing with the collar of her jacket and the other grasping the opposite elbow. After a moment she said, her voice hoarse, “She was good – and strong, to her final days,” she said. It struck Georg that these were words that should never need be said in reference to someone so young.

Now a silence hung, weighed with heavy feelings, and Georg said, “I'm sorry,” because that seemed to be what one said in situations like these.

“Who... are you here to see?” Anna said, her voice small. There were still silent tears brimming her eyes, but she showed no shame for them, and did not try to wipe them away.

Georg felt something seem to settle in his throat, making his voice croak as he answered, “Moritz Stiefel.”

“Oh,” Anna said, as though Moritz's death had just dawned on her for the first time. She added, more solemnly, “Of course.”

As Georg started, slowly, in the direction of Moritz's grave, Anna followed. It felt awkward, like this should be a private visit, but at the same time the presence of someone else gave him a strange sort of reassurance.

Georg wasn't sure what he expected to see. There was the gravestone, simple and unadorned – some people had been surprised the family thought the boy even deserved one. Feeling uncertain and unsteady, Georg lowered himself onto his knees in front of the stone. He brushed his fingers over the grass, as though that might lead to a revelation, make him understand how this, this was what was left of his friend.

“I never really knew him, you know,” Georg said. He didn't understand why he was talking, didn't understand how there could be words for an occasion like this. “Not like Melchior or anything...” He raised his eyes to the gravestone again, reaching a shaking hand to touch the name, Moritz Stiefel. “But, when I realize he's not there anymore, that his chair in the class is empty, it seems unreal,” he choked.

He was startled by the pressure of a hand on his shoulder, as though a part of him had forgotten Anna was even there. With only a moment's hesitation, she reached down and cupped her hand around his, and he rested his other hand atop hers. It wasn't proper or anything of the sort, but as they knelt before this gravestone, the birds chirping in the distance and the slight breeze chilling them, the world going on as it always did with this absent, considering anything beyond that seemed out of the question.

When they finally stumbled to their feet, both of their cheeks red as the harsh wind met their tears, Georg felt none of the relief he expected at finally reacting to Moritz's death. He was instead left with a lingering feeling of emptiness – a feeling that felt painful and oppressing, but, somehow, necessary.

Al Fine – to the end

Winter continued on, pulling the life from the landscape, but eventually spring did come again. The world was reborn in the returning warmth. Soon, another school year started. Friendships were formed and ended, in the eager hearts of the schoolchildren romances began to unfold and collapse in turns. Among those who knew Wendla Bergmann and Moritz Stiefel, had been in the company of Melchior Gabor before he suffered his fate somewhere most of them knew not where, they found, with a sort of despair, that without these people they continued on.

Georg was no exception. Soon he found these people a part of his past, the experiences that plagued him relegated to memory along with endless others. Sometimes, however, sitting at his piano alone, he played a tune that was not solemn but tender, and remembered.

Fine – end.