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This isn’t supposed to be Hanschen’s job.
It really, really isn’t. Moritz Stiefel, as an entity, has always been Melchior’s job. And after Melchior, it falls to Ilse and Wendla and Ernst. And after them, it would fall to Georg or Thea or hell, basically anyone other than Hanschen.
They aren’t friends. They’ve never been friends. Their relationship moved from basic hatred on Hanschen’s part to shared distrust to whatever it is now, something that Hanschen doesn’t even want to try to name.
But he and Moritz are the only ones here. At Hanschen’s house, no less. Hanschen doesn’t know where exactly everyone’s fucked off too, but he would guess they’re split between a beer run and sex in his basement. He doesn’t know where Melchior would fit into that equation; he doesn’t drink because it’s not as good as smoking or some such ‘holier than thou’ shit and Moritz is honestly his best and probably only bet for sex in their little group. And Moritz is sitting right here in front of Hanschen.
Melchior might not even be here; he hasn’t been around much lately either way. Not that Hanschen’s been noticing, or anything.
Hanschen resigns himself to his fate.
“Hey, Moritz,” he says, aiming for amiable. He sits down on the couch, leaving a careful two feet of space between them.
Moritz opens and closes his mouth twice before settling on an uncomfortable smile and nod.
Jesus.
“Do you know where everyone went? I was only gone for like ten minutes.” Hanschen can’t imagine that they’d leave Moritz alone for long when they’d already been feeding him drinks, or at least Wendla and Ernst wouldn’t. The three of them watch out for each other like that.
“I’m not sure!” Moritz says, over-eager and intense in a way that Hanschen isn’t equipped to interpret. “But, um, I think since we ran out of beer Ilse went to go get more because she has an ID. Definitely. I don’t know about the rest.”
“Did you not see anyone go downstairs?” Hanschen asks.
“No,” Moritz says, staring off toward the stairs. “I wasn’t watching, Melchior was”—he stops, scrunching his eyes closed for a second—”mm, I wasn’t watching. And when I started watching again nobody was around. And then you came.”
Moritz’s eyes flit toward Hanschen. Belatedly, Hanschen realizes that he’s probably waiting for a response. Hanschen nods awkwardly, wetting his lips and hoping that that’s sufficient.
Evidently it is, because Moritz goes back to looking everywhere else in the room.
Moritz isn’t as tense as normal, Hanschen surmises, but he’s just as fidgety. He doesn’t have a compendium of Moritz knowledge, but he’s going to assume that that means that Moritz is feeling relatively okay. Hanschen’s not the type to baby him—not like Melchior sometimes is—but he doesn’t want to damage him or anything.
They may not be friends, but watching Moritz break down is infinitely worse than watching him function at full freak capacity. In a weird way, too, Hanschen’s as proud as any of the rest of their friends that Moritz has been doing better lately. Hanschen is a realist, yes, and he’s not the type to sugarcoat anything, but with Moritz… there’s no reason to make things harder than necessary. It’s not so much babying as it is being considerate, a thin line that Hanschen has only recently realized exists at all.
So Haschen really doesn’t want to just let Melchior fuck this all up.
He might be about to fuck this all up, but. It’s not like Hanschen is Moritz’s lifeblood. Not like Melchior is.
Anyway.
“You want some water?” Hanschen asks.
Moritz looks up, surprised. “Oh, sure. Yeah.”
Hanschen stands up and gestures for Moritz to follow him to the kitchen. When they arrive, Hanschen reaches up to the cupboard to grab glasses and watches Moritz settle awkwardly against the counter in his peripherals.
“So, what was that you were saying about Melchior earlier?” Hanschen asks conversationally, filling the first glass.
Moritz unsettles as easily as he’d settled in the first place. “What?”
“Just before, I mean. When we were talking about the basement.”
“Oh,” Moritz says. “Yeah, he was here. We were just talking.” Hanschen hands him his glass.
“Talking, huh? Do you know where he went, then?” Hanschen asks.
Moritz squints at him, appraisingly, and Hanschen shrugs and does his best to look politely curious.
“No. I don’t know.” Moritz shoots Hanschen a weary smile. “I don’t know all the much about what he’s up to these days.”
Hanschen takes a long sip of water.
“Interesting,” he says. “I thought you two were pretty much conjoined at this point.”
“It is interesting,” Moritz says, staring down into the swirling water in his cup. “I think he’s going after Wendla, as if—as if she’s not a lesbian. Fuck. Like—we’ve all known that —”
“Yeah,” Hanschen cuts him off. Really, Melchior? Jesus. “No, she’s definitely a lesbian. I can only hope he’s more oblivious than even I previously believed. And even then, does he think she has no standards?” Hanschen pauses. “No offense.”
Moritz laughs wryly. “Yeah, well… ‘ de gustibus ’ and all that.”
“‘ Non est disputandum ,” Hanschen finishes. “You’re right about that.”
They lapse into silence. Whatever buzz Hanschen may have had going earlier, it has inexorably slipped away from him now. Even if he hadn’t already planned on getting drunk tonight, talking to Moritz alone like this would be enough to make him crave it. That doesn’t change the fact that’s there’s apparently nothing left, and that if Hanschen started drinking, social drinker extraordinaire Moritz Stiefel would want a drink too.
Fuck, he’s honestly surprised at how much he knows about Moritz at this point. Surely a beer run couldn’t last much longer?
“I don’t—” Moritz splutters. “I don’t know what to do. Should I bring it up? Is he even attracted to men?” Moritz’s hands are shaking.
This is not Hanschen’s job.
Hanschen considers for a moment. “He is,” Hanschen settles on. Justifying that knowledge would be far messier than its worth—much more than simply verbalizing it—so it’s for the best that Moritz is too distracted to question him. “Is that what’s holding you back?”
“That, and I just—things are already so—I don’t want him to walk away if he doesn’t like me. Like that.”
It isn’t Hanschen’s place to air Melchior’s dirty laundry, and he’s done enough of that already. Plus, he wouldn’t wish Melchior as a life partner on anyone, even Moritz. However, watching them dance around each other is painful enough for him to disregard those two details for now.
“I don’t think you should worry about it,” Hanschen says. “Melchior… despite whatever games he’s playing right now, he cares about you. A lot.” As if Melchior doesn’t look at Moritz like he’s hung the goddamn moon, but whatever. “He wouldn’t throw your years of friendship away over something so trivial.”
“Is that not what he’s doing right now?” Moritz asks. “For Wendla or fucking—whatever he’s doing?” He’s angry, rightfully so, but it’s not something Hanschen is equipped or entitled to confront.
“I don’t know,” Hanschen says. He has a feeling that whatever bullshit Melchior’s up to is intrinsically connected to his not-actually-unrequited love for Moritz, but he can’t speak to that. “I would honestly just talk to him about it.”
Moritz frowns. He looks soft and rumpled, eyes wet and hair all fuzzed up like the edge of a frayed rug. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Hanschen says, trying to look agreeable and nonchalant when Moritz scrutinizes his expression. Hanschen doesn’t know what Moritz sees when he watches people’s expressions all the time, but he’s learned over the years to just sit through it.
They hear the front door open from the other room. Finally .
“Hanschen? We’re back,” Ernst calls, but Hanschen is distracted by Melchior walking into the living room. He’s looking around for Moritz like a lost puppy, tracking snow onto Hanschen’s carpet.
Hanschen rolls his eyes. Wonderful.
“Moritz?” Melchior says. He looks up and, seeing Hanschen, starts walking to the kitchen. “Moritz?”
Moritz spins around to face Melchior as he walks through the threshold. Hanschen can see the way Melchior softens as soon as he sees Moritz, and the vague sense of relief that flashes across his face.
“Oh, Melchi!” Moritz says. He glances back at Hanschen before continuing. “I was wondering if we could maybe talk about something?”
Melchior’s eyes widen. “Sure,” he says, blushing from more than just the cold.
“Why don’t we got out back?” Moritz asks, gesturing vaguely toward Hanschen’s back door. They file out onto the patio and shut the door behind them as Ernst walks into the kitchen.
“Hanschen? What was that all about?” Ernst asks. “Where’s Moritz?”
“He went out with Melchior,” Hanschen says, nodding toward the door.
“They alright?” Ernst asks, and Hanschen can hear in his voice that he’s quite a bit more drunk than he’s letting on.
“Yeah,” Hanschen says, staring off thoughtfully. “They’ll be fine.”
Hanschen attempts to refocus on Ernst at that. Ernst nods and leans in for a kiss, but pauses when he sees Hanschen’s expression.
“What are you looking like that for? You look all... soft and peaceful,” Ernst says.
Hanschen opens his mouth to reply, but Ilse interrupts him before he can.
“Hey, dipshits, don’t think you can just leave me to carry in all the bags! There’s like ten more in the trunk!” She calls from the room over.
Hanschen chuckles. “No reason.” He kisses Ernst once, but pulls away before Ernst can turn it into something more. “Let’s go get those bags, yeah?”