I don't own anything Spring Awakening related. The summary quote is by Deepak Chopra.

I don't even know good this is. I may regret posting this in the morning but, at three AM, this seemed like a good idea. Ah well. At least I tried. I love the characters and I really wanted a go at writing them and this is my attempt :) Sorry if it's total rubbish or if the characters are wildly OOC. Again, this is my first try; I'm still trying to get their voices right.

On I Go To Wonder

The world is quiet, still. As midnight approaches, darkness falls further, shrouding the world, stretching over the land like fingers. It is late enough that all lights are extinguished; all the adults are locking up their homes for the night, shushing themselves and stepping lightly, trying to be silent for the sake of their good, sleeping children.

The world is quiet, still. Not a person moves, not a spirit stirs.

The quiet is broken by an inhuman scream.

Somewhere, two spirits stir.

One day, Ernst Robel wakes up early. He is slow to rise, however, hesitant to jar his aching limbs. Only when his mother pops her head in with a concerned admonishment does he stand and dress.

His day is a blur of Latin and numbers, teacher's annoyed shouts and Hänschen's knowing smirks. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat and, when class is finally dismissed, he dawdles with his satchel until the other boys have left and Hänschen has grown bored of waiting. Then he begins to walk. He does not realize that he has left the path, that his legs are ignoring the wishes of his foolish brain until he lifts his eyes and finds himself in front of a headstone in the churchyard. Here rests in God Moritz Stiefel.

Ernst Robel drops to his knees and sobs.

The moonlight illuminates the yard, just enough that he is not blind, that he can see the block letter picked out on the stone. There is something impersonal in the message, he notes vaguely, in the way that there is no loving message, no 'she will be missed'. His heart pangs for her, for him, for all of them.

It is his fault, he realizes. If it were not for him, perhaps she would still be here; still alive, still innocent. Instead he, believing himself to be so knowledgeable and mature, a martyr and cynic, had ripped that from her in one heated moment. The world is that bit darker for her being gone.

Now he, who had once yearned for adulthood, now cries for wasted childhood.

Anna still thinks about them sometimes. At first, it is hard not to; for several days after each event, she could barely leave home without hearing Wendla's giggle or Moritz's voice on the wind. The losses of two friends struck her harder than she could have imagined. Papa just shook his head at her and told her she was too "empathetic".

At the height of summer is when she first hears the rumours. It is at church; the service has not begun yet but she and the other children are already seated in the front pew. Marta is pressed against her left side, Thea on her right. They all clasp hands, refusing to think of the girl who is no longer there. Anna's mama sits behind her with Papa and Frau Köhler. The room is still filled with the murmurs of the adults; the children sit quietly.

"…just think, Karin, what nerve they have! Oh, if it were me, I'd be too ashamed—"

"Hush, Helga. You're as bad as the children."

Anna frowns a little at that. The children had been totally quiet until Anna's mother said that, at which point Hänschen Rilow scoffs loudly. Karin Köhler ignores all of them.

"But after the scandal with young Wendla—"

"Karin, shush."

Anna stiffens. She wants to ask her mama—what about Wendla?—but a tiny voice in her ear reminds her that to do so would be disrespectful and she needs to be a good girl. The pastor appears at the pulpit and the sermon commences.

He remembers the day he and his family arrived in the village. Papa had wanted some time to himself, shooing his wife and son out to acquaint themselves with their new neighbours. He had never been a timid boy but that day, aged six, he had clung to his mama's skirts like a baby. She had laughed and patted his head, assuring her new friends that he was not nearly as angelic as he looked.

One of the other women—she was younger than all of the other women, with stringy dark hair and a pale long face and a pointed chin—had told his mama that she had a boy around the same age. That perhaps they could play together sometimes. And so, the next day, he was introduced to who would become his best friend.

Before the village, they had lived in the city, so he was an object of interest to the other children. He had felt it as well; he had seen the busy streets and towering building of Berlin and that gave him greater authority. Well into his adolescence, his knowledge had given him a self-assurance that lent greatly to his charm.

He thinks now of that boy—with his mother's black hair and pale face and sad eyes—and thinks of the grave behind him. He thinks of the child he once was, six years old with great stories, and hates him.

Both dead.

Because of me.

Spring passes twice over. Those still alive grow and develop and become something more—no longer child, almost an adult. It is autumn now and the leaves are beginning to fall again.

Thea is seventeen now and still loves to step on the fallen leaves. They make a satisfying crunch sound underfoot, one she has loved since she first learned to walk. Her parents disapprove and tell her that young ladies did not behave so childishly. It isn't fair. Only a year or two ago, she had been a child.

One Sunday, as she strolls out of the village and into the fields, she is joined. The years have been good to Otto Lammermeier. He is still heavy—the cruel words that roll through Thea's mind are round and fat—but he has grown tall and confident enough that he no longer walks awkwardly and self-consciously like his younger self did. He carries himself with pride.

"Otto Lammermeier," she says, looking up at him. (Those years that were so kind to Otto were not so much to Thea. She is still tiny and rail-thin. "Straight as an arrow," some of the boys whisper behind her back."

"Hello, Thea," he chirps, smiling shyly, "I was, er, wondering if I might…accompany you."

"You already are," Thea points out evenly. A blush the colour of blossoms spreads across Otto's face.

"Yes. I suppose I am. And would continue to do so with your permission."

Thea purses her lips. Otto just smiles.

"I would like some company."

"Permission granted?"

"Oh, don't."

Otto's smile widens. They walk side by side in companionable silence for a while. It is a warm day (the last they will have for a long time, Thea imagines) and she is grateful to have someone to share it with.

Stepping on crunchy leaves is a habit that will dog Thea well into adulthood. It is also a habit that her parents will discourage actively, even after their daughter is married.

Otto does not mind it.

The knife presses against the bulge of his throat and, for a split second, he feels fear. Will he feel pain? Will the world go black, or will he have to watch his blood pump out onto the grave of his lover? Did his friend feel this way as well?

But is living this life preferable? Will it hurt less, even knowing what he had done?

A final tear squeezes out of his eye. They'll scatter a little earth and thank their God!

He presses harder. The knife bites—a line of blood and a second of pain then—

A hand on his wrist. He jumps; the knife falls onto the ground. Madly, his eyes wide, he whips his head around. He is alone. Nobody stands behind him, nobody peers over his shoulder and stops him…

And yet.

He can feel it: a small hand closed gently around his wrist, a weight on his shoulder. The air is cold but warmth seeps through his shirt, his skin, into the very core of him, a part he had thought did not exist.

Not gone, a voice—his own, perhaps hers?—murmurs in his ear. Then, just like that, the hands are gone and he is really alone.

The knife lies in front of him, gleaming silver. He does not take it up again, however. He staggers to unsteady feet and, for a minute, closes his eyes. He sees Moritz and Wendla, forever imprinted on the back of his eyelids, real enough to touch. They are still with him; they cheer him on and keep him standing. They take every step he takes and call to him when he loses hope.

When he opens his eyes, that spring night, he can no longer see them.

But they are still there.

The winter after Melchior ran away, Martha Bessell goes to the churchyard. She comes here every Monday, without fail. Every Monday, she picks some flowers, treks to the church and leaves them on Moritz Stiefel and Wendla Bergmann's graves. It is a small ritual that her papa is unaware of; the whole town has declared them to be Godless heathens after that dreadful story of how they died and, if he knew, he would beat her hide for honouring them.

Martha does not know what the truth is. She does not care either. She knew Wendla and Moritz; she saw their faults and flaws but also saw enough goodness in them to love them.

(Besides, she thinks bitterly, why should she care for the opinion of people who also believe her father to be a good man? A Godly man?)

Around her, the snow is pure and untouched. The sheer whiteness of it makes every colour pop out; Martha appreciates the brown and grey of the buildings, the blue of the churchyard gate, the green of Ilse's dress—oh.

It had been months since Martha had seen Ilse. The sight of her wild brown hair and long green dress both delights and frightens Martha—Ilse only seemed to appear when something terrible happened. She is sat, Martha realizes, in front of Moritz's headstone. Beside her is a small boy with his head lowered. It takes some time and a few steps forward for Martha to realize that the boy is not as young as she thinks and is in fact Ernst Robel.

Ilse raises her head and smiles as she approaches. Ernst does not acknowledge the new presence; he lifts his head and swipes at his eyes, staring steadfastly at the words on the gravestone. Here rests in God Moritz Stiefel.

"You brought flowers," Ilse announces, breaking the silence. Her face splits into a grin. "He would like those."

Martha blinks. The question is on her tongue—Ernst?—before Ernst quietly says, "I think he would," and Martha realizes that they are referring to the fourth person among them.

"Yes," she mumbles in agreement, pulling some flowers into her right hand, "Some of these are for Wendla."

Ilse nods and reaches for the flowers, "What do you think, Ernst? These are good and fresh—where in the world would you get such fresh flowers so late in the year? It must have been that nice flower shop in the village—oh, these must have cost a fortune! Oh Martha!"

Martha smiles and drops the remaining flowers onto Wendla's grave. She recalls Moritz's funeral, when she and Ilse had crept back into the graveyard to leave flowers; violets and irises and anemones. Ilse had exclaimed joyously at the beauty and Martha had wondered how, just knowing that several feet below a boy they both loved was buried.

Ernst does not answer to Ilse's rambling. He is still gazing at the headstone, studying it like a textbook. That he is upset is obvious. He and Moritz had been friendly, Martha thinks; they had plenty in common, not least of all the danger of failing school. She wonders if it is Moritz he was crying about; she wonders if it is not Moritz but some impenetrable problem in life that Ernst hoped to find solace from in Moritz. She had heard Anna and Thea's whispering; apparently, he is very close friends with Hänschen Rilow, a boy with all of Melchior Gabor's brilliance and none of his warmth. It seems an unlikely match, Martha muses—a match that could end in pain that would undoubtedly be kind, inoffensive Ernst's.

Silence once again falls upon the unlikely trio. Ilse leans into Ernst a little and glances at Martha behind his back. The look in her eyes speaks a thousand words.

"Do you think he knew?" Ernst asks quietly. Martha and Ilse share confused looks.

"Do you think he saw…" the boy swallows and scrubs his face again. In the weak winter sunlight, he looks sicklier than ever. "…saw that it could cause so much hurt?"

Martha is still confused; she shakes her head and touches a hand to her cheek. Ilse, however, presses a hand to Ernst's back. Her eyes are soft.

"Yes," she says, "And he didn't know how to handle it."

Ernst swallows again and closes his eyes. Ilse carries on, undaunted, "He could've carried on, if the world hadn't backed him into a corner, you know. You're different, Ernsty. You're not a boy anymore, you just need to figure out how to be a man."

Ilse once again flits her eyes up to Martha. Now, Martha understands. Ernst is dealing with growing up. He had lost the innocence that made him a child; but that did not make him an adult. Growing up is in not the loss of innocence but rather how a child copes with its death. Both Martha and Ilse knew what it was to have this decision forced on you too early. Ilse had decided to run; Martha had stayed. They were decisions which are morphing them into very different women, but women nonetheless. Moritz had panicked and not given himself a chance.

"Whatever happened may hurt now," Ilse says with a small smile, "but in the end, it'll make you all the stronger."

"And now we sit here alone."

"It is a beautiful night. Look at the moon, so bright and full. Do you think he will be alright?"

"Yes."

"I hope so. He'll become a strong man, I expect. He'll be clever and wonderful and marry a beautiful woman and have children…"

"He'll never forget you."

"Us. Wasn't he childlike though? He always seemed so brave and man-like but now…"

"He still is a child, I suppose. But he'll get older and he'll learn. They all will."

"And we won't."

"…no."

"We have each other, though. That's something. Ah, there's a smile!"

"It was lonely before."

"Not anymore. What shall we do, Moritz? Do you want to play pirates?"

"No. Not yet."

I honestly don't know how I ended up writing this or how good my Ilse is but I quite like this. Hopefully it's not…you know, terrible. Just in case you didn't realize, every other passage took place at various points after Those You're Known, while the others were on that night. Also, I'm a sucker for Wendla/Moritz friendship. And Otto/Thea. But I digress. Thanks for reading!