PLEASE REVIEW AT THE END! enjoy this fic. NB: those of you who read my other fics and are wondering why it took sooo long to update - I've written loads of chapters on my phone, intending to email them to myself from the phone and then upload from my computer but my wifi has broken. There should be chapters shortly after christmas for those ones - I'm soooo sorry! but read and review this in the meantime :)

- Prologue -

Melchior slowly turned around and looked at the graves again. He knelt down, ripping some daisies from the ground around him and placing them on their stones. 'Daisies', he said. 'They grow wild, where they shouldn't grow. Away from the uniform and correctness of the rest of the garden, they grow; beautiful, strong and unique. Undeterred. Unknowing. Until someone tears them away.' He spoke the last part bitterly, before forcing himself to turn away from Wendla and Moritz – or what was now left of the once young, vibrant and emotive people; neglected dust. 'All will know', Melchior murmured to himself. 'All will know'.

- Part I -

Melchior walked up the empty streets of the small town he'd once called home, slowly wiping his tearstained face, and thought about what had just happened. Had it really happened? He had sat there, stunned, as the two most important people to him had come back. Well. They hadn't come back, exactly; they had appeared to Melchior when he least expected it and most needed it. He knew he hadn't imagined it because they had stopped him from doing the thing he really wanted to do – end his life. He couldn't quite see, yet, how it was better to live – without Moritz. Without Wendla. Without his child. 'Wendla and our child', he said in a choked whisper, as he felt another stab of pain in his chest; the same pain he had felt when he realised Wendla was dead. When he saw her disappear for the final time. But he took a deep breath and remembered what he had promised to Wendla. In her life, he said he would build a different, better world. In her death, he said he would read all her dreams to the stars; he would make sure her thoughts were known. Even though Moritz had told him, just now, that he would have other dreams, other loves, Melchior couldn't even begin to consider this. Because he loved Wendla. He did. He hadn't really thought about it before now; he knew he cared for her a great deal, and he had never been more contented than when they were together. When they were in the hayloft, and Melchior could feel Wendla's delicate breath, sweet and warm on his neck. When he could smell the heavy scent of her hair, and feel her soft, silky skin. When he could see every line of her perfect face, her perfect body. When he could put his lips on hers, and somehow she knew what to do. When he could feel her breasts, feel her thighs under him. When he could taste her; pure, vivid and delicious. That night, there was nothing else in the world but her body on his, his body on hers. Melchior hadn't really thought love was real before, but now he could see that he had simply never known love before. Even though their child was the outcome of their love, and their child was the reason for Wendla's death, he didn't regret making love to Wendla. Because that's what it was, Melchior realised; they were showing their love for each other, in the most amazing way possible. He still blamed himself for her death, though. Not because he had impregnated her, but because he hadn't tried harder to leave the reformatory. It was too little too late. If he had protested more, if he had escaped immediately, as soon as he arrived, he could have saved her. Saved her and their child.

As he left the church behind and continued up the old street, he thought in anger at how two people he loved so much could be somewhere he hated so much; a church. Sinister, cold and unforgiving, for all eternity. As he walked past his old school, he remembered being a child, blissful in his ignorance of the world he would one day grow to hold in contempt. It was here that he and Moritz had been taken on that scary first day of school; Moritz's mother constantly tidying Moritz's uniform and unruly hair, Melchior's mother crying and holding him, looking nervous. At the time, he had thought she was being silly, telling her 'don't be sad, Mama, everything will be fine'. Now, he realised that she, like him, loathed the Bourgeois society. But not enough. Melchior frowned as he looked at the new cluster of tulips in front of the school, clearly hastily planted. Leaning closer, he saw a small plaque, which read 'In Memory of Moritz Stiefel. Our Finest Student. Died a Noble Death.' He frowned. The teachers at school hated Moritz; they were always looking for ways to humiliate and belittle him. Then he remembered that Moritz had passed the middle term examinations with flying colours – so how could he suddenly have failed so miserably in the finals? The pieces flew together in seconds, and Melchior realised, in horror, that the teachers had failed Moritz on purpose, so that they wouldn't have to teach him, and to damage his future prospects. This would mean that the faculty was to blame for his suicide – yes, tragic suicide, not 'Noble Death' – and not Melchior himself, as he had been led to believe. Every time he thought the world couldn't possibly get any worse, it somehow managed to create new evil. Melchior was suddenly so angry with Herr Knochenbruch that he threw a stone at his window. And again. And again. He kept throwing the rocks, not caring. Stone after stone, he tried to satisfy the anger, to curb it, but all too soon he was out of glass. It made him feel better, but not enough. Not enough to get rid of the truth. The twisted, evil faculty had effectively killed Moritz, and then pushed all the blame onto Melchior. Overcome with fury, he climbed into the headmaster's study, cutting himself on the glass in the process. The pain didn't bother him; and he numbly let the blood fall out of his wounds as he took an ink pen from the desk, and scrawled on some paper: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. Melchior was about to leave, but thought he needed more evidence. So he opened all the drawers, the cupboards, the files, until finally he found what he was looking for; the results of the final exams. He threw it onto the table and put a huge X next to Moritz Stiefel: Passed. Then he climbed back out, and continued on his way, not entirely sure where he was going. Melchior walked towards the bridge, the long way. He knew after a while he would be at his house, but he wasn't in any rush, and knew it was probably about two o'clock in the morning, so it didn't matter if he left it a little longer. As he crossed the bridge, to the stream, he found his private place.

He ran over to his old thinking place, happy, that in the midst of the pain, the loss, he could grasp onto some tiny piece of familiarity. He gazed up at the stars. 'Wake me in time to be out in the cold' he whispered to them. Melchior lay back, and felt the strange, wonderful peace settle over him, and just let himself dream…

Melchior found himself in the classroom at school, confronting the teacher: 'are you then suggesting there is no further room for critical thought or interpretation?' He felt the flash of pain as Herr Sonnenstitch beat him, and that awful feeling which he always felt after a beating. He couldn't describe it, but it made him feel hurt, the pain going deeper than the skin and running through his bones, into his heart. Then Moritz was frantically whispering, 'legs, in sky blue stockings, climbing over the lecture podium' and he found himself writing that essay, drawing beautiful, intricately detailed illustrations…suddenly Melchior found himself writing in his journal – 'are they deaf, to everything their loins are telling them, until we grant them a marriage certificate?' – and then he was at home, talking to Moritz; 'I see, and hear, and feel, quite clearly, and yet everything seems so strange', and he remembered Moritz's face when he said that, pain and shame lingering in his friend's eyes, as Melchior said in wonder 'finally, you surrender, and feel heaven break over you' and then he had shown Moritz how to go there, how to drift silently through the seas of his mind, until he reached shore, the winds sighing beautifully.

Then he was in the meadow, with Wendla, and flashes of conversation drifted through his subconscious – 'it seems to me, what serves each of us best is what serves all of us best', and he reached slowly for her hand. It felt too unreal, until her delicate fingers grasped Melchior's strong hand. Then Wendla disappeared, and Melchior was left holding nothing, nothing…'my entire life, I've never felt…anything', 'you bitch, I'll beat the hell out of you!' and he lunged towards her, all hesitation gone, as he bought his arm down again and again, hearing her screams, and felt the sensation that had begun in him…he kept beating her as this new, wonderful feeling increased – until he realised he was hurting her. This wasn't something he should be doing. She was hurt. Hadn't he felt something similar when he was beaten? For the first time in his life, Melchior felt ashamed. He felt regret. Tears fell down his cheeks, and he ran off into the woods, disgusted at himself. That feeling of regret, of hatred at himself was indescribable…he had to get out of the woods. He stumbled through the streets, unable to see through his tears, and finally found himself at his hayloft. Melchior opened the door and threw himself into a little heap in the middle. He wept for the first time in his life. This was true pain. He had never cried like this before, and now he realised you had to have your heart open to cry. His heart was always a fist. But not anymore. The tears kept flowing, for how long, he had no idea. He was truly distraught, and every time he tried to shake the thought of what he'd done to Wendla, her screams echoed through the walls of his mind. He could hide from anyone, but he could never escape the ghost in his mind. The naked, blue angel knew everything. Melchior began hounding his body with his hands, feeling his face, the slight roughness around his chin, and down his neck. He unbuttoned his shirt slightly. The smooth, childish roundness had gone, and he felt the firm planes of his chest, and the muscles developing. He clawed angrily at himself, ripping the new hairs out, and collapsed onto his knees as he felt the hell of being broken inside, of being a man and a child. He closed his eyes, a chill running up his spine as the screams filled his head again. Desperately, he put a shaking hand into his trousers, and tried to get the blue out of his mind. Melchior's hand moved around in the usual way, but his fingers seemed blind; he couldn't remove this feeling of guilt. The ghost chased him, unrelentingly, until Melchior had to give up, his bones turning cold as he cried out in pain. Melchior withdrew his useless hand and simply held his body together, shaking. Sweat and tears and fear were on his skin, all over his body. He could smell it on himself. There was nowhere to hide anymore, nowhere to go. 'There's no-one who knows!' he wept bitterly. Who would understand, who would listen? Melchior felt more alone than ever as he realised that no-one could ever see to his soul.

'Melchior?' A sweet, soft voice echoed through the hayloft. Wendla walked in and the same feeling from earlier started in him again, and he just had to listen to what his body was wanting. 'I hear your heart', he whispered, and a wonderful feeling of belief flooded through him, and the ghost disappeared. But she pulled away, hesitating. 'Why?' he had asked. 'Because it's good? Because it makes us feel something?' and Wendla consented. As their lips touched he remembered that hunger, that need for Wendla, for every inch of her…and this time she wanted it too. He wanted to show her his heaven. Wendla let out a gasp; the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard…and then Melchior felt contented, complete, and connected when he was with her, even in dreaming.

The visions continued: Melchior was in the graveyard, with the other school children. Moritz was dead. It didn't seem real until Melchior arrived and saw the grave. Herr Stiefel stood, looking at the place which would hold his only son for all eternity. He showed no emotion until the very end, after all the children had placed their flowers. Then Melchior saw a man cry, for the first time in his life. His mouth opened, and the most awful sound came out. It was low, uncontrolled, unthinking. He could hear every tiny piece of Herr Stiefel's anguish as the sound flew right through Melchior's heart. It wasn't fair. Why. Just…why. Melchior trembled as great waves of sadness swept through him. Oh, Moritz…in a flash, Melchior was in the headmaster's office; 'if you could show me only one obscenity!', then the chilling 'Melchior Gabor…did you…write this?' and he remembered the strange mixture of loss, desire and despair, which, quite frankly, left him totally fucked.

The chaos vanished and Melchior was sitting in a tree, scribbling a letter to Wendla; 'in the end, we have only each other. We must build a different world'. He rolled over in his sleep – these dreams would never, ever materialise. Then he was in the reformatory – a dark, hellish, miserable place, where dreams went to die – and he was discreetly reading a letter from her, 'something has happened, Melchior. Something I can barely understand myself', and before long he was being held down by degenerates, struggling for his life as they taunted him; 'he was too busy fucking his slut!'. He had thrown himself at that disgusting boy, Rupert. No-one would ever call his Wendla a slut. His beautiful, sweet, gentle Wendla…he missed her so much, in the past and present, and flung his fists at them – until the moment that changed everything for him: 'in my bed each night, I have so many dreams of the better world we will build together, with our child'. He remembered the feeling manifesting itself within him; he hadn't known what it was – he still didn't – but he knew he had to leave the reformatory, and find Wendla. Then he could take her far away, and they could build that world…all too soon, he was in the graveyard again, and had to relive that moment of intense pain – Wendla was dead. Wendla was dead. Dead. It hit him like a bullet, but didn't kill him; it sat there, lodged in his heart, causing more pain than death. He wanted to be dead, he wanted to die – what was the point of living? No Moritz, no Wendla. Perhaps, if he was dead, this pain would stop, and he could be with Wendla…they would love, and all would be forgiven…in heaven? Maybe. Melchior knew there was no god, but he quite liked the idea of heaven. A place where everyone could live, really live, as opposed to this miserable excuse of a life. They could live, peacefully and happily forever, with their loved ones. Without any parents or teachers to destroy everything.

What was heaven? When Moritz passed the middle term exams, he had said, in all sincerity, 'truly, heaven must feel like this', and Melchior had privately disagreed – an examination? Passing the ridiculous tests of the faculty was not heaven, not as Melchior knew it. When he was in the hayloft with Wendla, that was heaven. When he went to the place, in his mind, and forgot everything else – the memories, the whispers, the shadows and the weeping – and listened to the word of his body; creating and fulfilling his fantasies, just doing what his wantings and his longings wanted…that was heaven.

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