manlet | melodrama

melodrama

[To travel is to live, Andersen once wrote, and he still abides by that maxim. There's always been a yearning in his blood, to leave the confines of home and walk the world with his own two feet. His wanderlust rarely draws company, given how expensive and far his excursions take him. Understandable, if disappointing. But he's been blessed in recent years by Dantes' presence, steadfast and ever-present as a rock. No matter what far-flung destination Andersen sets his heart upon — no matter what demands he imposes on him — Dantes comes.

(he's been thinking, lately, of how dantes never protests these long trips away from his wife. those are thoughts he shouldn't nourish, but he thinks them nonetheless.)

Italy has always been a second home to Andersen, and he finds them a pleasant hotel with a good reputation after much scrounging and hand wringing over expenses. But when it comes to the wine, he's a little looser with his wallet. What can he say? He has his vices like any other man.

Andersen pours a glass for Dantes, hands it to him by the stem.]

You're paying next time, I'll have you know.

[Crotchety as always.]

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...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.

Of course it does.

[Bitterness creeps into Andersen's voice. The wine is beginning to take hold and he can't keep a firm hand on his emotions — not that he'd ever been good at that. He looks at Dantes, at the way the firelight licks the bare neck. His grip on the glass tightens.]

If you're going to be that way, don't make any promises. Don't speak of guest rooms and villas— don't accept my invitations in the first place, for no matter how many times you escape with me, you'll crawl back to that woman.

"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.

Bullshit.

[Not an angry accusation, but delivered bluntly as fact.]

You're running from her. That's why you're here.

I am not running-

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

[He pushes on, raising his voice.]

Do you think I'm stupid? How many times have I plucked you from that miserable house? How many times have you taken my hand to leave Haydee behind? You can't even say you love her, you coward!

[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 wants more from Dantes — wants that venom spat in his face to justify the choking violence rising in his chest right now. It's the alcohol that's tearing apart his inhibitions, driving this poison from his mouth. Andersen waits for the words that never come. Instead, he receives something worse.

Andersen stays standing. Looks long and hard at his face before he moves to him.]

There's no use in telling me. If she matters so much to you, you must confess these thoughts to her. Kill her slowly or kill her in one blow — you've created this scenario for yourself.

[He hesitates. Reaches out, rests his hand on Dantes' shoulder with enough pressure to feel the firmness of the bone.]

... either that, or I'll introduce her to one of the insufferable Frenchmen I know. There's plenty who think themselves paramours.

[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.

Sacred, you say, but you wish for her to commit adultery. A sin, need I remind you.

[It does not escape Andersen that an affair is permitted for Haydee but not for Dantes. The waters that lay between him and his friend feel so shallow, yet he knows Dantes will not cross. He will leave Andersen on the opposite bank to suffer in silent misery. Oh, Andersen knows well the sting felt comes from his self-centered jealousy. He assumes Dantes sees him as more than a friend — assumes he'd be willing to give him the softness and attention he's craved —

Isn't that why he's touching him now?]

You're speaking like a true fool. Humor me, what exactly did your vows entail?

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.

[He sighs. Were he braver, he'd take Dantes' face in his hands and have him meet his eyes. But Andersen is just as much a coward. His hand only slides down to the broad space of Dantes' back to let his palm soak in its warmth. This is all he dares to do.]

You've already broken your vows, Monsieur Mari, pinning your hopes on such a scandalous wish. To honor and keep her by giving her away like a common woman of the night — don't make me laugh. All your talk about the chains of marriage is shit. You're dreaming of her spitting on your wedding vows first, do you realize that?

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.

[The admission feels heavy coming from Dantes. What joy can be squeezed from it? Andersen is aware he is lingering too long, that his hand has succumbed to his weakness. They are cowards, both of them; the only difference is that Dantes flees while Andersen curls up against the thing that torments him, like a parasite.

The fire snaps and sputters. Andersen wets his lips and tastes wine.]

Why not leave her, Edmond? You're convinced you bring her nothing but misery.

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.

Edited 2021-11-21 06:42 (UTC)

[Trapped by love — it sounds like a story Andersen would pen, horrid as that sounds. He can feel the vibrations of Dantes' confession against the palm of his hand, his voice a baritone hum of sorrow. Soft, quiet, but there. Familiar as the ocean's waves dashing themselves against the shore. He does not say anything because what would a half-formed creature like him know about such love? What could he offer Dantes to soothe his agony?

Nothing. Nothing, save a ticket to faraway lands, a temporary escape even as Dantes' guilt drags after him like a chain.]

... does she still love you to such an extent? Your married life has been horrid.

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.

[Without thinking, he rubs his friend's back.]

... let me say this. Haydee has not killed herself in all your years together. It may be she has grown stronger than you think she is — that she has fallen out of love with you and made her peace with it. But you must talk to her, Edmond.

...you're right, even if I do not even know where to begin.

[he'd stay like this for hours, if it means Andersen's hand stays there, pressing like it does.]

I could be told to argue against the Pope himself, and I would appear arrayed for battle, but in this...I am lost.

Matters of the heart fell even the mightiest of men.

[He knows, because he feels his heart curdling at this small hope, at the thought of the villa becoming reality. It burns, this little flame in his chest.]

Bah, what depressing conversation. We're in Rome, we should celebrate as the Romans do. I dragged you out here to escape your troubles — and we'll do just that with more spirits!

[He has to pull away. Andersen forces himself to the table to pick up the half-empty bottle of wine. His smile feels fake.]

When was the last time you've drunken yourself into a stupor?

...Ages and ages ago. I'm not very fond of the headache it causes, but perhaps it will be more tolerable than the one I'm already nursing.

[looking up, he feels chilly despite the fire, with the absence of Andersen's touch.]

We'll probably need another of those, though. I'll pay for it.

[holding out his glass, he tries to shake off the shadow of everything he just admitted.]

As my contribution away from this wretched talk.

[Andersen doesn't complain for once. He instead takes Dantes' glass and tries to hand him the bottle, a not-so-subtle hint to fully indulge himself.]

[taking the bottle, he understands, and puts it to his lips to drink long, longer than he should, before giving it back. the taste floods his senses, settles a low burn in his throat, and he prays it makes its way to his head - else he'll have to resort to something stronger to get the misery away from his mind.

Andersen's turn, then. they do this together or not at all.]

[It'll take a hell lot more to get both of them drunk, he suspects. Andersen hasn't kept his alcoholism a secret from Dantes and he knows the other man has a high resistance to most substances. They'll have to ring up one of the staff at some point — somehow, the idea sours his mood even more.

He wants to show off. Which is why Andersen takes a swing and keeps on chugging until there's nothing left in the bottle. It's nauseatingly sweet and bitter; burns his nose and tear ducts like no tomorrow. He drops it onto the carpet and lets out a deep breath.]

Good year.

[He wipes his nose with his sleeve, eyes on Dantes.]

You want something fancy or something dirty?

Whichever packs more of a punch. Although, if it's falling into a stupor we want, there are other methods that might pique your interest.

[his hand dives into his vest pocket, and he removes a small enameled box, holding it up.]

Though considering that what I have is made for my tolerance levels, I would recommend a touch of caution.

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