Spring Awakening // The Reminder
Title: The Reminder
Author: Sarah
Rating: PG
Words: 1284
Pairing: Melchior/Wendla
Summary: Melchior juxtaposes his current life with the life he should be living.
Disclaimer: I don't own Spring Awakening.
Melchior was always an imaginative boy, if you asked his mother. She would go on and on about the brilliant mind her son possessed and his potential. And looking back at the stories he’d written and pictures he’d drawn in his youth, he would agree with her. But sometimes Melchior let his imagination get the best of him. He often found himself traveling through a fantasy world of his own creation, a fantasy world of what could have been, of the life he should have had.
Melchior moved on after Wendla. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Life doesn’t end at fifteen.
He finished his schooling and took up a trade, as most boys did. To fit in with the times, he found himself a wife because he had moved on. Wendla and the time he spent with her were worlds away from now, ten years later. He had moved on and he had convinced everyone but himself.
He chose Wendy because she reminded him of Wendla in writing, but that was all. She was blonde and fair with dull green eyes where Wendla was dark-haired with lively eyes the color of his morning coffee. She was nice and smart and funny, but she was also routine and the same as every other girl. Wendla had become his definition of perfection and he couldn’t help but compare every girl to her.
The wedding was small because that’s what he wanted. He was present in body, not in mind. As he recited his vows, promising to love Wendy until his death, Melchior imagined what his wedding with Wendla would have been.
Rushed was the first word that came to mind. It would have been quick and simple, only days after her pregnancy had been discovered. She would wear a loose fitting frock in a shade that wasn’t quite white to conceal the baby and there would be forced smiles to disguise the fears of an uncertain future.
In his union to Wendy, the only forced smile was his own. The rest were smiles of sincerity and well-wishes. There was a reception afterwards at Wendy’s childhood home with dinner and cake and dancing. He followed along mechanically, spinning his new wife around the dance floor the same way he uncertainly twirled his wedding ring around his finger.
A reception wouldn’t have followed his marriage to Wendla. They would have been wed out of necessity, to protect their reputations. It would be a cover up, a farce to the congregation, hiding what a few people already knew. But to Melchior, it would have been real.
Wendy’s pregnancy came as unexpectedly as Wendla’s. The knowledge of a little life that he had caused was terrifying. The same feelings from before rushed back to him as he relived that letter. But this time, there wasn’t a rush of joy after the nervousness faded. Before it was because of love, this time it was because he was supposed to.
The beginning of Wendy’s pregnancy was full of excitement and congratulations. There was planning and change and gifts for the baby, even though he or she wasn’t coming for months. As Wendy’s belly grew, so did Melchior’s desire to live the life he imagined with Wendla. He feigned excitement when she led his hand to the baby’s heartbeat. As time went on, he did begin to anticipate the arrival of his child. His false excitement became genuine.
Even so, when Melchior lay beside Wendy at night with his arm draped around her swollen belly, he couldn’t help but invent the details of Wendla’s pregnancy.
Wendla was small, so her stomach would grow large as the baby developed. His excitement would be genuine from the beginning, not just towards the end. There wouldn’t be showers of gifts, just a few necessities, maybe from his mother, probably bought with money he’d earned. Maybe Wendla would learn to sow and make the baby’s clothes. It would be hard, both of them pushed to the edge, barely holding on and wanting to jump off and give up. But it’d be love.
Wendy woke him one night, telling him it was time. Time? Time for what? Time for the baby. She sat up, clutching her stomach and wincing in pain. Melchior went pale, not sure what to do. He took both pillows, propping them up behind her.
“Okay, just relax,” Melchior said, out of breath from nervousness. “I’ll go get the midwife.” Leaving Wendy, he quickly ran through their small house and out the door to fetch the town midwife. He sensed the same excitement and nervousness and thrills now that he would have felt with Wendla’s child. He smiled as he pounded on the midwife’s door, sensing a change in his feelings. Maybe he was finally moving on.
The older woman answered the door, disheveled and sleep still hanging in her eyes. By the panic-stricken look on Melchior’s face, she knew exactly what was going on. In a matter of seconds, the two were headings towards Melchior’s home.
Wendy was crying and moaning in pain when they returned. Noticing her discomfort, the midwife quickly went to work in delivering the baby. Melchior knelt beside the bed, taking Wendy’s hand in his own, imagining that he might hold Wendla’s hand and push back the hair from her eyes in an attempt to comfort her. Just like he was doing now.
The labor was long and bloody, but soon enough there was a baby. The midwife took care of washing off Melchior’s son while he stayed with Wendy. Her breathing became labored and heavy.
“What’s wrong?” Melchior gripped her hand tighter. “Is she okay?” He looked toward the midwife.
A wave of concern washed over her face as she quickly finished swaddling the newborn and handed him to his uncertain father. While the midwife took his place by Wendy’s side, Melchior ventured to the other end of the room, holding his son and imagining what the birth of Wendla’s child would have been like.
It would be long and painful like Wendy’s, but in the end, there would be a baby with Melchior’s curls and Wendla’s eyes. Wendla would hold him in her arms, smiling down upon him. They would lie together and name him after a family member and anticipate sharing the good news with their families.
Melchior’s life with his son would flash before his eyes. He’d smile at the memories they would make as a family in the years to come. The baby wasn’t a mistake or an accident after all. It was a blessing and a miracle as every child should be.
Melchior ripped himself away from his fantasy to address to the reality. Instead, he held a crying child with his own soft curls, but Wendy’s eyes. Where there should have been a lively chocolate brown, there was a dull, faded green. Where there should have been celebration and joy, there was worry and concern. Where there should have been life, there was death.
**
Melchior buried his wife before he named his son. The funeral reminded him of when they buried Moritz. It reminded him of how he wasn’t there to say goodbye to Wendla.
The name Tristan is associated with sadness. Melchior christened his little boy with the sorrow he felt. He embarked on his new life with his son, pushing his imaginary life with Wendla out of his mind. He didn’t need to daydream anymore, Tristan was a reminder. He was not a reminder of his sadness in losing Wendy, because he found that more liberating than he should have. Instead he saw his son as a reminder of the life he would never have.
Author: Sarah
Rating: PG
Words: 1284
Pairing: Melchior/Wendla
Summary: Melchior juxtaposes his current life with the life he should be living.
Disclaimer: I don't own Spring Awakening.
Melchior was always an imaginative boy, if you asked his mother. She would go on and on about the brilliant mind her son possessed and his potential. And looking back at the stories he’d written and pictures he’d drawn in his youth, he would agree with her. But sometimes Melchior let his imagination get the best of him. He often found himself traveling through a fantasy world of his own creation, a fantasy world of what could have been, of the life he should have had.
Melchior moved on after Wendla. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Life doesn’t end at fifteen.
He finished his schooling and took up a trade, as most boys did. To fit in with the times, he found himself a wife because he had moved on. Wendla and the time he spent with her were worlds away from now, ten years later. He had moved on and he had convinced everyone but himself.
He chose Wendy because she reminded him of Wendla in writing, but that was all. She was blonde and fair with dull green eyes where Wendla was dark-haired with lively eyes the color of his morning coffee. She was nice and smart and funny, but she was also routine and the same as every other girl. Wendla had become his definition of perfection and he couldn’t help but compare every girl to her.
The wedding was small because that’s what he wanted. He was present in body, not in mind. As he recited his vows, promising to love Wendy until his death, Melchior imagined what his wedding with Wendla would have been.
Rushed was the first word that came to mind. It would have been quick and simple, only days after her pregnancy had been discovered. She would wear a loose fitting frock in a shade that wasn’t quite white to conceal the baby and there would be forced smiles to disguise the fears of an uncertain future.
In his union to Wendy, the only forced smile was his own. The rest were smiles of sincerity and well-wishes. There was a reception afterwards at Wendy’s childhood home with dinner and cake and dancing. He followed along mechanically, spinning his new wife around the dance floor the same way he uncertainly twirled his wedding ring around his finger.
A reception wouldn’t have followed his marriage to Wendla. They would have been wed out of necessity, to protect their reputations. It would be a cover up, a farce to the congregation, hiding what a few people already knew. But to Melchior, it would have been real.
Wendy’s pregnancy came as unexpectedly as Wendla’s. The knowledge of a little life that he had caused was terrifying. The same feelings from before rushed back to him as he relived that letter. But this time, there wasn’t a rush of joy after the nervousness faded. Before it was because of love, this time it was because he was supposed to.
The beginning of Wendy’s pregnancy was full of excitement and congratulations. There was planning and change and gifts for the baby, even though he or she wasn’t coming for months. As Wendy’s belly grew, so did Melchior’s desire to live the life he imagined with Wendla. He feigned excitement when she led his hand to the baby’s heartbeat. As time went on, he did begin to anticipate the arrival of his child. His false excitement became genuine.
Even so, when Melchior lay beside Wendy at night with his arm draped around her swollen belly, he couldn’t help but invent the details of Wendla’s pregnancy.
Wendla was small, so her stomach would grow large as the baby developed. His excitement would be genuine from the beginning, not just towards the end. There wouldn’t be showers of gifts, just a few necessities, maybe from his mother, probably bought with money he’d earned. Maybe Wendla would learn to sow and make the baby’s clothes. It would be hard, both of them pushed to the edge, barely holding on and wanting to jump off and give up. But it’d be love.
Wendy woke him one night, telling him it was time. Time? Time for what? Time for the baby. She sat up, clutching her stomach and wincing in pain. Melchior went pale, not sure what to do. He took both pillows, propping them up behind her.
“Okay, just relax,” Melchior said, out of breath from nervousness. “I’ll go get the midwife.” Leaving Wendy, he quickly ran through their small house and out the door to fetch the town midwife. He sensed the same excitement and nervousness and thrills now that he would have felt with Wendla’s child. He smiled as he pounded on the midwife’s door, sensing a change in his feelings. Maybe he was finally moving on.
The older woman answered the door, disheveled and sleep still hanging in her eyes. By the panic-stricken look on Melchior’s face, she knew exactly what was going on. In a matter of seconds, the two were headings towards Melchior’s home.
Wendy was crying and moaning in pain when they returned. Noticing her discomfort, the midwife quickly went to work in delivering the baby. Melchior knelt beside the bed, taking Wendy’s hand in his own, imagining that he might hold Wendla’s hand and push back the hair from her eyes in an attempt to comfort her. Just like he was doing now.
The labor was long and bloody, but soon enough there was a baby. The midwife took care of washing off Melchior’s son while he stayed with Wendy. Her breathing became labored and heavy.
“What’s wrong?” Melchior gripped her hand tighter. “Is she okay?” He looked toward the midwife.
A wave of concern washed over her face as she quickly finished swaddling the newborn and handed him to his uncertain father. While the midwife took his place by Wendy’s side, Melchior ventured to the other end of the room, holding his son and imagining what the birth of Wendla’s child would have been like.
It would be long and painful like Wendy’s, but in the end, there would be a baby with Melchior’s curls and Wendla’s eyes. Wendla would hold him in her arms, smiling down upon him. They would lie together and name him after a family member and anticipate sharing the good news with their families.
Melchior’s life with his son would flash before his eyes. He’d smile at the memories they would make as a family in the years to come. The baby wasn’t a mistake or an accident after all. It was a blessing and a miracle as every child should be.
Melchior ripped himself away from his fantasy to address to the reality. Instead, he held a crying child with his own soft curls, but Wendy’s eyes. Where there should have been a lively chocolate brown, there was a dull, faded green. Where there should have been celebration and joy, there was worry and concern. Where there should have been life, there was death.
**
Melchior buried his wife before he named his son. The funeral reminded him of when they buried Moritz. It reminded him of how he wasn’t there to say goodbye to Wendla.
The name Tristan is associated with sadness. Melchior christened his little boy with the sorrow he felt. He embarked on his new life with his son, pushing his imaginary life with Wendla out of his mind. He didn’t need to daydream anymore, Tristan was a reminder. He was not a reminder of his sadness in losing Wendy, because he found that more liberating than he should have. Instead he saw his son as a reminder of the life he would never have.