I could have paid this time, my friend. But let it not be said that I passed up your generosity.

[taking the glass, he raises it slightly.]

To your health, then.

[he thinks, as he sips, that he'll have to secretly take care of the bill and see what could be done to make Andersen think he had a decent discount. out here, he feels like he can breathe, instead of needing to send letters he doesn't want to write. instead, he's flung himself over the settee, long limbs and the very picture of the idle rich with his drink, looking into the fire as if there was nowhere he'd rather be.]

I never tire of this country. Not the food, not the weather, not the culture...perhaps in a past life I was native to this soil.

If it were simply a matter of money, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I know that it would only become my permanent residence all too quickly, and I...cannot truly do that just yet.

[shrugging a little, he sips more of the wine, letting its taste wash down the knot that wants to reform in his heart - a familiar one, when he thinks about it.]

Travel is my recourse, until that day.

That would be because I don't consider that my home. My home exists nowhere at all - it is only a memory in my mind, and so I drift without anchor.

[looking back at his friend, he doesn't get up.]

Why do you hope it will happen in your life? Are you hoping if I do, I'll allow you to stay with me whenever you pass through?

I'll make a mental note to assign one of the guest rooms as yours when I purchase my theoretical villa, then.

[taking another sip of his own wine, his eyes follow Andersen - note his form as if he was contemplating a painting.]

...A theoretical promise, Andersen. I will not deceive you and keep you on strings forever waiting.

[if he looks in control, it is because he has perfected the art, and never knows how to put it away. he never stops, because he forgot how to breathe, and carried on.]

It all depends on "if" and "when" coming together.

"That woman" is my wife.

[the next sip he takes is long, slow, nearly draining the rest of his glass if only to feel the burning on his throat.]

I have vows that I spoke, responsibilities I swore to her before I even knew you existed, and I am not the sort of man to haphazardly discard them. You know this of me.

[and he also must rise to her defense when she is ill spoken of. it is obligation.]

When you get married, you'll understand.

I am not running-

[the word is flung back, venomous as a roused snake rearing back to bite.]

[he sits up all the way, eyes flashing, and for a moment, he looks as if he's going to dash the glass to the floor in a flash...

and then he exhales, hauling himself up to get the bottle and pouring himself another measure that he downs with all the inelegance of a common man and barely batting his eyes before he's on his third. if they run out, he'll get another, but god.

sitting back on the couch heavily, Dantes stares into the fire for a long moment, not meeting his friend's eyes.]

...I hope she's having an affair. I truly, genuinely hope this time I will return and find evidence that she has a lover.

[because then, perhaps she will be happy.]

[he'll feel the twitch in Dantes - the startle that's smoothed over by him recollecting what's happening, and then the slight slump of his shoulder.]

I promised her, Andersen. Such a vow is sacred.

[and he is ruined by it.]

I do cherish her, care for her, love her - but not in the way she wishes, not in the way she needs me to. And it will never be sufficient enough to live on, not for her and not for me. So we both die slowly, starved of something that the other withholds.

Everything a man's vows should be in a wedding. To honor and keep her, for better or worse, in sickness and health, wealth and poverty, until death part us. I promised all of it, in front of God and witnesses, and put the ring on her finger myself.

[and he had sealed his own doom by it. letting what might have been happiness wither and rot on the vine, to die there and poison the rest. and here, he feels choked by what he does want, and it makes him drink more so he doesn't voice what he wishes, how he wishes that hand could touch his skin-

he's back in the church, in his mind, reminding himself that all he wants is merely left to cold stone.]

If she took a lover, she'd have a chance to be happier. To be regarded in the way she wants to be. I could rest easier, knowing that at least she was warm at night.

I'm not giving her away. I'm hoping she realizes she can have a far better man, and takes it. A decision she will realize on her own, hopefully from my absence.

[the touch of that palm is seared into him, makes him want to press against it. his brain supplies a wild fantasy of laying across the couch, and Andersen atop him, his weight resting on him like an anchor -

he has to stop. he has to remember how to be alone, even as every part of him wants to scream and reject the concept. they've weathered this before. they found the wake of the storm, where things go colder and numb and peace is a watered down apathy.]

You're right. I am a coward.

Because I cannot break that one piece of her heart.

[the words are soft, bitter, like bad medicine. he gulps down the rest of his wine, and it would be disrespectful if he was not pouring out his agony on the floor, a man wringing his shirt out from the rain.]

...Once, I intended to place her in the care of those who loved her like their own kin. She said if I should leave her, she would die. And she did not mean it to reproach me, only to be truthful as to the depth of her feeling and intent. Even so, I could not bear the possibility of her blood on my hands. So I married her, and hoped that somehow I could grow the affection she sought. That I could bring her happiness and preserve her life.

[closing his eyes, he sighs.]

You bear witness to how well that turned out. When I see her face, all I feel is shame and the urge to apologize. It chokes, suffocates - it makes a mockery of what could be a home.

I don't know. I cannot bring myself to ask her. She still smiles when she sees me, but I know not if it's out of habit or genuine.

[bowing his head, he makes himself keep breathing.]

If she found comfort in someone else's arms, then I would know she could live without me. I would give her anything she wanted - a separation where I am at fault, wealth of her own, all of it - if she would but ask.

What a miserable, pathetic coward I am, that I cannot even offer.