dramaturgy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dramaturgy) wrote2008-09-02 03:17 pm
dramaturgy) wrote2008-09-02 03:17 pm
Entry tags:
Fic - Spring Awakening - Is It a Kind of Dream
Title: Is It a Kind of Dream
Characters/Pairings: Melchior/Wendla.
Word Count: 1,081.
Rating: G.
Summary: Melchior swallowed and looked back up at her. "May I...?" He let the question hang in the air as he tentatively held out his arms.
"Of course! Oh, Melchi, you must," Wendla immediately agreed and began to shift so that she could hand Melchior their son.
Author's Notes: Fluff. I'm not even going to dress it up as something else. But it's the first thing outside of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fathersandsons that I've worked on in the last year that I feel comfortable posting. (But if you're also into werewolf-centric HP fic laden with politics, deep magic, thematic surprises, the generation gap, proof that adults aren't perfect, and OCs, you should check that out too, bbs!) Besides, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thinkatory has been spreading lies about me loving bloodshed and gore now. I have a reputation to maintain.
Disclaimer: I don’t own it, but I kind of wish I did because then I could at least have a little bit of say in how they’re going to do the movie adaptation. Uhh. I mean. I don’t own it, go Wedekind/Sater/Shiek! >_> Title is from "Bright Eyes" by Art Garfunkel, perhaps more famous for its part in the cartoon adaptation of Watership Down than it ever will be for being on repeat while I was stringing this together.
Sleep was not something Melchior was expecting to find while he ran from the reformatory back to the town that had been the cradle for himself and his love -- he was now convinced, what he felt for Wendla was love, it was the only thing he could think to call it -- but it was inevitable. He couldn't run forever, no matter how he wanted to, and he was practically asleep on his feet when he stumbled into a barn. He was far enough away and it was late enough that he felt confident that he could have a few hours’ respite without worry of being discovered.
A brown cow in the first stall turned to give him a disinterested look, continued to chew, and then turned back to the manger in front of it. The stall next to it was empty, devoid of anything save for an empty pail and a pitchfork, and he collapsed to the ground in his exhaustion. His eyes were closed before he even hit the ground, and he curled up into a ball, cold and miserable and hungry as anything. He could hear the wind outside, but the barn was at least cozy and out of the chill.
He wasn't expecting to dream, either, but there he was in a dream in an undetermined time and place. All he knew was that Wendla was there, sitting up in the bed, his Wendla, her hair falling to her shoulders in damp waves, chocolate brown eyes shining, and her beautiful mouth smiling widely. He practically fell over himself to be near her, and it wasn't until he was seated beside her on the bed that he spoke to her. He reached out and ran his fingers down her delicate jaw line (she felt so real, right there). He hasn't seen her in ages, not even in his dreams, and he can't believe how beautiful she is. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Wendla's smile widened, and she looked down. For the first time, Melchior noticed what -- or rather, who -- she was holding in her arms. "Melchi, we have a son," she said, and she laughed, music to Melchior's ears after the jeers and jibes of his fellows at the reformatory.
Melchior couldn't breathe when he looked at the infant in Wendla's arms, knowing that it -- he -- was half him but maybe more importantly, was half her. Normally, he prided himself on being capable and intelligent, but in that moment, he was at a loss. He swallowed and looked back up at her. "May I...?" He let the question hang in the air as he tentatively held out his arms.
"Of course! Oh, Melchi, you must," Wendla immediately agreed and began to shift so that she could hand Melchior their son. He watched her, and he could see the love in her eyes and something pulled inside him, something that said she will be a good mother. "Make sure you keep your hand there, just like that," she said, and gently guided one hand to support his son's head, while he cradled his tiny, perfectly formed body against his chest.
It was only one moment, and it wasn't even a real moment, but Melchior felt like it was the most important moment of his life to that point. He looked down at his son, and his son looked back. The green eyes that looked back at him could have been his own, and his hair was the same brown, shades lighter than Wendla's.
It was a moment of epiphany for him. All of his intelligence, philosophies, observations, theories fell away and he was left with nothing that could be qualified or supported with facts. He felt like he didn't know anything. "I'm sorry," he felt it necessary to tell his son. "You were never... there's no good answer for why you're here... but I'm glad that you are." He wasn't sure that he shouldn't be terrified, or handing their son back to Wendla and running in the other direction in this dream world, but he wasn't, and he didn't want to. If anything, he was more determined to make this work.
His son looked back up into him, and reached one tiny arm upward, fingers flexing. Melchior grinned broadly, and even though he was small, Melchior was already imagining his son growing -- first walking, then running, playing, as a toddler, a boy, a gangly young man... it was hard to imagine beyond that, limited by his own age. But it was enough. They would build that world he promised. He finally tore his eyes away from his son and looked back at Wendla. "He's so small," he said, a bit stupidly and completely in awe, but he didn't know what else to say.
The smile had never left Wendla's face. "He didn't feel small!" she joked, and covered her mouth as though hiding a secret in her smile.
Melchior laughed, and realized that it had been ages since he'd last laughed. It had been ages since he'd last had any reason to laugh. He looked back at the infant, and he was struck again by the full force of the boundless, unadulterated love that he felt. That was it, love. It was so overpowering that he couldn't even make himself worry. Was this how Wendla had felt before their son was even birthed, from the moment she'd known of him? It had been an abstract for him until now, and now it was real and he felt like he needed to play catch up to how long she’d loved him. It seemed impossible that he could feel this much for anyone, let alone someone who couldn't be more than hours old.
Before he could ask Wendla their son's name, or anything else for that matter, he awoke in that barn, his arms feeling too light and too empty and his heart weighted all the way down to his stomach. It was a dream, he told himself unhappily and pushed himself up to his knees.
A dream, but a good one.
It steeled his resolve in the matter. He would take Wendla away, and they would be happy with their son. Beyond that, he was certain it would be difficult and the hardships would be many… but all the hypotheticals paled in comparison to the memory of the dream, and how Wendla had smiled and the fierce love that their son had inspired.
Characters/Pairings: Melchior/Wendla.
Word Count: 1,081.
Rating: G.
Summary: Melchior swallowed and looked back up at her. "May I...?" He let the question hang in the air as he tentatively held out his arms.
"Of course! Oh, Melchi, you must," Wendla immediately agreed and began to shift so that she could hand Melchior their son.
Author's Notes: Fluff. I'm not even going to dress it up as something else. But it's the first thing outside of
fathersandsons that I've worked on in the last year that I feel comfortable posting. (But if you're also into werewolf-centric HP fic laden with politics, deep magic, thematic surprises, the generation gap, proof that adults aren't perfect, and OCs, you should check that out too, bbs!) Besides, thinkatory has been spreading lies about me loving bloodshed and gore now. I have a reputation to maintain.Disclaimer: I don’t own it, but I kind of wish I did because then I could at least have a little bit of say in how they’re going to do the movie adaptation. Uhh. I mean. I don’t own it, go Wedekind/Sater/Shiek! >_> Title is from "Bright Eyes" by Art Garfunkel, perhaps more famous for its part in the cartoon adaptation of Watership Down than it ever will be for being on repeat while I was stringing this together.
Sleep was not something Melchior was expecting to find while he ran from the reformatory back to the town that had been the cradle for himself and his love -- he was now convinced, what he felt for Wendla was love, it was the only thing he could think to call it -- but it was inevitable. He couldn't run forever, no matter how he wanted to, and he was practically asleep on his feet when he stumbled into a barn. He was far enough away and it was late enough that he felt confident that he could have a few hours’ respite without worry of being discovered.
A brown cow in the first stall turned to give him a disinterested look, continued to chew, and then turned back to the manger in front of it. The stall next to it was empty, devoid of anything save for an empty pail and a pitchfork, and he collapsed to the ground in his exhaustion. His eyes were closed before he even hit the ground, and he curled up into a ball, cold and miserable and hungry as anything. He could hear the wind outside, but the barn was at least cozy and out of the chill.
He wasn't expecting to dream, either, but there he was in a dream in an undetermined time and place. All he knew was that Wendla was there, sitting up in the bed, his Wendla, her hair falling to her shoulders in damp waves, chocolate brown eyes shining, and her beautiful mouth smiling widely. He practically fell over himself to be near her, and it wasn't until he was seated beside her on the bed that he spoke to her. He reached out and ran his fingers down her delicate jaw line (she felt so real, right there). He hasn't seen her in ages, not even in his dreams, and he can't believe how beautiful she is. "Are you all right?" he asked.
Wendla's smile widened, and she looked down. For the first time, Melchior noticed what -- or rather, who -- she was holding in her arms. "Melchi, we have a son," she said, and she laughed, music to Melchior's ears after the jeers and jibes of his fellows at the reformatory.
Melchior couldn't breathe when he looked at the infant in Wendla's arms, knowing that it -- he -- was half him but maybe more importantly, was half her. Normally, he prided himself on being capable and intelligent, but in that moment, he was at a loss. He swallowed and looked back up at her. "May I...?" He let the question hang in the air as he tentatively held out his arms.
"Of course! Oh, Melchi, you must," Wendla immediately agreed and began to shift so that she could hand Melchior their son. He watched her, and he could see the love in her eyes and something pulled inside him, something that said she will be a good mother. "Make sure you keep your hand there, just like that," she said, and gently guided one hand to support his son's head, while he cradled his tiny, perfectly formed body against his chest.
It was only one moment, and it wasn't even a real moment, but Melchior felt like it was the most important moment of his life to that point. He looked down at his son, and his son looked back. The green eyes that looked back at him could have been his own, and his hair was the same brown, shades lighter than Wendla's.
It was a moment of epiphany for him. All of his intelligence, philosophies, observations, theories fell away and he was left with nothing that could be qualified or supported with facts. He felt like he didn't know anything. "I'm sorry," he felt it necessary to tell his son. "You were never... there's no good answer for why you're here... but I'm glad that you are." He wasn't sure that he shouldn't be terrified, or handing their son back to Wendla and running in the other direction in this dream world, but he wasn't, and he didn't want to. If anything, he was more determined to make this work.
His son looked back up into him, and reached one tiny arm upward, fingers flexing. Melchior grinned broadly, and even though he was small, Melchior was already imagining his son growing -- first walking, then running, playing, as a toddler, a boy, a gangly young man... it was hard to imagine beyond that, limited by his own age. But it was enough. They would build that world he promised. He finally tore his eyes away from his son and looked back at Wendla. "He's so small," he said, a bit stupidly and completely in awe, but he didn't know what else to say.
The smile had never left Wendla's face. "He didn't feel small!" she joked, and covered her mouth as though hiding a secret in her smile.
Melchior laughed, and realized that it had been ages since he'd last laughed. It had been ages since he'd last had any reason to laugh. He looked back at the infant, and he was struck again by the full force of the boundless, unadulterated love that he felt. That was it, love. It was so overpowering that he couldn't even make himself worry. Was this how Wendla had felt before their son was even birthed, from the moment she'd known of him? It had been an abstract for him until now, and now it was real and he felt like he needed to play catch up to how long she’d loved him. It seemed impossible that he could feel this much for anyone, let alone someone who couldn't be more than hours old.
Before he could ask Wendla their son's name, or anything else for that matter, he awoke in that barn, his arms feeling too light and too empty and his heart weighted all the way down to his stomach. It was a dream, he told himself unhappily and pushed himself up to his knees.
A dream, but a good one.
It steeled his resolve in the matter. He would take Wendla away, and they would be happy with their son. Beyond that, he was certain it would be difficult and the hardships would be many… but all the hypotheticals paled in comparison to the memory of the dream, and how Wendla had smiled and the fierce love that their son had inspired.