Title: Only Hymns Upon Your Lips

Word Count: 5,866.

Rating: R, for mature themes and sexuality.

Summary: It was as if they were one with each other, suspended in time. My version of 'what if Moritz had said yes.' Oneshot. Moritz/Ilse.

Official Disclaimer: All Spring Awakening characters and plotlines belong to Frank Wedekind and Steven Sater. And even if I did own them, I wouldn't change a thing. The lyrics in this story belong to James Vincent McMorrow, from his song, "If I Had a Boat." Listen to it while reading, it's beautiful.

Author's Note (Please read before starting): Hello all...this is my first attempt at a Spring Awakening fic. I wasn't intending to post it, but I just couldn't get this idea or these characters out of my head, and once I started writing it became something that I wanted to share. This is my take on the Moritz/Ilse scene in the show (Act 2, Scene 2). I think they are beautiful together and deserve a little bit of a story. This is some combination of John Gallagher Jr.'s and Blake Bashoff's Moritz, and an Ilse that I've completely made up. I guess it's the way I've always wished she would be. Also, this is the most sexually explicit thing I've ever written in my entire (rather young) life, and it's almost embarrassing for me to post, so I would really appreciate feedback on that. Hopefully I've kept these two as much in-character as I can during that moment. The lyrics I added at the last minute, after hearing the song, getting serious chills and thinking they'd help break up the angst, make it a little more poetic. We'll see.

Golden, golden river run

to the East then drop beneath the sun

And as the moon lies low and overhead

We're lost.

Ilse didn't move through the woods quietly. Leaves rustled under her bare feet and twigs snapped as she pushed her way through branches and lay her hands on trees, as if they would tell her which way she should go. She had been running all day, desperate to escape home, desperate to escape the people that resided there. But now she had no choice but to return, otherwise she would have spend her night out on the streets somewhere. It wasn't that cold out, just a light spring chill in the air, but it was dark and wet and she couldn't bear the thought of spending one more night lying on some trash heap.

Her hands curled into fists in the sleeves of her shirt, but released themselves when she spotted a patch of flowers. She would pick them, she decided, take them back with her. A piece of comfort, a piece of home for somewhere that didn't so much feel like it. As she leaned down to pick them, feeling the soft, mossy grass between her toes, she spotted a bit of light. The small, well-hidden clearing where she'd come with her friends to play when she was little girl. A feeling of nostalgia overtook her and, brushing a messy lock of hair from her face and picking up her bundle of flowers, she made her way towards it. Ilse stumbled into the moonlight, tripping slightly, and then gasped as she spotted a familiar figure lurking near the edge of the trees.

Moritz slid a figure over the cold, hard metal of the gun in his pocket. Pulling it out, his hands shook – out of desperation, anxiety, fear. He was still dressed in his school uniform, the pants and jacket wrinkled, socks slipping down to his ankles. His eyes were burning from the tears he'd cried all day, trying to convince himself that this was the right decision, that no one would miss him, that no one cared. His father hated him, certainly. Melchior was frustrated with his constant questions and nerves. Even Frau Gabor had rejected him, when all he'd asked for was a bit of money, of help. He was worthless, Moritz decided, reaching up a hand and pressing it against his eyes, trying to stop the tears that wanted to fall. Pulling a the gun from his pocket, he held it unsteadily and lay a finger on the trigger.

Ilse's exclamation came out of nowhere. "Moritz Stiefel?" Scrambling for cover and breathless with surprise, he ducked behind a tree and tucked the gun back into his pocket, shoving it down as far as he could, as if he could make it disappear. As Ilse darted into the clearing, the moonlight illuminated her as if she were some kind of angel. The large white button-down shirt she was wearing fell almost to her knees and her cheeks were smudged red from some remnants of makeup she had tried to apply, but her wavy hair hung down to her waist and her skin glowed. She may have been the most exquisite girl Moritz had ever seen.

But, even so, his mind was clouded with shock and anger, and his heart felt as if it was going to beat out of his chest. His fingers wrapped around the gun, hand clammy with cold sweat, as if she was somehow going to see it through his pants and suspect. And know. "Ilse?" his voice shook. "You frightened me."

Ilse studied him curiously, still standing at the edge of the clearing, half hidden behind the wide trunk of a tree. He looked skittish, young. She could barely see him in the dark, nothing but his body, the outline of clothing that hung off of him, rumpled and askew. He still appeared to be that little boy she'd known, only slightly taller than when she'd seen him last. "Did you lose something?" she inquired, assuming that was his reason for staying out of view.

"Why did you frighten me?" Moritz's voice shook even more this time, taking on a frantic edge. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, only succeeding in messing it up even more. He kicked up a clump of dirt with the edge of his shoe then the ground it into the earth angrily. "Damn it!"

"What are you looking for?" Ilse watched him as he fidgeted, wished he would come closer. His shoulders were hunched now, his posture slumped as if he wanted to make himself invisible.

He straightened slightly as she spoke, leaned against the tree with a defeated sigh. "If only I knew," he said quietly, a near-whisper, but Ilse understood. She set her bundle of flowers on the forest floor, and pulled her sleeves down over her hands as a cool breeze swept through the trees, rustling leaves and causing her blowing hair to tangle.

When she spoke, it was soft and understanding, a question that wasn't really one at all. "Then what's the use of looking?"

Burn slow, burning up the back wall

Something in her voice comforted Moritz slightly, and he stepped out into the moonlight, allowing Ilse to see him in full for the first time since she'd left home. His hair was wild and messy, and it seemed as if he'd slept on it for days without washing it. He was thin and gangly, as if he had yet to grow into his long limbs, and he kept clutching at his pant legs, wrinkling the fabric in his palms nervously. There was a defeated look on his pale face. His eyes were rimmed in red. But despite all of this, he was, in a way, oddly beautiful.

Moritz cleared his throat before he spoke, still an unnatural distance from her. "So, where have you been keeping yourself?"

Ilse could hear his voice more clearly now, and he sounded as awkward as he looked. His voice was stuck in the strange, halfway stage between a boy and a man, and yet the sound was pleasing to her. It carried a familiarity that she hadn't heard in a long time, and she stepped closer to him as she answered. "Priapia? The artist's colony?"

Moritz hesitated before he responded. "Yes," he said, although he had no idea what she was talking about. There was something startlingly effortless about the way that she was speaking to him. She looked older and lovelier, but the way she talked still carried the soft sound of the Ilse he'd known when he was a child. It sent a curious feeling through him, longing perhaps. To go back to the old days, when everything was easier; not perfect, just simple. Or maybe just to step a little bit closer and touch her cheek. She could hold him down to earth.

Long roads, where the city meets the sky

But he hesitated, and sensing his discomfort, Ilse began to ramble on, hoping that it would loosen him up. And as she told stories about her life nowadays – the men she'd met, the fun she'd had, the time she'd gotten drunk in the snow ("I just lay there unconscious! All night!") – Moritz began to get the sense that she wasn't as happy as she may have seemed from the outside. No, this wasn't Ilse, the little girl he'd known, with her hair in tight braids and her favoring of the color green for all of her clothing. It was a broken young women that was struggling to make everything seem okay. He understood. He took a step closer, until they were only about an arm's length apart.

Most days, most days stay the sole same

Please stay, for this fear it will not die.

"Then, I spent an entire week with Gustav Baum." Ilse looked at him, meeting his eyes, taking his cluelessness as a sign of incredulity. "Truly. Inhaling that ether of his!" Moritz looked away, tracing a circle with his foot on the grass and shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked up at her from beneath thick dark eyelashes and the bruised-looking circles underneath them, and she knew that she could trust him. Ilse wrapped her arms around herself, trembling slightly. "Until this morning, when he woke me with a gun, set against my breast."

Moritz's head snapped up and he took the last few steps towards her. He reached out to touch her arm, her face, smooth back her hair…anything. But his hand fell away before he made contact. Still, he kept his eyes on her as she exclaimed, "He said 'One twitch and it's the end!'" The words sent a shiver down his spine, and he saw her eyes fill with tears. He wanted so badly to help her, to hold her. He couldn't explain it. But how could he possibly save someone else when he himself was longing to die?

If I had a boat, I would sail to you

Hold you in my arms, ask you to be true

"Really gave me the goosebumps," she said, and stared at the ground, trying to brush it off and blink back the tears that threatened to trace paths down her cheeks. But as she looked up, Ilse watched him bite his lip and keep his eyes trained on her. He didn't move to touch her again, but she saw the pain in his eyes, the understanding. She saw herself in him, for a moment. Two people so different, yet so completely interconnected. Two childhood friends that suddenly understood everything. The moment hit her in a rush of emotion, and, never being one to hold on to a heavy feeling, Ilse changed the subject. "But how about you, Moritz? Still in school?"

The mention seemed to hit a chord, and Moritz backed away, nearly tripping on the branches strewn about by the storm that had passed earlier that day. "Well, this semester, I'm through." It hurt him to say that, a dull, physical pain that he couldn't quite comprehend. He remembered his father striking him – one, twice, three times – and the way he'd burst into tears as his shoulders slumped in defeat. He was a disappointment. Always the disappointment.

Moritz sat heavily on the ground near the edge of clearing, hardly minding that it was wet and dirty. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, resting his chin on top of them. Without hesitation, Ilse moved quickly towards him and sat as well, her legs stretched out in front of her – long, soft and ghostly pale in the moonlit night. Moritz's heart began to beat slightly faster as he saw her shirt slip up so only her upper thighs were covered, and he couldn't help wondering what was underneath. But he shook the thought away. This was Ilse. She had been one of his best friends. He couldn't think those things about her. No, those were reserved for the anonymous women of his dreams.

"God," Ilse said softly, to break the silence, noticing that he didn't seem to want to talk about school. "Remember when we used to run back to my house and play pirates? Wendla Bergman, Melchior Gabor…you and I?" She smiled at the memory, as did he. He remembered the escape from the real world into a place of make-believe and no consequences, and Ilse with her hair in pigtails tied with ribbons and dirt on her dress. She remembered the joy and blissful naïveté that came with being a child, and Moritz in wrinkled shirt and trousers with his hair all a mess. Nothing had changed, and yet everything.

Once I had a dream, it died long before

Both of them sat and stared out at the forest all around them, the woods dark and light at the same time, brightened and shadowed. Moritz turned to look at Ilse, and she at him. She curled her legs under her and blinked at him, and by some unknown impulse he reached and touched her lips – a dark, chapped red color. He ran his thumb over them and then stroked her cheek, noticing that there was a darkening just under her eye – a purple-red color, an old bruise. He had the sudden desire to protect her. Moritz was not sure what exactly he was doing except for the fact that it felt natural, as if he'd done a thousand times. His hands were shaking slightly less now, and Ilse reached up and grabbed his wrist, meeting his intense gaze. She moved his hand slowly down until it was on the back of her neck, and she leaned in until their foreheads were touching and they could feel each other breathing. Ilse moved closer and their lips were almost brushing, when suddenly Moritz pulled away.

No, no, no, no, he told himself. You can't do this. You don't want this. You need to end it, everything, before you lose the nerve. His pent-up desperation and sadness flooded over him again, and he turned away, pulling his knees to his chest yet again and breathing hard. Something had happened when Ilse had touched him, something electric. It had felt more right than anything had in the longest time, and for a moment he'd actually been calm. He'd actually felt…something, more than frustration and hopelessness.

Now I'm pointed North, hoping for the shore.

Ilse turned away as well, staring back up at the moon. She was very conscious of the fact that her hand still rest only inches from Moritz, and she didn't want to move it. She could hear him breathing, somewhat quickly against the silence of the still night, and the sound was familiar and comforting. She was confused as to why he'd pulled away, but everything Moritz did was erratic and often unexplainable, and she didn't want to push him.

Then, as if proving her point, Moritz stood rapidly. "Actually, I'd better go." His voice had a nervous edge, but what caught Ilse's attention was that, as he'd pushed himself to his feet, something small and glinting had fallen from his pocket. She stared at it, noticing its shape, and gingerly lifted it from the ground. A sob broke from her lips as she held it…a loaded handgun, a rusted silver-gold.

"Moritz!" Ilse looked up at him with her big, sad blue eyes, tears spilling from them. "What…what is…this? I…" She dropped the gun on the ground and scrambled to her feet, grabbing Moritz by both shoulders as he avoided her gaze. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes trained on the ground, but Ilse could feel him trembling. "Moritz, look at me, please?"

The pleading tone of her voice broke Moritz's heart, and he raised his eyes to meet hers. She looked panicked and shocked and scared and horribly, horribly sad, and something in him snapped and realized. She cared. Ilse cared. The revelation was enough to send him into her arms, and he leaned on her as his rage and sadness poured out of him in the form of tears and sobs. She lowered him to the ground again and he rested his head on her shoulder, the sobs racking his entire thin body. "Ilse…Ilse…oh, God…I…"

Ilse felt his tears soaking through her shirt, and she gripped him tightly, her arms around his waist and neck and hands on his chest and rubbing his back. "Shhh…" she whispered. "I'm here."

Down low, down amongst the thorn rows

Somehow they ended up lying on the ground, in a cool, dry patch, Ilse still holding Moritz as if he was a little boy. But now she realized he wasn't the child she'd known anymore. He was older, and sadder, cheerless. Eventually he looked at her with those beautiful eyes of his, that sweet caramel color, and pushed himself up on an elbow. The eyes were red and raw, and, although the painful, piercing sobs had subsided, a few tears still trickled from them, tracing salty paths down his cheeks. Ilse reached up a hand and wiped away the tears with her thumb, letting a comforting hand fall to his shoulder. Moritz wiped his own eyes as well, swiping at them as if embarrassed. But he wasn't, and it only took a minute before he spoke. "I failed out of school," he said, his voice remarkably steady. "I don't know why, I just couldn't think in there. I couldn't focus. On anything." He reached up a hand and rubbed his eyes again, as if trying to push the tears back inside. Moritz took a long, shaky breath before he spoke again, the kind that comes after you've cried for a long time. "My father…he hates me. I'm a disappointment, he says." Another breath. "He hit me…" Moritz's voice cracked. "It wasn't the first time."

Ilse swallowed painfully, and, drawing her hand away from Moritz, rolled up the sleeve of her shirt. There were scars there, a few of them, scattered over her arm. Some long and thin, others curiously shaped like squares or rectangles. Then she pulled up the hem of her shirt slightly and for the first time Moritz saw similar scars tracing around her calves and lower thighs. He gasped, his mind racing as his mouth dropped open. He couldn't imagine the pain.

Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vine

"My father used to beat me," she said quietly, steadily, but Moritz saw the hurt in her eyes. "Sometimes with a switch, sometimes with…" she winced, and Moritz impulsively took her into his arms, holding her close, feeling her body against his chest. "His belt. Any time I displeased him, he would yank it out and hit me as hard as he could, so hard it drew blood." Ilse closed her eyes, squeezing them shut as if it would somehow block out the memory. "My mother…" she choked back a sob. "She never stopped him." Ilse moved away slightly and pulled aside the collar of her shirt, revealing new bruises. "The men I stay with nowadays, they hit me sometimes too. But I would put up with anything, to not have to go back to that house. Back to him." Ilse's voice was shaky, but it was obvious that, while she would never forget it and never get over it completely, she had come to terms with all of this a long time ago.

Moritz stared at her, this battered, bruised, lonely girl that somehow still had light in her eyes, and realized that, despite everything, she was still alive, still hopeful. She had greeted him with a smile. He was selfish, he realized. His father's disappointment and anger, the way everyone seemed to write him off as a stupid, fumbling boy, even the pain of existing for another day…it didn't compare to what Ilse had suffered. Both of them were scared, and they had been for a long time. Both of them had been through things, each similar and different in its own way, and both of them were hurt. But right then, it didn't matter. They were together, and they understood.

Birds play, try to find their own way

"I was going to kill myself." Moritz said this bluntly, without embellishment or fanfare. "Everything…it hurts. I don't know if I can stand it anymore." Tears, the last few he seemingly had in him, feel from his eyes, and he leaned into Ilse. He looked up at her, and to Ilse it seemed as though he was begging her to stop him.

"Don't," she said simply. She didn't offer a long speech as to why not, and she didn't need to. The one word alone, protesting his plans with a quiet, steady voice, was enough to shake him from his angry stupor for the time being. He was left with that shaky, empty feeling one gets after a long cry or a tough conversation. Ilse entwined her fingers with his, gripping his hand. Strong. As the sadness faded, the feeling left over was something low in the pit of his stomach. On edge. Primal. He didn't know exactly what it was, but he couldn't control it. He placed a hand on Ilse's leg, dangerously close to the edge of her shirt.

Ilse felt it too. She leaned in to him. "Walk as far as my house with me," she suggested, a low, raw edge to her voice. Moritz's breathing sped up, and Ilse's hitched as his hand fumbled, brushing the skin just under the bottom of her shirt.

"And?" His voice was near a whisper, but it had some kind of longing in it, as well as an implication. He had been driving himself insane for weeks now, with no idea how to deal with all of the dreams he'd been having, all of the things he'd been feeling. Melchior's advice hadn't helped him, only made him increasingly more uncomfortable. He'd dreamt of nothing but those legs, and those stockings, and what lay between them day after day, night after night. Now Ilse was wrapping her arm around his waist and pulling him closer. Did she want to do that…thing that he'd read about in the essay? He felt a twitch in his groin. Was that what he longed for as well?

All of his neurotic thoughts came to a halting stop when Ilse pressed her lips to his. Moritz was an inexperienced kisser, but Ilse guided him, her hand tangled in his hair, until he was more sure of himself and participated actively. Her tongue was in his mouth, and he realized that he loved the feeling of it darting between his teeth. He wrapped his arms around her, gripping her hair as well, and soon she was in his lap, curled on top of his stretched-out legs. Lips on lips. Poetry.

Soft clay, on your feet and under mine.

Soon Ilse was kissing down his neck, and Moritz had to bite down on his chapped lip to keep from crying out. He felt only her. Her mouth, her tongue, her body, so close to his. He closed his eyes. He imagined her – her long, silken hair, red lips, her hands on him. It felt…oh, God. There weren't words. Then, suddenly, she pulled away.

"And we'll…" She stood, tracing a finger over her collarbone and trailing it down the low V of the men's shirt she was wearing, tracing a line down between her breasts. The moonlight backing her caused Moritz to see the silhouette of her body…the curve of her chest and her waist and the contours of her hips. He wanted nothing more than to touch it, to hold her, to heal her. To be one with her, in that way that he'd never experienced. He stood quickly, leaving the gun behind, lying shining on the dirt. He no longer needed escape. There was something else he wanted. Ilse.

Splitting at the seams

Moritz moved to kiss her again, and they stood, wrapped up in each other, in the center of the clearing. A gangly, awkward, adorable boy in a sloppy school uniform, and a long-legged, curvy, beautiful girl in a shirt that was about ten sizes too big, embracing hours after sunset in the middle of a dark forest. They made a stunning picture, the two of them, Ilse decided. She broke the kiss and looked up at Moritz, who was licking his lips, some combination of pleasure and desire gracing his features. The fact that he had no idea what he was doing made him even more appealing to her. Sex had never been intimate to her, but sharing it with Moritz, someone she cared for deeply, had loved since childhood, seemed to be a beautiful idea. Maybe she could forget for a few hours. Forget what it was like to be her, forget how each day she somehow managed to piece herself back together, and focus on the good. Focus on Moritz, and the way he was looking up at her with those eyes of his, that familiar look on his face. Ilse grabbed his hand and pulled him after her.

They stumbled through the woods, tripping and crunching on twigs and fallen green leaves. They were covered in dirt by the time they emerged on the other side, its coating on Moritz's scuffed black shoes and Ilse's bare toes. Moritz stopped to look around, seeing an unfamiliar part of town. Houses were grouped together close and, despite the late hour, people – women with long hair and men in strange clothes – wandered about. The walls of homes were faded and the paint peeled, the windows were small and the streets dirty, but shadowy corners were flooded in pools of light from the street lamps and somewhere music was playing. There were bursts of raucous laughter and steady silence in equal measure, and Moritz thought fleetingly that it was somewhat charming. But mostly he was concentrated on Ilse as she pulled him along, the way her hair blew in the breeze and how her legs kicked up as she ran. The feeling of her hand in his, that simple touch that was sending shivers down his spine.

Finally, she pulled him to the door of a small house and pressed him against the door. Ilse raised her eyes to meet Moritz's, and loved the expression of desire on his face, the way his mouth was open as he stared at her, his breathing audible. She had never been looked at that way. And for once, this didn't feel strange and wrong. It felt perfect. And that thought is what pushed her to bend down, pull a rusty spare key from the doormat and turn it in the lock. They entered the house, still in the rushed throes of excitement and passion, and Ilse pulled him down a darkened hallway. Moritz looked at the rooms – small and crowded with furniture, painting supplies strewn about – as he passed them. An uneasy thought, almost shaking away his arousal – is Ilse staying with someone now? Is he here? – came to mind, but faded with Ilse's voice, lilting and anything but quiet, telling him, "He's gone. He goes out and drinks, often until late morning." Ilse swallowed as she pulled Moritz towards her, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Sometimes they don't come back at all," she said, and Moritz knew this was a general statement, about everyone she'd ever stayed with. It called to mind the damaged girl from earlier that evening, but then she kissed him again, with more force and passion, and the thought flew from both of their minds.

Heaving at the brace

With Moritz still against the wall, Ilse unbuttoned his jacket and ran her hands over his chest. She felt muscles there, surprisingly strong for a boy that seemed so scrawny. As they kissed, Ilse felt Moritz's arousal against her. She moved a hand down, first touching the top of his pants, and then moving lower, brushing him with her hand. The soft, barely controlled cry out that resulted was enough for Ilse to lead him into the bedroom and pull him to lie down. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, but they hardly noticed. Moritz turned to Ilse, taking in every inch of her, and putting a hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her towards him, pressing his lips to hers with surprising force. He kissed clumsily, but it felt good, and Ilse arched her back slightly on top of him as she moved her legs so one was on each side of his body.

Sheets all billowing

Moritz began to unbutton her shirt, his eyes widening with each inch of creamy, pale skin his undressing exposed, and he was somewhat startled to find that she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath. She could barely meet his eyes after she noticed his confused expression, and he realized that this was a story she wasn't ready to tell. So Moritz gently reached an uncoordinated hand and touched her breast, carefully at first, but then palming it, enough to make Ilse let out a gasp of pleasure. He smiled, a goofy lopsided smile, and she could see from his look that he enjoyed this, being the one in control for once in his life. He continued to touch her breasts, growing more and more comfortable with the feeling and more and more excited with the little cries falling from her lips.

Breaking of the day

Without hesitation, Moritz began to kiss her neck, and moved down quickly until his lips were between her breasts and peppering kisses down her stomach. Ilse removed his shirt so quickly she nearly ripped it, and proceeded to unbutton his pants just as rapidly until he was left only in his underwear, his arousal straining and apparent. Moritz grew slightly shy for a moment as Ilse's eyes met his, but the feeling quickly vanished when she reached a hand down and stroked gently him through his underwear.

"Oh…oh, God, Ilse…yes." It felt as if every nerve ending in his body was positively on fire, everything electrified and trembling and beautiful. Ilse watched him, throwing his head back and biting his lip, and loved the uninhibited way in which he cried out. He ran his hands down her body, and it was Ilse's turn to feel that incredible thrill of longing and desire. Moritz took a breath, remembering something he'd read in Melchior's essay, about what the woman wanted to feel when being pleasured, and he reached a hand between her legs. He stroked her gently, and the sensation caused Ilse to cry out, "Moritz!"

The sea is not my friend

And everyone conspires

He quickly yanked his hand away, worried, and looked into her eyes, wide and blue. "Am I doing this wrong? Do you…" And Ilse shook her head fervently. "No, no, no." She grabbed his wrist and guided his hand back to that spot. Moritz touched her again, and she moaned, something low and guttural, unlike anything he'd ever heard before. He caressed and felt her, warm and wet, and moved his fingers in a way that made her practically shout.

The sound of her saying his name in that voice, that mouth spread in a wide "O," caused Moritz to need release desperately. He put a thumb under the waistband of his underwear and yanked it down, taking his hand away from the perfect spot between Ilse's legs and touching that forbidden part of himself. Even his own fingers, moving awkwardly up and down, was enough to cause him to thrust against his hand, so when Ilse reached a hand and stroked him, the pleasure was almost unbearable. "Fuck," he swore. "That feels…oh, God, that feels so good."

Ilse watched him, saw the way he threw his head back with his beautiful eyes shut, heard his enthusiastic moans. She realized that Moritz had probably never even touched himself, and that this was an entirely new experience. She was suddenly overwhelmed with the revelation that Moritz had had earlier, the desire to be with him completely, to share that experience with someone that cared about her, with someone for whom she wasn't simply another conquest. She wanted to feel him, every part of him. She wanted to be a part of him.

Still I choose to swim

Ilse lay back on the bed, removing her hand from Moritz. He whimpered at the loss of touch, but as he saw her lying there, chest heaving with breathless passion, he knew what came next. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember everything the essay had taught him, all of those thoughts that had driven him wild for nights on end. But as he joined her, he realized that his body knew what he was supposed to do more than his mind. Moritz placed a gentle hand on Ilse's pale thighs and spread them apart, seeing the part of her that he'd touched just moments ago. He took himself in his hand and guided it to her entrance. He moved in slowly, watching Ilse bite her lip, and he wondered if she was in pain. But she reached up and tangled her hand in his hair, their lips meeting again as if for reassurance, and Moritz penetrated her fully. They both cried out, and Moritz's mouth dropped open. There was no way to describe the sensation. It was as if he could feel her, everywhere. It was as if they were one with each other, suspended in time. He moaned between his teeth, and every word he could have said trailed off, overcome by pleasure.

Burying his head in her neck, breathing in the sweet smell of her, he slowly began to move in and out, thrusting, connecting. It was as if some animal instinct had taken over, for both of them, and all there was left was each other and their lips and their sweat and their cries. Some kind of miracle, some kind of magic.

Over time, Ilse's moans increased in volume, and she leaned her head up, pressing her lips onto Moritz's neck. On impulse, he reached between her legs, just above where he was sliding in and out, and stroked her gently again. Ilse threw her head back, her cheeks beautifully flushed, her mouth wide. Moritz felt her clench around him, heard her cry out one last time, and the feeling was enough for him to know that that was what he desired as well. He thrust one last time, and all there was in the room, suspended in still silence, was his shout, "Yes! Oh, Ilse!" before he felt himself release, a lightheaded, unfamiliar feeling of climax, as if he was standing at the edge of some beautiful cliff side, that he then realized had been what his body had been craving all this time.

Slip beneath the tide.

Moritz pulled out of her carefully and turned onto his back, so they were lying side-by-side. He was breathless, and his eyes fluttered shut as some sort of beautiful peace settled over him. Ilse lay next to him, her skin shining, her eyes closed as well. After they'd both caught their breath, Moritz rolled over until he was leaning on his elbow next to her and kissed her, her lips warm and sweet. They opened their eyes to look at each other, pure caramel brown meeting wide navy blue. He saw the bruises on her body, of men that had come before him, that had touched her without gentleness or care. He kissed her shoulder, softly, absentmindedly, and broke the silence. "I'll always be here for you, Ilse."

His voice carried a sincerity unlike anything else she'd ever heard, and Ilse nodded, laughed a little, trying to lighten the moment. But Moritz could tell her gratitude was sincere, and he wrapped his arm around her. She regarded the face of a boy who had never experienced intimacy of any kind, and how this simple – yet so poignant – experience had changed something in him. There was a smile on his face, a soft closed-lipped one, and color in his cheeks. His heart was beating at a slow, sated tempo, and she could feel him all around her. Even if only for tonight, she had saved him. "Don't try anything," she said in response, and she knew he would understand. "I would miss you."

Moritz's heart swelled with some new kind of proud, deserving joy, and he knew that nothing more needed to be said. They had shared something beyond all words, a terrific kind of togetherness, and simple syllables weren't enough to adequately describe something that passionate and powerful. And as Moritz lay there, staring up at a painted ceiling in Priapia, on the wrong side of town, wrapped in the arms of his childhood friend. For the first time in weeks, or months, or maybe years, he didn't feel completely lost and alone. And as he closed his eyes and drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep, he realized something that he'd tried to convince himself against many times – he hadn't really wanted to die at all.

This is not the end

This is just the world.

Author's Note: Please review! I'd really love to hear all of your thoughts.