a shadow passed | spring awakening
Title: A Shadow Passed
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: G
Characters: Anna, Martha, Thea, Wendla, Georg, Otto, Hanschen, Ernst, Ilse, Melchior
Summary: Let me sing you a song of regret.
Katharine said something sad. It's not so sad though, really.
Anna drops her flower into his grave without looking. She can't bear to even imagine him. Otto Lammermeier said his head was blown clear off, and she couldn't fathom how Moritz could do that. He was nervous and anxious all the time, but he had Melchior for his friend, and he had all of them in church and in choir if he really needed them. She would have talked to him, she would have. Maybe if she'd stayed after one day at youth group instead of spending lazy warm days sitting in the grass with Thea, talking about Melchior Gabor.
Martha can't take her eyes off of the grave, even though tears are falling onto her cheeks and she feels like she's going to fall. That's Moritz, lying there. Sad, soulful Moritz, always looking so tired, finally asleep. She drops her flower into his grave, purple and slightly wilted, just like her. Martha was never good at their games of pirates and robbers, always uneasy to undo her braids and take off her stockings. Everyone questioned her about the bruises, purple like the flower petals, that colored her legs. Everyone but Moritz, who looked at her quietly with his sad eyes and smiled, just a little bit.
Thea feels bad, suddenly, for making fun of him so much. Really, he wasn't so bad. He gave her warm chocolate and always stared too intently, but he wasn't really so bad. There were far worse people in the world, she'd come to realize this spring, like Martha's father and her Uncle Klaus. Far worse people who never smiled and never played games in the woods and never offered a handkerchief (only slightly dirtied) when she had a cold. As she drops her flower, that's what she thinks of, Moritz's twitching hands with dirty fingernails holding out a handkerchief for her.
Wendla wishes she could have talked to him more often. She thinks that she should have talked to him more, she should have embraced him once more in their childhood, she shouldn't have giggled at him so much when he fell off the raft as they played pirates. She should have taken his hands more like she did with Ernst or Ilse, and spun him around until they were dizzy. The flower spins as she drops it, topsy-turvy and spinning. Wendla looks to Melchior, standing straight over his friend's grave, and wonders how he manages. Tears are streaming from her eyes and she hardly knew him, but Melchior stands stoic, as always. Stoic and steady, like his hands when she or Moritz fell into the water. She wishes for one more sunny day by the river.
Georg gulps as he lets his flower go. When he first heard that Moritz was dead, there was a sickening moment where he thought the slacking sidekick deserved it. He never worked, he was always wrong, he was so odd. But then Georg can see his feet, always pointing towards each other, and his hunched shoulders, from across the Latin classroom. And he thinks that maybe Moritz was just different, not odd, just nervous, all the time, like he is when he feels Fraulein Grossebustenhalter so close to him. Maybe Moritz was just like that. He wasn't better or worse, but always Moritz, happy at the smallest things. Georg thought him simple when he was alive and breathing, but now...now it seems like he should smile more at passing, laugh more at Melchior's crazy talk.
Otto finds himself crying and he doesn't know why. He tries to think of happy memories of Moritz. Or sad memories. Or bad memories. But he really can't find any. He realizes that he didn't really know Moritz at all. He was a head in Latin class, someone that he could forget. He wasn't going to pass, he didn't matter to Otto anymore, not since they were children. Moritz wouldn't get anywhere, and they had never really been friends. Moritz was with Melchior, Otto was with Georg. Still, despite their casual acquaintanceship as they grew up and apart, Moritz had embraced him joyfully when he passed, so happy to share good things with everyone. The only thing Otto can offer is a flower that falls with a soft thud.
Hanschen pauses for a moment, looking into Moritz's grave. He is calm, and collected. Moritz was a failure, Moritz was a sinner, Moritz didn't matter to him. He was a nobody, defined by his better and brighter friend. Hanschen feels his resolve breaking as he thinks of his sticking-up hair and his singing voice in choir, and he clenches his jaw. Finally, though he's thinking that Moritz means nothing, that Moritz didn't do anything worth mentioning, that Moritz could hardly make it through one line of Latin, a tear falls. He curses that tear, that tear that was for nothing. For nothing but an old friend.
Ernst can hardly contain his tears and doesn't really see, with his eyes all watery, the flower fall into the grave. His mother told him to think of the good times he had with Moritz, and there were many. They were six and they were playing tag. Ernst fell, and Moritz asked if he was alright and pulled him up. They were eight and swimming in the river. Moritz splashed him and Ernst looked at him for a moment before splashing him back. They were fifteen and Moritz passed. He launched himself at Ernst, and Ernst found himself smiling. Ernst chooses not to remember Moritz's shaky hands and wounded looks and failures, but instead his smile. And Ernst smiles as well, lifting his hand to wave into Moritz's grave.
Ilse looks at Melchior, glares at Herr Stiefel, then turns her face up towards the sky. It's a sunny day. Moritz liked sunny days. Sunny days of running into their wigwam and weaving crowns of flowers. He blushed when she and Wendla pulled off their stockings and unbuttoned their dresses so they could swim, hardly able to look at her. Hardly able to look at her years later when she was dressed only in a man's shirt and determination. The same blush staining his cheeks, the same horrified look on his face when she told him stories. The same timid voice that was full of spiky color. Silly old Moritz.
Melchior whispers a quiet goodbye.
This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.
FRSRS, U GUISE, IF YOU HAVE AN PROMPTS, LET ME HEAR 'EM.
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: G
Characters: Anna, Martha, Thea, Wendla, Georg, Otto, Hanschen, Ernst, Ilse, Melchior
Summary: Let me sing you a song of regret.
Katharine said something sad. It's not so sad though, really.
Anna drops her flower into his grave without looking. She can't bear to even imagine him. Otto Lammermeier said his head was blown clear off, and she couldn't fathom how Moritz could do that. He was nervous and anxious all the time, but he had Melchior for his friend, and he had all of them in church and in choir if he really needed them. She would have talked to him, she would have. Maybe if she'd stayed after one day at youth group instead of spending lazy warm days sitting in the grass with Thea, talking about Melchior Gabor.
Martha can't take her eyes off of the grave, even though tears are falling onto her cheeks and she feels like she's going to fall. That's Moritz, lying there. Sad, soulful Moritz, always looking so tired, finally asleep. She drops her flower into his grave, purple and slightly wilted, just like her. Martha was never good at their games of pirates and robbers, always uneasy to undo her braids and take off her stockings. Everyone questioned her about the bruises, purple like the flower petals, that colored her legs. Everyone but Moritz, who looked at her quietly with his sad eyes and smiled, just a little bit.
Thea feels bad, suddenly, for making fun of him so much. Really, he wasn't so bad. He gave her warm chocolate and always stared too intently, but he wasn't really so bad. There were far worse people in the world, she'd come to realize this spring, like Martha's father and her Uncle Klaus. Far worse people who never smiled and never played games in the woods and never offered a handkerchief (only slightly dirtied) when she had a cold. As she drops her flower, that's what she thinks of, Moritz's twitching hands with dirty fingernails holding out a handkerchief for her.
Wendla wishes she could have talked to him more often. She thinks that she should have talked to him more, she should have embraced him once more in their childhood, she shouldn't have giggled at him so much when he fell off the raft as they played pirates. She should have taken his hands more like she did with Ernst or Ilse, and spun him around until they were dizzy. The flower spins as she drops it, topsy-turvy and spinning. Wendla looks to Melchior, standing straight over his friend's grave, and wonders how he manages. Tears are streaming from her eyes and she hardly knew him, but Melchior stands stoic, as always. Stoic and steady, like his hands when she or Moritz fell into the water. She wishes for one more sunny day by the river.
Georg gulps as he lets his flower go. When he first heard that Moritz was dead, there was a sickening moment where he thought the slacking sidekick deserved it. He never worked, he was always wrong, he was so odd. But then Georg can see his feet, always pointing towards each other, and his hunched shoulders, from across the Latin classroom. And he thinks that maybe Moritz was just different, not odd, just nervous, all the time, like he is when he feels Fraulein Grossebustenhalter so close to him. Maybe Moritz was just like that. He wasn't better or worse, but always Moritz, happy at the smallest things. Georg thought him simple when he was alive and breathing, but now...now it seems like he should smile more at passing, laugh more at Melchior's crazy talk.
Otto finds himself crying and he doesn't know why. He tries to think of happy memories of Moritz. Or sad memories. Or bad memories. But he really can't find any. He realizes that he didn't really know Moritz at all. He was a head in Latin class, someone that he could forget. He wasn't going to pass, he didn't matter to Otto anymore, not since they were children. Moritz wouldn't get anywhere, and they had never really been friends. Moritz was with Melchior, Otto was with Georg. Still, despite their casual acquaintanceship as they grew up and apart, Moritz had embraced him joyfully when he passed, so happy to share good things with everyone. The only thing Otto can offer is a flower that falls with a soft thud.
Hanschen pauses for a moment, looking into Moritz's grave. He is calm, and collected. Moritz was a failure, Moritz was a sinner, Moritz didn't matter to him. He was a nobody, defined by his better and brighter friend. Hanschen feels his resolve breaking as he thinks of his sticking-up hair and his singing voice in choir, and he clenches his jaw. Finally, though he's thinking that Moritz means nothing, that Moritz didn't do anything worth mentioning, that Moritz could hardly make it through one line of Latin, a tear falls. He curses that tear, that tear that was for nothing. For nothing but an old friend.
Ernst can hardly contain his tears and doesn't really see, with his eyes all watery, the flower fall into the grave. His mother told him to think of the good times he had with Moritz, and there were many. They were six and they were playing tag. Ernst fell, and Moritz asked if he was alright and pulled him up. They were eight and swimming in the river. Moritz splashed him and Ernst looked at him for a moment before splashing him back. They were fifteen and Moritz passed. He launched himself at Ernst, and Ernst found himself smiling. Ernst chooses not to remember Moritz's shaky hands and wounded looks and failures, but instead his smile. And Ernst smiles as well, lifting his hand to wave into Moritz's grave.
Ilse looks at Melchior, glares at Herr Stiefel, then turns her face up towards the sky. It's a sunny day. Moritz liked sunny days. Sunny days of running into their wigwam and weaving crowns of flowers. He blushed when she and Wendla pulled off their stockings and unbuttoned their dresses so they could swim, hardly able to look at her. Hardly able to look at her years later when she was dressed only in a man's shirt and determination. The same blush staining his cheeks, the same horrified look on his face when she told him stories. The same timid voice that was full of spiky color. Silly old Moritz.
Melchior whispers a quiet goodbye.
This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.
FRSRS, U GUISE, IF YOU HAVE AN PROMPTS, LET ME HEAR 'EM.