A/N: This is the piece I consider the pinnacle of my writing for this fandom, though it's based much more heavily on the play than the musical. It was originally posted on LJ October 9th, 2007 and the title is from Regina Spektor's "Ode to Divorce". Thanks to my betas, LJ users prosopopeya and dreamofstars. Dedicated to prosopopeya.

"When I think of her, the blood rushes to my head. And Moritz--It's as if I had lead in my shoes." -- Melchior; Spring's Awakening Act 3 Scene 4

CH 1

By the time he noticed it was happening, it was too far in him. He felt choked by it, it's relentless fingers pressing against his heart.

Moritz couldn't say when it started. Where it came from; how it got its hands about his soul.

In Moritz's heart something had started to change, started to lose its clarity.

This was followed by the realization that he was losing his best friend.

Moritz held on to the comforting constant of Melchior's friendship, let himself take it for granted -- because that was one of few things he had that he could take for granted. He trusted that Melchior would always be there and then, as long as that held true, Moritz wouldn't be alone. It never occurred to him that he himself could be the fallacy in this.

The two boys sat in Melchior's room, inches between them on the bed. A book was laid out on Melchior's lap and he was talking, his words confident in tone but meandering in meaning. Moritz hung on every word, every syllable, but the words themselves meant little to him. Melchior indicated something on the page and Moritz was forced to lean over a bit, to peer over Melchior's shoulder at the text. When he straightened again, he clasped his trembling hands firmly in his lap.

"Are you feeling well, Moritz?" The remark was offhand, thrown in the same breath as something about Greek myths, but Moritz found himself unsettled.

"Just a little under the weather," he allowed, feigning nonchalance.

Melchior did not press – he never did. In the moment, Moritz was relieved as Melchior went on to other subjects in his endless chatter. Later, however, when time allowed his fear to fade, he might wish that Melchior had. Fantasy might allow him a scene of a great confession that would finally relieve the tension between them. However, even in fantasy he did not allow himself optimism – it always ended in a disastrous scene.

To finally finish the whole ordeal, to take a step toward change -- that neglected to lose its appeal.

It was then that Moritz started drafting The Letter in his mind.

It was the most difficult subject he could remember facing. Melchior had always been confident, frank, honest. He hid his feelings and opinions from no one. But, he found himself trembling, the weight on his chest seeming to force his body from standing to perched on the edge of his bed and staring at the floor, trying to put things into words but at the same time being scared of those words and what they might mean.

These thoughts weren't a revelation. In fact, the whole thing had started many months previous.

It was a harmless conversation, as they often started. After class, Melchior found himself sitting on the steps beside Hänschen Rilow, caught in a conversation that felt less like a conversation and more like two people throwing out ideas, only to have them bounce off each other mid-air like rubber balls and never quite reach their recipient.

Melchior's relationship with Hänschen was difficult for him to put into words. They could be called friends, he considered, but Melchior held far too little care for Hänschen to place him into that category. It was more that occasionally Melchior enjoyed conversing with someone who shared his cynicism, though Hänschen held an element sentimentality toward things that Melchior found difficult to relate to.

This afternoon, their conversation wandered into unexpected territory.

"Is it true that you don't believe in love?" Hänschen asked.

"I don't see any evidence that people are not simply driven by their instincts and are easily victims to romanticism," Melchior said. Before he could continue, Hänschen was quick with what appeared to be an already prepared response.

"Then, if you only look at relationships in such practical terms, do you agree with the terms society sets down as to who should have relations and who should not?" he asked, his tone one of restraint.

"Well, many carry practical reasoning, but in terms of restraints such as wealth and status, it is clear to me through history that the taboos society places on people's relationships in general on many levels are too often violated behind closed doors --"

Melchior's speech was interrupted by yet another even-toned response. "What about gender?"

Though physically he was still, mentally Melchior felt like he could only jerk back in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Hänschen said, his voice changing from the mechanical responses he'd previously given to something a little more nervous. "It makes sense, wouldn't it, that there is no real reason to prevent say... people of the same gender engaging in activity usually reserved, by normal social standards, for people of opposing gender?"

Melchior's eyebrows wrinkled his forehead in thought as he tossed the question about in his mind, struggled for a response. Hänschen was leading Melchior to a reply he was reluctant to offer him, a topic he had no desire to entertain. "Perhaps, Hänschen, but it's not a subject I find particularly appealing," he said resolutely.

And so the subject changed, the day went on, and Melchior returned to his safer complaints.

It wasn't long, however, before Melchior started to see the changes in Moritz. The awkwardness between them was palpable at times, and when Melchior saw the way Moritz was reluctant to meet his gaze some days, he couldn't help but wonder.

As time went by, Melchior found himself testing his boundaries a bit. A brush of his hand, a slow smile, seemed to send Moritz reeling.

After a while he couldn't help but think, the idea weighing on him, that maybe he wanted his best friend to be interested in him in that way, that there was some kind of excitement in it that he was ashamed to acknowledge.

It was around this time that he received The Letter.

Dear Melchior,

I write to you in an unfortunate position I have been neglectful to speak of before now. It is of necessity and not desire that I hand over this confession.

In recent months I have found it too difficult not to admit that I harbor feelings that are unnatural. It is these feelings that lead me to irrepressible fantasies revolving around other boys.

Though I wish I could see any other alternative, it seems only right that in the light of this fact, we cease to be friends.

With hope that time will resolve my situation,

Moritz

School had always been a living Hell for Moritz, and in light of recent events he would've given up anything to be able to just not show up – even just once.

He had survived a couple days of this so far, but this still didn't feel like sufficient hope for today. Moritz found himself bent over his textbook in class, taking care to keep his eyes moving across the words, dissecting each syllable but struggling to draw any meaning. He hadn't even glanced at Melchior – hardly looked up at anyone besides the teacher for days, but this seemed to almost distract him more than it forced him to work. His schoolwork would undoubtedly continue to suffer, but right now that just felt like another straw on his back, and he distantly wondered how many he could take.

After he wrote The Letter he had convinced himself this would make things better for him. It would surely force him to start facing the issue and working to resolve it, he had told himself, and the activity would surely make him feel better. But, he couldn't remember a moment, writing The Letter or since Melchior surely must have received it, where he felt any hint of this relief or resolution he'd promised himself. Now things were surely worse than they were before. In his lap his hands were still but his soul itself seemed to tremble within him, to twist in his stomach and crawl up his throat, and though he willed himself to keep it together, he felt the weight of gravity threaten to bring forth his tears.

When the last dismissal of the day was given, Moritz felt the closest thing to relief all day, but it was only temporary. The task of avoiding his classmates and keeping himself occupied, lest he fall into fantasy, plagued him. His fantasies now were not so much of an erotic nature as living nightmares. When he allowed himself a spare thought he did not imagine the feel of Melchior's fingers on his skin or the warmth of his embrace thrilling him in a way that was devoid of words – no, his mind was not so kind, choosing instead to taunt him with images of what Melchior's opinion might be of him now, of what Melchior may have told the other boys.

Moritz was first out of the class, his bag hastily packed. He was sure he'd made it out in time when a voice behind him, a voice too familiar, said, "Moritz?"

Moritz didn't acknowledge Melchior, though it must've been clear by the quickening of his pace that he'd heard. He avoided the other boys heading for the nearest exit, instead darting down the corridor to... where, he wasn't sure. By the time he heard Melchior's exasperated, "Moritz, wait," he was already nearly jogging down the hall, his heart racing in his chest.

It was as though God himself had chosen this day to punish Moritz for his sins, for as he turned a corner he had to quickly halt to avoid catching the attention of two of his teachers chatting nearby. In a fit of desperation, he darted into a nearby bathroom. He didn't even bother to try and hide, rather letting his bag drop to the floor and pressing his forehead against the wall, as though by avoiding looking at the door he could will Melchior not to enter.

It didn't take long for the door to creak open and Melchior to whisper his name. Moritz felt utterly defeated and alone, and he wasn't sure if he could will his tightened throat to respond if he wanted.

"Moritz, look at me," Melchior said, his words breathy like a sigh. Moritz reluctantly turned, his eyes bleary, his mind too worn to fathom what Melchior could want with him.

Melchior's eyes flitted from Moritz's to the wall in an uncharacteristically nervous manner, but Moritz considered that in light of recent events he shouldn't expect things to be anything like they were previously.

"I just wanted to say..." Melchior's voice trailed off uncertainly, and Moritz felt like he couldn't look away from this unusual show of speechlessness. "I don't think there's anything wrong with you."

Moritz could only stare blankly at this statement, his mind reeling at the possible implications. As though the wire beneath his feet had suddenly snapped, his mind lost all comprehension as Melchior lurched forward to plant a quick and hesitant kiss on his lips.

The moment that followed, as Melchior stumbled several steps back as if shoved, was the most deafening silence Moritz had ever encountered. His mind struggled to put some sense to this, to pull forth some feeling or anything to deal with this, but he felt this final straw drop on his back and under it his resolution cracked, hunching him over and pulling heavy tears down his cheeks.

Melchior stuttered out an, "I'm sorry," and Moritz registered that he could not recall hearing Melchior sound scared before.

Moritz struggled to find something to say, but all that came were these sobs that seemed so far away, so separate from himself. Melchior took another uncertain step backwards before darting out of the room as though leaving the scene of a crime, and Moritz was left alone to slide down to the cool tile and sob to exhaustion.