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arqueeteFandom: Spring Awakening (Play)
Pairing: Melchior/Moritz, Melchior/Wendla
Words: 4934 (3 chapters)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “It makes sense, wouldn't it, that there is no real reason to prevent say... people of the same gender engaging in activity usually reserved, by normal social standards, for people of opposing gender?”
Author's Notes: This is a piece I've been working on for nearly a month, but I've been itching to do it for longer. The past month or so has put me through a lot, personally, and I've tried to use this fic to channel some of those feelings and realizations into the context of one of my favorite stories -- this play. Title from Regina Spektor's Ode to Divorce. Thanks to my betas,
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labellacaracol and dreamsofstars.Dedicated to
labellacaracol“When I think of her, the blood rushes to my head. And Moritz--It's as if I had lead in my shoes.” -- Melchior; Spring's Awakening Act 3 Scene 4
CH 1
By the time he noticed it was happening, it was too far in him. He felt choked by it, it's relentless fingers pressing against his heart.
Moritz couldn't say when it started. Where it came from; how it got its hands about his soul.
In Moritz's heart something had started to change, started to lose its clarity.
This was followed by the realization that he was losing his best friend.
Moritz held on to the comforting constant of Melchior's friendship, let himself take it for granted -- because that was one of few things he had that he could take for granted. He trusted that Melchior would always be there and then, as long as that held true, Moritz wouldn't be alone. It never occurred to him that he himself could be the fallacy in this.
The two boys sat in Melchior's room, inches between them on the bed. A book was laid out on Melchior's lap and he was talking, his words confident in tone but meandering in meaning. Moritz hung on every word, every syllable, but the words themselves meant little to him. Melchior indicated something on the page, and Moritz was forced to lean over a bit, to peer over Melchior's shoulder at the text. When he straightened again, he clasped his trembling hands firmly in his lap.
“Are you feeling well, Moritz?” the remark was offhand, thrown in the same breath as something about Greek myths, but Moritz found himself unsettled.
“Just a little under the weather,” he allowed, feigning nonchalance.
Melchior did not press – he never did. In the moment, Moritz was relieved as Melchior went on to other subjects in his endless chatter. Later, however, when time allowed his fear to fade, he might wish that Melchior had. Fantasy might allow him a scene of a great confession that would finally relieve the tension between them. However, even in fantasy he did not allow himself optimism – it always ended in a disastrous scene.
To finally finish the whole ordeal, to take a step toward change -- that neglected to lose its appeal.
It was then that Moritz started drafting The Letter in his mind.
It was the most difficult subject he could remember facing. Melchior had always been confident, frank, honest. He hid his feelings and opinions from no one. But, he found himself trembling, the weight on his chest seeming to force his body from standing to perched on the edge of his bed and staring at the floor, trying to put things into words but at the same time being scared of those words and what they might mean.
These thoughts weren't a revelation. In fact, the whole thing had started many months previous.
It was a harmless conversation, as they often started. After class, Melchior found himself sitting on the steps beside Hänschen Rilow, caught in a conversation that felt less like a conversation and more like two people throwing out ideas, only to have them bounce off each other mid-air like rubber balls and never quite reach their recipient.
Melchior's relationship with Hänschen was difficult for him to put into words. They could be called friends, he considered, but Melchior held far too little care for Hänschen to place him into that category. It was more that occasionally Melchior enjoyed conversing with someone who shared his cynicism, though Hänschen held an element sentimentality toward things that Melchior found difficult to relate to.
This afternoon, their conversation wandered into unexpected territory.
“Is it true that you don't believe in love?” Hänschen asked.
“I don't see any evidence that people are not simply driven by their instincts and are easily victims to romanticism,” Melchior said. Before he could continue, Hänschen was quick with what appeared to be an already prepared response.
“Then, if you only look at relationships in such practical terms, do you agree with the terms society sets down as to who should have relations and who should not?” he asked, his tone one of restraint.
“Well, many carry practical reasoning, but in terms of restraints such as wealth and status, it is clear to me through history that the taboos society places on people's relationships in general on many levels are too often violated behind closed doors --”
Melchior's speech was interrupted by yet another even-toned response. “What about gender?”
Though physically he was still, mentally Melchior felt like he could only jerk back in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Hänschen said, his voice changing from the mechanical responses he'd previously given to something a little more nervous. “It makes sense, wouldn't it, that there is no real reason to prevent say... people of the same gender engaging in activity usually reserved, by normal social standards, for people of opposing gender?”
Melchior's eyebrows wrinkled his forehead in thought as he tossed the question about in his mind, struggled for a response. Hänschen was leading Melchior to a reply he was reluctant to offer him, a topic he had no desire to entertain. “Perhaps, Hänschen, but it's not a subject I find particularly appealing,” he said resolutely.
And so the subject changed, the day went on, and Melchior returned to his safer complaints.
It wasn't long, however, before Melchior started to see the changes in Moritz. The awkwardness between them was palpable at times, and when Melchior saw the way Moritz was reluctant to meet his gaze some days, he couldn't help but wonder.
As time went by, Melchior found himself testing his boundaries a bit. A brush of his hand, a slow smile, seemed to send Moritz reeling.
After a while he couldn't help but think, the idea weighing on him, that maybe he wanted his best friend to be interested in him in that way?
It was around this time that he received The Letter.
Dear Melchior,
I write to you in an unfortunate position I have been neglectful to speak of before now. It is of necessity and not desire that I hand over this confession.
In recent months I have found it too difficult not to admit that I harbor feelings that are unnatural. It is these feelings that lead me to irrepressible fantasies revolving around other boys.
Though I wish I could see any other alternative, it seems only right that in the light of this fact, we cease to be friends.
With hope that time will resolve my situation,
Moritz
School had always been a living Hell for Moritz, and in light of recent events he would've given up anything to be able to just not show up – even just once.
He had survived a couple days of this so far, but this still didn't feel like sufficient hope for today. Moritz found himself bent over his textbook in class, taking care to keep his eyes moving across the words, dissecting each syllable but struggling to draw any meaning. He hadn't even glanced at Melchior – hardly looked up at anyone besides the teacher for days, but this seemed to almost distract him more than it forced him to work. His schoolwork would undoubtedly continue to suffer, but right now that just felt like another straw on his back, and he distantly wondered how many he could take.
After he wrote The Letter he had convinced himself this would make things better for him. It would surely force him to start facing the issue and working to resolve it, he had told himself, and the activity would surely make him feel better. But, he couldn't remember a moment, writing The Letter or since Melchior surely must have received it, when he felt any hint of this relief or resolution he'd promised himself. Now things were surely worse than they were before. In his lap his hands were still but his soul itself seemed to tremble within him, to twist in his stomach and crawl up his throat, and though he willed himself to keep it together, he felt the weight of gravity threaten to bring forth his tears.
When the last dismissal of the day was given, Moritz felt the closest thing to relief all day, but it was only temporary. The task of avoiding his classmates and keeping himself occupied, lest he fall into fantasy, plagued him. His fantasies now were not so much of an erotic nature as living nightmares. When he allowed himself a spare thought he did not imagine the feel of Melchior's fingers on his skin or the warmth of his embrace thrilling him in a way that was devoid of words – no, his mind was not so kind, choosing instead to taunt him with images of what Melchior's opinion might be of him now, of what Melchior may have told the other boys.
Moritz was first out of the class, his bag hastily packed. He was sure he'd made it out in time when a voice behind him, a voice too familiar, said, “Moritz?”
Moritz didn't acknowledge Melchior, though it must've been clear by the quickening of his pace that he'd heard. He avoided the other boys heading for the nearest exit, instead darting down the corridor to where, he wasn't sure. By the time he heard Melchior's exasperated, “Moritz, wait,” he was already nearly jogging down the hall, his heart racing in his chest.
It was as though God himself had chosen this day to punish Moritz for his sins, for as he turned a corner he had to quickly halt to avoid catching the attention of two of his teachers chatting nearby. In a fit of desperation, he darted into a nearby bathroom. He didn't even bother to try and hide, rather letting his bag drop to the floor and pressing his forehead against the wall, as though by avoiding looking at the door he could will Melchior not to enter.
It didn't take long for the door to creak open and Melchior to whisper his name. Moritz felt utterly defeated and alone, and he wasn't sure if he could will his tightened throat to respond if he wanted.
“Moritz, look at me,” Melchior said, his words breathy like a sigh. Moritz reluctantly turned, his eyes bleary, his mind too worn to fathom what Melchior could want with him.
Melchior's eyes flitted from Moritz's to the wall in an uncharacteristically nervous manner, but Moritz considered that in light of recent events he shouldn't expect things to be anything like they were previously.
“I just wanted to say...” Melchior's voice trailed off uncertainly, and Moritz felt like he couldn't look away from this unusual show of speechlessness. “I don't think there's anything wrong with you.”
Moritz could only stare blankly at this statement, his mind reeling at the possible implications. As though the wire beneath his feet had suddenly snapped, his mind lost all comprehension as Melchior lurched forward to plant a quick and hesitant kiss on his lips.
The moment that followed, as Melchior stumbled several steps back as if shoved, was the most deafening silence Moritz had ever encountered. His mind struggled to put some sense to this, to pull forth some feeling or anything to deal with this, but he felt this final straw drop on his back and under it his resolution cracked, hunching over and feeling heavy tears sliding down his cheeks.
Melchior stuttered out an, “I'm sorry,” and Moritz registered that he could not recall hearing Melchior sound scared before.
Moritz's own fear overcame his trembling form, and he managed to choke out, his voice a hoarse whisper between his sobs, “You're not mocking me, are you?”
“I would never do that,” Melchior said, his voice carrying a quiet devastation.
Moritz struggled to find something to say, but all that came were these sobs that seemed so far away, so separate from himself. Melchior took another uncertain step backwards before darting out of the room as though leaving the scene of a crime, and Moritz was left alone to slide down to the cool tile and sob to exhaustion.
CH 2
School didn't change much. Melchior went to his classes, did his work. Moritz still didn't talk to him, didn't grant him even a glance, to acknowledge that anything had shifted in the days since their encounter. Melchior wondered if Moritz seemed a little more sunken, a little more disheveled. He wasn't entirely sure. He felt as though he had little grasp of how things should be anymore.
He walked down the halls in a sort of daze. Whenever one of the other boys would toss him a casual greeting, even look at him sideways as he passed, his stomach gave a jolt, as if everyone could see, somehow read in his eyes, what he'd done. That they were judging him even now.
School didn't change much. Melchior had a feeling he was the one who changed.
When the boys were finally dismissed, Melchior watched how Moritz stuffed his things in his bag as though his life depended on the efficiency of this action. Moritz hurried out of the room, muttering quick goodbyes to the others. Melchior couldn't help but feel tired and weighed down watching him leave – he'd felt tired a lot lately. The kind of tired sleep neglects to rectify.
On the walk home he declined the company of the other boys, though he quickly regretted this decision. He was left alone with his thoughts – never-ending questions of right and wrong and what he wanted and the ever, unending repetition of The Kiss replaying in his mind's eye.
When he reached home Melchior almost stumbled when his eyes fell on Moritz. Sitting on the Gabor's front step, Moritz raised his tired eyes. Dark circles beneath them betrayed his lack of sleep, and Melchior met them cautiously.
“Hello,” Moritz said, his voice soft and resigned.
Melchior took a deep breath, not realizing his breathing had grown so shallow. “Are you... okay, Moritz?” he ventured.
Moritz's eyes shifted lazily to the ground for a moment, as though his mind, too, had drifted off elsewhere for the time being.“I don't know,” he said distantly, as though he were speaking from inside a dream. He started, suddenly, and lifted a hand to his mouth, as though the words had slipped from his lips unbidden.
Melchior shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was not eager to face the conversation that might result from this, not eager to acknowledge too much of himself in his friend's sunken features.
“Do you want to take a walk?” Moritz asked shyly.
Melchior tried to refuse, but he could not find the words.
Moritz pulled himself up off Melchior's front step and the two of them started in no particular direction, their feet falling in an awkward rhythm. Not knowing what else to do with them, Moritz shoved his hands into his pockets.
An uncomfortable silence hung heavy between them, but Moritz almost wanted to embrace it, to wrestle down the tension and the discourse just to have anything, anything at all.
Moritz, quite simply, was haunted. He was haunted, possessed, captured by the passion of a moment. It was not passion in a way that was sexual or romantic -- no. It was the passion of desperation, the passion of hopelessness. It was this passion that Moritz felt embodied in his memory of The Kiss.
It wasn't that Moritz was ready to be here now -- Melchior avoiding his eyes and the shakiness of their steps betraying both of their insecurities. It was that he saw nowhere else to be; nowhere else to feel.
So they walked, and finally, at the cusp of the woods, Moritz felt compelled to speak.
“You said you didn't think there was anything wrong with me,” he whispered, letting the words carry the hint of a question.
Melchior's pace slowed, and there was something there, something in the air, that knocked the air from Moritz's lungs before Melchior even said the words. “I don't know anymore, Moritz.”
Moritz was out of doubt, out of anger, out of despair. His words were a sigh, laden with all the breathlessness of dying words, “But, you said.”
“I wonder if it might not have been a bad idea from the start,” he said, and the words didn't seem to quite fall into context – as though Melchior were talking to himself.
Moritz frowned, pulling his hands out of his pockets to cross them over his chest. He searched for something to say, but the words didn't come.
Melchior swallowed, fidgeted. “I don't know,” he said again, but this time there was a note of something desperate there, and the silence hanging between them seemed to carry a note of companionship in its despair.
Moritz tried to keep the thoughts at bay, but he couldn't keep his stomach from turning. Couldn't not think about The Kiss. “But... Don't you feel it too?” Moritz ventured, his voice growing soft with the potential gravity of this question.
Melchior's breath became quick and something blazed in the intensity of his stare.. “I don't want to talk about this anymore, Moritz,” he almost snapped, and then his tone shifted to a forced neutrality with, “Why don't we go --”
“But I want to talk about it,” Moritz said sharply, the fierceness of the statement making them both start, as though they had merely been slumbering so far and had finally awoken.
Every hint of condescension or anger seemed to drain from Melchior's face, and in an affectionate tone unfamiliar to Moritz, he whispered, “Okay.”
Melchior swallowed his protest, and under the unexpected blaze of Moritz's eyes, he let himself give in.
Now that they had this frightful topic hanging over their heads, open for contribution, silence grew between them again. Anything demanding and unprecedented in Moritz had slipped from his awkward stance, and now Melchior was left with the feeling that his friend's well-being was something fragile that he held in his own hands. It was perhaps this idea, more than the fear he expressed for himself, that bred his caution now.
“You look tired,” he observed, his voice careful, controlled.
Moritz dragged a hand down his face, as though he could wipe the fatigue from his features this way. He looked small, somehow. It was as though the universe had been pounding him into the ground, pounding dents in his defenses.
“I was hoping... it meant you'd understand,” Moritz said, avoiding directly mentioning what lingered on both of their minds. “I was hoping you wouldn't mock me with something like that,” he added, the words almost a breath more than a sentence.
“I wasn't... mocking you,” Melchior said. He was startled that Moritz would think he might pull something like that – but when Moritz met his eyes defiantly, Melchior knew that Moritz didn't believe he would either, not really.
“Moritz...” he said carefully, “I just – I've been thinking about it, and boys with other boys... I just don't see how that can be natural.”
As he said it, finally pinned it down, he couldn't help but feel like he had broken something.
Moritz's expression was so many things Melchior couldn't find words for – there was an anger there, a frustration, surely, but something there was desperate, too -- frightened, maybe. Melchior felt almost like he should look away, that he was seeing something that it wasn't his business to see.
Moritz was breathless as he effortlessly broke down the last of both of their defenses.
“You kissed me.”
Melchior was perplexed as to why he was still standing. Was the ground not just pulled out from under him? But somehow, it seemed like in that moment he had an eternity to fall, an eternity to decide what words might save him.
However, he knew. Knew that even at the end of eternity the only words left for him would only break him open.
“I...” his voice seemed to give out, and he swallowed helplessly. “Moritz, what if – so what if I told you what it is you want to hear? What if everything changed? I can't see things changing for the better.”
Moritz frowned at him, looking away a moment and then meeting his eyes again with what was almost a perplexed expression. “Melchi,” he said, pausing to let out a long breath. “Have things not already changed beyond repair?”
Melchior felt crushed beneath the words, drowning in them. Beyond repair.
Of course they had. Of course they had. Couldn't Moritz see that that wasn't it at all? That Melchior wasn't stupid -- he was just scared, and how was it that Moritz wasn't, too? How was there no way out – no way he could have his security and have his friend, too?
“It's not that I never wanted this,” he allowed, his voice strangely calm, impossibly easy. It was easy, he realized, to let it spill – easy to damn himself. “So.”
Melchior hadn't said much at all, but it felt like he had said it all, like he had every right to take a step forward now, studying the lines of his friend's face, admiring the emotion that was so thoroughly drained from them both. It almost seemed too painless, too easy, when they leaned into a kiss that was too tired to be awkward and too necessary to resist. Almost.
It didn't feel like a kiss much at all, not like The Kiss that had rocked Melchior's resolve -- more like the inevitable meeting of their frustration that was physical only as an afterthought.
When they separated and their breath became tired sighs again, it was as though Moritz had dented in Melchior's defenses more than the universe ever could on its own.
“So,” Moritz breathed, “What now?”
There was no longer a hint of frustration or hostility between them, but instead something awkward, hesitant, almost like all of the discomfort that should have plagued their tired hearts was finally catching up with them.
Melchior ran a weary hand through his hair. “I don't know yet,” he said.
With a long look in lieu of a farewell, Melchior finally headed back home. Despite the feeling that he had been torn to apart by the meeting, there was no relief for his worries or desires, only the lack of energy to feel them, and only for now.
Perhaps, though, there was something there that was a little satisfying. Perhaps, looking back and realizing the gravity of that moment, a kiss that was an attempt at a resolution and not the source of more pain, could be a comfort.
Perhaps.
CH 3
To the outside world, it looked like nothing had changed. Over the course of several days, Moritz and Melchior eased back into their friendship, tucking their feelings safely away beneath grins and idle chatter. Moritz contented himself with the knowledge that his secret was shared. There was a certain relief in letting himself soak in the ease of pretending that there was nothing to fear and that nothing was wrong, nothing had changed.
There was another part of him, though, that wasn't content -- a part which sometimes, tired and alone, he let surface. It raged and hungered and ate at him. It demanded to know, to be assured, that it belonged to Melchior and a part of Melchior belonged to Moritz.
But, he swallowed the hunger away, buried it with words. They talked about homework. They talked about life. They even talked about sex. Moritz let Melchior tear apart his insecurities with his words and it felt fine to be broken as long as it was he who was broken and not them. So Melchior buried himself deeper into Moritz's psyche and Moritz didn't fight him off, because it was hard but it was something.
It was becoming increasingly longer since the last time Melchior really told Moritz anything.
Clinging to casual relations that didn't ring true, haunted by the phantom of his best friend lingering on his lips for days on end, Melchior felt that something was unsteady, something had to go wrong. He was desperate to get out, to find something safe – so he let himself fall into something that, though just as frightening, wasn't so inside of him, didn't lay him open so well.
That something was a girl, and that girl was Wendla Bergmann.
Wendla was pretty and sweet, and even when one day something snapped, even when his fist met her fragile form and he didn't recognize himself anymore, still the pain didn't seem so invested in him. Still, he could not convince himself that this wasn't a better course to pursue.
Still he didn't tell Moritz.
It wasn't that he hadn't tried, hadn't thought that maybe if he made it clear that this is what he wanted now, they could let their past confessions stay in the past. That then they could be happy – because, surely, together they could only break themselves. Surely.
However, sometimes on evenings like this, sitting cross-legged on Melchior's bed, books laid open and papers scattered about them, Melchior was haunted.
He was being pulled in two by conflicting ideas. He was thoroughly convinced that the whole thing had fallen into his hands, was his to save, and that the only way to save it was to abandon it while he could.
The other idea, however, was snaking into his consciousness with a slow ease. It was an idea more in line with his radical nature -- an idea that insisted that behind closed doors nothing was sacred.
It was almost painful, after the countless days he'd spent beating himself back, clinging to the thoughts of Wendla Bergmann that he swore could replace everything. That pain almost felt like déjà vu when he set aside his book and gripped Moritz's forearm, pulling him awkwardly across the bed to indulge himself with a kiss that was almost angry, could not manage affection when he was so frustrated with the feelings that drove it.
There was no note of frustration in the kiss for Moritz – it was an inward sigh of relief. Finally the farce was being thrown away again, and Moritz didn't realize just how well he'd been putting it on until he didn't need it anymore.
Still, there was something almost apologetic in the way they shoved their work aside, a stray paper or two crunching beneath their weight, Moritz's head falling onto Melchior's pillow. Moritz told himself that everything was perfect this way, that this was them, together, wasn't it? but the shiver that slid down his spine, settling in his stomach, as Melchior's hand slid beneath his shirt and met his skin – that shiver was almost asking to be reluctant, almost asking to protest.
No, of course not. Of course this was an expression of their feelings, and of course Moritz knew those feelings were sincere – so there was no need for him to hear Melchior say the words. He felt them.
Right?
Moritz forced this thought into their kiss, breathed it in heavily as Melchior clumsily started on the buttons of his shirt.
Melchior moved to undo Moritz's trousers and Moritz faltered – no, no, why did everything have to be wrong? Why, as Moritz's hand stopped Melchior's and he faced a perplexed expression – why couldn't he form an answer?
Questions were easier than the answer that had been lingering all along.
“I can't do this again,” Moritz croaked, trying not to look away – but he did.
“What do you mean?” Melchior pressed, and Moritz could've winced at the accusation there, at the voice in his head that was trying to tell him this was all his fault.
“I... I have to know if we're actually... together,” he whispered hesitantly. “And not just doing this because we can.”
Moritz swallowed uncomfortably as Melchior let out a long breath and fumbled off of the bed. He stumbled to the window and Moritz watched him press his forehead against the glass, his eyes closed.
When he finally spoke, Moritz learned about Wendla Bergmann.
Cobwebs hung in haunting patterns about the hayloft, the lonely recipients of the tortured thoughts Melchior tossed into the atmosphere. Hay prodded into his back and legs, tangled in his hair, but Melchior liked being in it, liked the smell of it. It reminded him of being a child, before these new feelings permeated all their lives. Before everything he touched seemed to crumble.
When she came up, he was angry. He was angry at how lovely she looked, how sweetly she spoke, how she arose in him both the passion and the temper he'd gained with this age, reminded him of how far away the peace of his childhood had gone.
But, she was all he had now, wasn't she? She was the only thing that, through some wonder, was here, not yet destroyed.
She was his, so he took her.
She was whole, so he broke her.
Moritz was tired. Whipped cream meant nothing to him, held no special meaning or significance, provoked no emotion and required no reasoning.
Moritz was tired, so he thought of whipped cream.
He did the only thing he knew how to do anymore – he fell to pieces.
“How many untroubled, happy days we've had in the fourteen years! In the years ahead, things may go well with me or badly, I may become a different man ten times over, but, come what may, I shall never forget you.” -- Melchior, Spring's Awakening, Act 3 Scene 7
