Disclaimer: If it were mine, it wouldn't be ending.
Notes: Because you were all such good reviewers, you get this chapter early! (Actually, it's because I'll be on vacation, but I do love my reviewers- shout out to Chalcedony Rivers, melchiorgabor, and Hanschen's Postcard, who all reviewed last chapter.) Like "Left Behind," this one's more sentimental. It's probably one of my favorite parodied songs, tied with "The Part I Know Well," and it's probably not coincidence they're my favorite two songs. This fic's meant so much to me, I think I feel the same way as the actors do now, not ready to let this go. I guess all good things must come to an end. (And yes, I think I just unintentionally complimented myself.) Don't worry, there's still "The Song of Purple Summer" to come, but that's more of an epilogue. This ties up the main plot pretty much. Or does it? Keep in mind that three people are singing different lines towards the end, and you may have to listen to it a few times through.
Scene Eight: Shows You've Blown
(For once, they don't need an excuse for not changing sets: the stage already is a graveyard. Melchior creeps onstage under the misconception that he's alone, away from the others, and the misconception that he's not, that certain people will be waiting for him. But he continues anyway, since he's not used to being wrong.)
Melchior: Psst… Moritz… oh, wait, you can't answer. You're dead. *pauses* Well, look at this. You spend your life running on Broadway and where are you going to wind up?
(Just as everyone begins to think it was rhetorical…)
Melchior (muttered): On cheesy television.
(He kneels before a platform, Moritz's grave. Little does he know, it doubled as the hayloft, someone else's grave.)
Melchior: Moritz, my "only a friend"… *straightens, but only in one sense* Well, those producers won't find me! Or Wendla, since she'll probably be stalking me. I- I won't let them. I'll just star in something else. You know, "the world's a stage." *pauses* But what to do with the kid? Even if I give her up for adoption, if she's inherited anything from Wendla, she's bound to find me. And probably sing annoying show tunes too.
(The curtain call buzzes.)
Melchior: No! Showtime! Wendla will be coming soon! *pauses* Look at all these imaginary graves! They're just… *sniffs the air* Is something rotting? *glances down and finds…* A fresh program! *hugs it and begins to read* Resigning, on May 18, 2008, Lea Michele as Wendla Ber-" *stops his heart* Yes! "Starting at age…" "Resigned…" Wait a sec… "With Jonathan Groff…"
(He realizes what has happened. His attempts to overthrow the producers on Broadway have finally succeeded. Instead of remaining stationary, they'll be taking the show on tour.)
Melchior: Oh. My. God that I don't believe in. Wendla too? *pauses* THEY'RE REPLACING US? No… No… No… *starts bawling*
(Critics would give him a rotten tomato for his fake crying, since it's not fake. Unnoticed amidst his sobs, the platform slowly creaks open and laboriously, out pops…)
Moritz (frantically): Oh my god, what year is it? *grips Melchior* Are you Melchi's son? I knew I felt you buried next to me!
Melchior (still sobbing): M-Moritz?
Moritz: Never mind, you've got to be Melchi. Any son of his wouldn't exist.
Melchior: I've been a fool!
Moritz: I'll say. *slaps him* My death wasn't supposed to be fictional! But you had to lock me in a bad imitation of a grave! Seriously, I was supposed to be out of here December 16th, 2007…
Melchior: Well, you had the right idea. *pulls out a razor*
Moritz (glancing at it): Melchi, I don't shave.
Melchior: Just think!
Moritz: *rolls eyes* If only…
Melchior: They'll scatter us around the Earth… and call us gods… teen idols…
Moritz: No wonder the teenage suicide rate has sky rocketed.
Melchior: Don't you see, Moritz? We're just walking advertisements! Being people to be by not being ourselves until we're just this year's Zac Efron!
Moritz: Really? I'm that hot?
Melchior: Yeah, and always a kid. You know what happens to all the winners of American Idol?
Moritz: Uh, I don't know.
Melchior: Exactly! I mean, when's the last time you heard someone say, "Adam Lambert!"
Moritz: Um, he didn't win, and plus, you just said it.
Melchior (sniffling): We're stuck here, Moritz. We're stuck here, and they're taking here away. Who will I be then? …Moritz?
(But Melchior's sentimentality has washed off on Moritz. Either that, or he doesn't want Melchior sobbing on his shoulder. Comforting his friend- or striking preemptively- he sings softly under the blue spotlight the stage crew forgot to turn off.)
Moritz:
Shows you've blown
Get lost, thank god, in iTunes.
Call back home.
The fangirls still will buy you.
Devout fans
And girls go stalk around you.
Not everything is fame,
But still you know that it has found you.
Melchior: *sniffles* You mean, we'll still exist on a CD?
Wendla: *striding onstage through the smoke- since, as proved in "Touch Me," the theatre allows smoking* Hell, if I'm gonna be a teen idol, I'm gonna be a real teen idol, not some kid who dies in a Broadway show that no one listens to anyway because only half its songs mention sex!
Melchior: *gasps* Wendla! *tries to kill himself with his razor but slips*
Wendla:
Shows with pain
May bury those within them.
Still they change
The future generation,
And the parts say
The bad close brings the spotlight.
And everyone you'll make a trend
Is defined by this harmed plight.
Moritz:
Though you show
For only a brief time,
The stalkers buy with wealth,
They're such great fans.
When you go,
They'll just wait so they'll soon find
That someday, you'll be paid to kiss.
Wendla:
When New Yorkers strip clothes,
Tomorrows, we will close.
There are shows that must go.
We'll still show.
We won't go!
(That's kind of what Melchior's afraid of, but then again, the tagline is you'll never forget your first love, and even if he hates it- whether Wendla or the stage- it still made him famous. He considers the fame celebrities like Moritz, Marilyn Monroe, Kurt Cobain got from killing themselves. At least they stayed famous.)
Wendla, Moritz, and Melchior:
Shows you've blown
Won't cost 'til they remind you
Of the shows
That seemed to redefine views.
They're called to
Depict the public's wrong things.
They hustle to the O'Neil place,
A long view then a closing.
(Feeling claustrophobic, Melchior lowers the razor and finally decides that living's better, because what use is a scandal if you don't leave to see it scandalize?)
Melchior:
Kind of owned,
But still, my yearly earning's
Through the charts.
And soon, I know, there's Murphy.
I'll star too,
They'll yell at my returning
As some perv with a lover in
That show on Fox Channel.
(Wendla and Moritz decide since they're dead anyway, they might as well be famous too.)
Moritz:
Will I go?
There's, oh, such glory, fine!
There's other dream parts, other soulful roles.
And I know
To trust in those who pine
That they'll pay you as your income.
Wendla:
When the score's star then goes,
The mob slows,
Depart, shows!
I'm on Glee!
I will glow
In Will's show!
Melchior:
They'll call me!
A hot fling,
Wide showings,
Some new song-based show!
You watch me,
Must watch, see,
I'm squalling!
The Groff sings!
(They all stand up.)
Melchior: So… I guess we die here after all.
Moritz (nervously): That's symbolic, right?
Wendla: *glares* Not for all of us…
Melchior (awkwardly): Er, sorry about the pregnancy thing…
Wendla: Pregnancy thing? *slaps him* Who cares about the kid? You made me fat!
Melchior: Wait, you already had the kid?
Wendla: Wouldn't I be showing already if I didn't? I mean, I've been playing the part for like, six years, that's already an abnormally long pregnancy.
Melchior: *blinks* Six years? Wait a sec, you mean this could be Gavin's kid?
Wendla: Um…
Melchior: Gavin Creel, workshop Melchior, my boyfriend?
Wendla: *nervous laughter* I was fourteen and innocent?
Melchior: Wonderful, the two people I'm having affairs with are having an affair with each other! *pouts* So, what do we do about the kid?
Wendla: *shrugs* Who cares? Let's just name her Rachel and send her off with two gay guys.
Hanschen and Ernst (entering): Straight!
Wendla: *rolls eyes* Whatever. *shoves baby at them and pushes them offstage*
Moritz: *peers* Would you look at that, she looks sixteen already!
Melchior: Times flies…
Wendla (dreamily): …when you're having fun, I know.
Moritz: *glances around* No wonder I don't see it flying.
Melchior:*foolishly grins* You know, I was just thinking, the three of us go way back…
Moritz: Um, I've never met this girl.
Wendla (flirtatiously): Do you want to?
Melchior: But didn't we play pirates?
Moritz: That got cut.
Melchior: Oh. *frowns* And why the hell do I want you to walk on my arm any way? That'd hurt!
(They glare, so he decides that maybe it's time to part with them before Moritz decides to go all Wedekind style and try to kill him. Though, he really wouldn't mind if Moritz asked for his hand…)
Melchior:
Some will balk at the harm,
But, hey, listen right.
Shows die, but let them stay in your heart.
Through the sins,
Through the stars,
Through the dim spotlight,
We're achieved our top dream:
We're all stars.
We walk now with them
Who wallow in fame.
And you see, we're not unknown.
Not pawns.
Not pawns.
I walked through this part.
Wendla and Moritz:
Rock on.
Melchior:
And I'll never let it go.
Wendla and Moritz:
Rock on.
Melchior:
Never again show.
Wendla and Moritz:
Rock on.
Melchior:
Not forget this show.
(Moritz and Wendla have been drifting towards opposite exits, eager to grab their pay check and make a run for it. They extend their arms toward Melchior to glance at their watches.)
Wendla: I guess I'll see you later, Melchior.
Melchior: What, you think you're gonna go to hell when you die too?
Wendla (glancing at watch): I think I'll see you very soon. *vanishes from sight*
Melchior (turning to Moritz): I knew she was a witch! Or something phonetically similar. phonetically
Moritz: Yeah, well, if no one needs me, I'm gonna go be an idiot!
Melchior: Lay off it, Moritz, anyone who wants to commit suicide in this society can't be that dumb!
Moritz: No, really- I get to be American! *dances off*
Melchior: *sighs* You know, they said this was fictional. Maybe I imagined it all.
(The lights begin to fade. His song is ending soon, and although he hated every bit of the tyrannical structure, he loved that hate like a little baby. Well, maybe not a baby.)
Melchior:
You watch me
On Fox, Glee.
I'm bawling,
But I'll sing.
I'm done. Hey,
I'll still show.
(The lights fade. With a sigh, Melchior faces the nonexistent audience one last time.)
Melchior: What now?
Ryan Murphy (entering brusquely): Hey, Jonathan…
Melchior (wiping away tears): Hey, Ryan, I…
Ryan Murphy: Yeah, whatever, just sign the contract, okay?
Melchior: Why the rush?
Ryan Murphy: *nervous laughter* Rush? What adrenaline rush? I'm not having a nervous breakdown. *grabs Melchior's collar* Sign, or I'll sing the Alexi Darling song.
Melchior: *shrugs* Fine. I've got this erasable pen right here…
Ryan Murphy: *hands him quill* Sign it in blood!
Melchior: Are you sure this is sanitary?
Ryan Murphy: That Daniel Radcliff kid does it, and people line up to see him naked.
Melchior: Yeah, but I'm not in love with a horse.
Ryan Murphy: *nervous laughter* Mares? Nope, no mares, not… *commandeers Moritz's gun*
Melchior: Well, I don't see anything terribly suspicious about all this, so why not? *signs contract* So, who's the show tune singing girlfriend I get a sex scene with?
Wendla (appearing out of the shadows): *waves seductively* Hi, Melchi…
Melchior:… crap…
Ryan Murphy: Uh, gotta go cast Kurt into existence! *runs for his life*
Melchior: *stares* There's gonna be a sequel, isn't there?
Will there? Ooooh, now you have to review! (Unless you don't want to, but as I said, this song means a lot to me, so I'd love it if you did. Did the ending fit?)