arqueete | (no subject)

labellacaracol and I are doing a ~drabblethon~.

Dead Things
Spring Awakening, ~surprise pairing~
I have no idea where this came from. No. idea. where. this came from.

Gravestones in crooked rows. He'd run his fingers over them all afternoon, as though their cold stone were real skin, as if their inscriptions were newspaper headlines or love letters. Instead, they told of Dead Things.

The willow branches scooped down, skeletons in the breath of fall. Their green was sucked dry, their shadows were imposing figures, casting wild patterns over his skin and chilling him. When one brushed him, he jumped. The fingers of Dead Things.

It was under the willows and between the graves that he encountered into her, the crunch of Dead Things beneath her feet drawing his attention. They sat for a while, backs leaning against the gravestones, on their slips the somber talk of Dead Things. Not the ones they knew – no. Just the cold whisper and the chilling touch of the words, of the idea – Dead Things.

He brushed Dead Things from her hair, and the touch became a caress. And the caress became lips against her skin, and the taste became a thing of desperation, a hunger for life.

And so their breath was hot in the cold air, their bodies meeting in an act of life among inscriptions of the dead.

And so he breathed his everything into her, and he realized, red jacket and pink skirt against the brown ground, that she really was Anna: A Living Thing, and that it was Living Things they had turned into something trivial with their wanting.

He came home, though, among warm and Living Things, and when he faced himself in the mirror, in the unfamiliar face he could only see Georg: A Dead Thing.

"That is what we do. That is what people do. They stay alive for each other."
Spring Awakening, Melchior

The funeral holds a definite note of tension, and maybe Melchior should feel better when it tapers off to an ending, when it's just him at the grave as the sun's setting, sitting beside the fresh earth.

He doesn't, though.

He can't bring himself to look at the name, he hasn't all day. He stares out across the graveyard, a trembling hand covering his mouth, just watching the clouds pass, as though he might feel a stirring beside him. And that realization, that comparison, brings tears to his eyes. Again. Not for the last time.

He feels angry, suddenly – but it's such an empty anger, a desperate anger that is more of a lamentation. Angry that Moritz did this to himself; angry that he thought Moritz could never hurt him, and then suddenly... suddenly... Sometimes he hated this place, too. Really hated it. And he felt like as long as he was forced to endure it he should at least get Moritz. At least.

Melchior chances a glance at the fresh dirt beside him, and the sigh that escapes him isn't angry. It's just... sad, isn't it? He takes a moment to step back from it, to scuff his foot at the society that stole his everything.

No he doesn't. He tries, he wishes, but the sobs are heavy and he lets himself topple over and in the grass his body shakes with each gasp for breath.

He can't see it. He just can't. How one day everything's just... everything, and now, now... Now in the wake of her he's lost his sense of identity, and now he's not sure if he cares anymore because the more he returns to himself, the less there is to come back to.