A/N: Set after/during Touch Me.

The chair seemed to disappear underneath him – for a moment, he was sitting on pure, undiluted happiness. Melchior, so close to him that he could feel the flutter of his breath on his neck, his cool hands over his own clammy and nervous ones. He helped him move his hands over his body, and Moritz struggled to breath, his mouth falling open. Oh – oh, heaven must be like this – a strange kind of perfection, one so torturous that it could not possibly be real.

Of course, his reaction to Melchior's close proximity inevitably caused him to question the thoughts and feelings that it inspired. Melchior had been that close to him like this so many times – helping him with Latin, when they had sleepovers in his hayloft in summer, somehow waking up sleeping face to face, arms slung around each other – but this feeling was something new, foreign to him. The way his heart quickened and thudded against his chest, the strange fluttering feeling in his stomach, it was unlike anything he'd had the fortune to experience. The way when he inhaled, he could smell the soft, clean scent of Melchior's skin, and the way that mere action was enough to send fire through shooting through his body.

Melchior moved his arm away slowly, reaching for the essay, and Moritz almost whimpered at the loss of contact. He flicked his eyes towards Melchior, who was holding out the essay to him. Moritz nodded shakily, and took the paper with trembling hands.

Oh, it was too overwhelming, all of it – he had to get out of there, away from him, away from these confused feelings swamping his mind.

"I have to go!"

--

That night, he lay in bed, unable to sleep. It was, thankfully, a Saturday night, so there was no risk of falling asleep at school the next day, which comforted him a little. He was exhausted, and lay under his thin covers fully dressed, shoes half off his feet. His mind was filled with thoughts of Melchior – how deeply his touch had affected him, and he was growing painfully aware that it was not only his mind that was thinking about Melchior. He rolled over, trying to ignore the fire slowly building within him.

He'd had these feelings before – the leg's climbing over the podium had both inspired and terrified – but never about a real person. To feel this way about Melchior, his best friend, a boy – surely it was unnatural? He jumped out of bed and nervously walked over to his dresser, trying to ignore the pressing he felt against his trousers, and scrambled for the essay. He hurriedly read it in its entirety, searching for any mention of love between two members of the same sex. There was nothing – all the pages simply spoke of what occurred when a man and a woman were...intimate with each other. Just thinking about it made Moritz grow hot and clammy, and he climbed back into bed, essay in hand.

The essay told Moritz that it was natural to feel this way – in fact, that it was only to be expected – which reassured him. But what confused Moritz more than anything was that Melchior only wrote and spoke of love between a man and a woman. So surely, these feelings were wrong? Melchior said he had discussed everything within the essay, so if nothing was omitted – if Melchior didn't acknowledge it, did that mean the way Moritz felt was wrong? Abnormal? Unnatural? Sinful?

Moritz's thoughts turned to his schoolmates – did any of them feel like this? He'd overheard Otto and Georg discussing women many times – Fraulein Grossenbustenhalter and Marriana Wheelen were popular topics. He'd seen the glint in Melchior's eye whenever he saw Wendla walk by. But then he thought of Hanschen. The way he stared at Ernst in Latin. The way his eyes never left Bobby Mailer when they showered after gymnastics. Now he thought about it, the look in Hanschen's eyes reminded Moritz of the stray dogs that lingered around the town – hungry, desperate, savage. Is that what Moritz was like too?

No. No, he wouldn't – couldn't be like Hanschen.

He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind and get some desperately needed sleep. Mercifully, he slipped into the familiar abyss that sleep offered. However, the supposed peaceful retreat did not come - his dreams were haunted yet again. Tonight, there were no grossly abstract images of stocking clad legs – the images he dreamt about on this particular night terrified Moritz much more than giant legs ever could.

"Moritz?" Melchior stared at him. Moritz looked around; he was in Melchior's room, as he had been so many times before. But now, things felt – different. Something new was in the air. It was sunset, a pale red light filling the room, flickering on Melchior's face. Moritz felt himself gulp slightly. "What are you doing here, Moritz?"

"I-I don't know, I should-should go.." He stumbled backwards, but Melchior jumped up and grabbed his hand, stopping him.

"No. I'm glad you're here." He smiled, and Moritz sighed slightly. Melchior's smile widened. "Come sit with me." He walked backwards towards his bed, his hand never letting go, his eyes staring intently at his prey. Moritz stuttered a little, not sure what to say, but allowed himself to be lead to the bed, sitting on the edge awkwardly. Melchior still held on to his hand, and moved his fingers so they intertwined with Moritz's. Moritz turned his head to stare at him, to ask him what he was doing, but as soon as he opened his mouth Melchior placed his lips on his. Moritz went to pull away, but something inside of him snapped, and he kissed Melchior back, fierce and eager, tangling his fingers in that divine mop of curls.

It felt so wrong, yet somehow so natural and right, when they fell back onto the bed, hands everywhere, scrambling at belt buckles, fumbling with shirt buttons, pressing heads closer together, running over naked chests, each movement full of passion and lust, each breath coming in laboured pants. Suddenly, the pace slowed a little, the kisses became less desperate and more loving, tender, as Melchior moved his hand lower, lower, until Moritz yelped with surprise, pulling back for a moment. Melchior looked at him, puzzled.

"What's wrong?" He smirked a little, and gradually his face began to change, until the dark mess of curls became slick and bright blonde, the soft features became hard and smug. Melchior turned into Hanschen, and Moritz screamed.

He sat up in bed, panting and sweaty,his eyes darting around the room. He was in his room, still fully dressed. He struggled to calm down, and to ignore the painful pressure he felt against his trousers. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, his breath slowing now, but still rushed and uneasy. No, he wasn't like Hanschen. He was different, he wasn't- he didn't-.

His eyes closed by themselves, and he fell into a restless, but mercifully dreamless, sleep.

--

The next morning, as he washed his face ready to go to church, he tried to ignore the dream that still remained in his mind. It was so clear, it felt so real he could almost feel Melchior's hair under his fingers. But then, the ending – Hanschen. Moritz gulped, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked the same as he did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that..

His chin was still as angular and pointy as ever, his ears still stuck out at odd angles, his eyes were still tired and anxious, his hair was still impossible to tame. Yes, he looked the same – but something inside had changed. He needed to speak to someone. But who could he talk to, who would understand these..feelings, these desires?

A bohemian, perhaps.

A/N: Don't forget to review! :)