tell me, please (all is forgiven) | spring awakening
Title: Tell Me, Please (All Is Forgiven)
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hanschen/Ernst
Summary: Hanschen in second person.
Companion to this.
He wants, more than anything, to be loved.
You can give him something close.
xxx
It's easy to control him. It's always been like this, though; he's always followed and you've always led. You love that feeling. You love that you can make him blush and squirm and whimper in the back of his throat. You love his light fingers on your shoulders and his tiny, awkward smile.
You hate what it does to you.
xxx
Sometimes, you feel a twinge of something when he does everything you ask. Something you're afraid to name that dances in the back of your mind on lazy days sprawled out in the vineyard. That you can ask please, why don't you take your jacket off and he won't say anything at all. (Even when "jacket" becomes "shirt" and "shirt" becomes "trousers".) He just does it, looking up at you for assurance and comfort, relaxing when you nod.
There's something you feel when you realize the depth of his trust.
Keep telling yourself it's pity.
xxx
Your hand is quick, your voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak.
You're lucky your father can't hear your thoughts.
xxx
It gets annoying, how easily he says it. How easily he flings around love, like it's something that even exists. You certainly don't believe in it. It's a sentimental thing for dreamers, like him.
You're a visionary, not a dreamer. You know what things are real and what things aren't.
You have an affection for him that makes you cup his cheek in your hand and whisper sweet, lovely, poetry to him when you've nothing better to do. Affection is real. It exists. It's what loosely ties them all together. He isn't special. You feel the same way about Georg, or Anna, or Melchior.
Right?
xxx
Pretend like what you do doesn't mean anything. Like smoothing his brow when he's sick and you're bringing him the work he missed doesn't mean anything. It can't mean you really care about him, because you don't. You don't care about anyone. Like enjoying the feeling of his shoulder against yours and listening to his soft voice talk about sentimental things doesn't make you smile (just slightly).
When he says he loves you and you kiss him instead of answering, you hope he doesn't take it to mean to wrong thing.
Or the right one.
xxx
One day, you will build your monument to God, and all He's done for everyone. His existence is neither here nor there, but His profound effect on Society is something you appreciate. Something, perhaps, you even admire.
You will build your monument, and you will become a millionaire, and you will be content with the world and get all you can from it. You know things will have to change. You've accepted that long ago. You'll go off elsewhere and he'll stay here and marry a lovely woman and become a country pastor, because that is how the System works.
It's just a flighty temptation and slight homesickness (you're not even gone yet) that makes you want to stay.
xxx
It's often that you lay here with him like this, often that you curl your arm around him and brush your foreheads together. It feels warm, just staying like this at night in the vineyard, stars splayed across the sky. His hand is pressed against your chest (how very sentimental of him, you think), and his breath is slow.
You don't know why you start to talk of Priapia and Ilse, of following Melchior away. Why the things you've heard in hushed whispers from your cousins about Paris and Berlin slip out of your mouth, why you lace your fingers together. There aren't any promises, only ideas.
His breath catches and instead of stopping, you plow on, your words painting pictures against the dark sky. Maybe it's late. Maybe you're too caught up in the moment.
Maybe you want him to hear.
This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.
Amanda actually has the original version of this, pre-Katie's-computer-exploding. This one is different. I think.
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hanschen/Ernst
Summary: Hanschen in second person.
Companion to this.
He wants, more than anything, to be loved.
You can give him something close.
xxx
It's easy to control him. It's always been like this, though; he's always followed and you've always led. You love that feeling. You love that you can make him blush and squirm and whimper in the back of his throat. You love his light fingers on your shoulders and his tiny, awkward smile.
You hate what it does to you.
xxx
Sometimes, you feel a twinge of something when he does everything you ask. Something you're afraid to name that dances in the back of your mind on lazy days sprawled out in the vineyard. That you can ask please, why don't you take your jacket off and he won't say anything at all. (Even when "jacket" becomes "shirt" and "shirt" becomes "trousers".) He just does it, looking up at you for assurance and comfort, relaxing when you nod.
There's something you feel when you realize the depth of his trust.
Keep telling yourself it's pity.
xxx
Your hand is quick, your voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak.
You're lucky your father can't hear your thoughts.
xxx
It gets annoying, how easily he says it. How easily he flings around love, like it's something that even exists. You certainly don't believe in it. It's a sentimental thing for dreamers, like him.
You're a visionary, not a dreamer. You know what things are real and what things aren't.
You have an affection for him that makes you cup his cheek in your hand and whisper sweet, lovely, poetry to him when you've nothing better to do. Affection is real. It exists. It's what loosely ties them all together. He isn't special. You feel the same way about Georg, or Anna, or Melchior.
Right?
xxx
Pretend like what you do doesn't mean anything. Like smoothing his brow when he's sick and you're bringing him the work he missed doesn't mean anything. It can't mean you really care about him, because you don't. You don't care about anyone. Like enjoying the feeling of his shoulder against yours and listening to his soft voice talk about sentimental things doesn't make you smile (just slightly).
When he says he loves you and you kiss him instead of answering, you hope he doesn't take it to mean to wrong thing.
Or the right one.
xxx
One day, you will build your monument to God, and all He's done for everyone. His existence is neither here nor there, but His profound effect on Society is something you appreciate. Something, perhaps, you even admire.
You will build your monument, and you will become a millionaire, and you will be content with the world and get all you can from it. You know things will have to change. You've accepted that long ago. You'll go off elsewhere and he'll stay here and marry a lovely woman and become a country pastor, because that is how the System works.
It's just a flighty temptation and slight homesickness (you're not even gone yet) that makes you want to stay.
xxx
It's often that you lay here with him like this, often that you curl your arm around him and brush your foreheads together. It feels warm, just staying like this at night in the vineyard, stars splayed across the sky. His hand is pressed against your chest (how very sentimental of him, you think), and his breath is slow.
You don't know why you start to talk of Priapia and Ilse, of following Melchior away. Why the things you've heard in hushed whispers from your cousins about Paris and Berlin slip out of your mouth, why you lace your fingers together. There aren't any promises, only ideas.
His breath catches and instead of stopping, you plow on, your words painting pictures against the dark sky. Maybe it's late. Maybe you're too caught up in the moment.
Maybe you want him to hear.
This fic is part of the fanfiction masterlist, found here.
Amanda actually has the original version of this, pre-Katie's-computer-exploding. This one is different. I think.