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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.]
(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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—is not going to do that. He is going to look at the box Dantes is holding up and he is going to pretend to know what the hell it is. He will not let his thoughts fixate, he tells himself, as he begins to slowly pace in a circle.]
It's not going to kill me, is it?
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[and to prove there is no danger, he opens the box and takes out two of the pills that he's made himself, swallowing - see, he has no fear.]
I've compounded them myself, so I know exactly what's in them. I know what is safe, and what can be tolerated.
If you trust me...[and he picks up one more] Open your mouth.
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Wait.
What's happening here.
Most people would hand the pill over and leave it at that. What is Edmond doing, offering to feed it to him like he's a child?! Maybe his friend's alcohol tolerance is lower than he thought. Maybe their conversation from earlier has sent Edmond's mind off the rails.
But that face — Andersen can tell it's an honest request.
He hesitates. His eyes wander again to Dantes' hands. Thinks about them close to his face, how warm it'd be against his mouth.
... in the end, he's horrible for playing along. Andersen grumbles something inaudible and opens his mouth as he's told.]
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there's something oddly floral about it, but slightly earthy, like the world's strangest candy. in that moment, Dantes realizes he's lingering, and then pulls back to return to reclining, slipping the drugs back into their hidden place.]
When the world is too much - when I must quiet the endless sound inside my skull - this is what I retreat to. Kinder on the system than drink, I've found.
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—and then Dantes goes to lay down and says some nonsense about drugs being kinder on the system. Andersen half-processes it because his thoughts are still reeling.
He knows he is giving in too fast. He was apparent earlier during his impassioned spiel about leaving Haydee. If he lets himself go any further, his heart will tear itself open.]
I'd rather have a pinch of pain with my retreats. The creative in me demands it... no. No, no, that's not the point I wanted to make!
[Andersen doesn't think. He goes over to Dantes and grabs him by the wrist. Get up! Don't sprawl out like that!]
You got to be kidding me. You do that and act like nothing happened?
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And just what are you saying happened? Even if you took my strength of a dose, you'd not feel the effects so fast. You have to give it a minute or so.
[just relax? let it happen?]
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(you'll only be hurt if you tell the truth. you'll lose him if you act on these feelings. how many times do you need to learn this lesson?)
Andersen doesn't let go. He's breathing a little faster now because his chest feels tight.]
...
[If he asks the question, he'll ruin their friendship.]
... the way you gave me the pill...
[A cowardly retreat, then. A vague hint, open for interpretation.]
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[he'd barely registered what he was doing until he did it, moving on base instinct and trying to not be so obvious. clearly, something had been noted - but if Andersen wants him to never do such a thing, then he ought to say.
please. they can't work quick enough for Dantes's tastes.]
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[Pick up the hint. Give him more to work with. Draw away with disgust at the implications, smile at him, do something.]
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[taking a breath, he runs a hand through his hair, glancing away - his wrist is still there. Dantes could break away, but he hasn't. the pressure of Andersen's hand is right there, keeping him in one spot.]
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I do. Society sees you as an eccentric but I know you. You're one of my closest friends, Dantes, my confidant.
[He feels as if his heart will punch through him.]
I don't need you to view me the same as long as you keep me in your orbit.
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[and there it is, aided by drink and less sleep, the slight beginnings of what will bloom into an experience, a relaxation of his senses.]
I'd rather keep viewing you, if it's all the same.
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Especially his mouth.
Andersen brings Dantes' hand to his mouth in answer. Kisses it, then kisses it again, because his doubts and fears and worries are beginning to fade beneath the pleasant buzzing that fills his head.]
Then touch me like you did earlier. Please.
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slowly, he draws his hand down, to graze under Andersen's chin.]
Like this?
[a touch that nudges, that lingers there.]
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No, I want... [Again, he hesitates.] I want more. You were touching my lips...
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[a question he has to ask, though he wouldn't dare guess at the answer. instead, his hand moves up, his fingertips to touch Andersen's lips, where they pressed the drugs into his waiting mouth, and Dantes's eyes fixed on him to watch his reaction.
there's choices to be made. so far, his alarms are not tripped - this is still something he can accept. still something to say is fine.]
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[Electricity shoots through him. He can feel how hot his face has become and knows he's blushing. A damning piece of evidence. How can he remain composed when Dantes looks at him that way? When he has his hand on his mouth?]
I don't want to lose you.
[A plea, spoken quietly. Even so, he's reaching up to touch Dantes' hand.]
You're my friend, Dantes. If I answer you truthfully, do you swear to remain my friend?
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[he sees that blush, and if he didn't have the world beginning to lose sharper edges, he might think it almost amiss.]
I invite you to ask, to do if I'm not being satisfactory. I want to know what you want.
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I want you to kiss me.
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[he doesn't remove his hand from Andersen's mouth, still keeping it there. not moving, not running. still looking at him.
kissing him. how he wants it, how it burns in his skin, how it makes him slowly, slowly bring his hand down, so his fingertips might rest on Andersen's pulse point instead. how he'd do much, to keep this man here. to keep honesty between them.]
...I've kissed statues in the church, you know, when I dearly wanted to touch you. I thought I could pretend, but every time the stone was so cold.
[should he tell him this? his words are as hushed as confession.]
I thought that at least like this, I am committing no crime. I am injuring no one. I can look, and wonder, and give myself the bleakest substitute.
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[He doesn't dare move, doesn't dare to breathe. What Dantes says is a drug in itself, sending his head higher. He feels the light touch of his fingers against his neck and the wild impulse to throw himself on the ground, to beg for more than words and confessions, rears its head. Andersen is accustomed to affection being doled out in thin slices. He is not used to this open honesty, this guilty yet gleeful confirmation of shared sin.
As he is — he laughs. Shakes his head in disbelief, but stays with Dantes.]
Most men would visit a brothel instead. You know that, don't you?
[But he knows that's not in Dantes' character.]
Would kissing me be so terrible a crime? Would... it change your perception of me?
[For the worse?]
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[his face is open, showing the sorrow and wonder both that lies in him. the conscience that preys on the edge of his days. a violin with all its strings too tightly would, fear to have even this much, the crushing weight that keeps him from moving his feet, from rising further to be even a little closer. shame and self doubt, even as he speaks truth.]
...I don't know what to do.
[the words are a whisper, heavy and binding. drawn out by the way the drug loosens his mind and tongue, but not his self.]
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[—so it's the intimacy of the act that bothers Dantes so. Kissing is reserved for the one he's betrothed to, the one who lays claim to his heart. If he grants Andersen the privilege, he will betray what he's sworn himself to. To be absent from a marriage is no grievous sin. But to replace his wife with another...
He should lock his heart up. Be careful about what he wants, tuck back these messy emotions he wants to spill out, keep his head on straight so he won't cross that boundary. Andersen presses his hand over Dantes'. His pulse is steady.]
Then think of this as a midsummer's night dream, nothing more and nothing less.
[Like the little mermaid, he will gouge out his own voice for him.]
You can desire me without a kiss. [Red rises to his cheeks, a mixture of shame and embarrassment this time.] I won't— I can't tell anyone. I'll show you I'm just as filthy as the rest of mankind.
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[with his hand over Dantes's, then he can feel how he pulls back, careful not to slip out of Andersen's grip - how he's trying to bring him just a touch closer.]
You may not understand, but my desire includes a kiss. It has never been separate. It could never be. It is as necessary to the life of it as blood is to a human existence.
[taking a deep breath, he lets his head fall back again.]
Nor could I simply regard you as a dream, something forgettable, for that would do disservice to you and me both - for how much I want it to be real and tangible.
Once, I was stronger. Now the man you see before you is only a coward, crushing his own heart to try to mitigate the pain of others.
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[It burns, how Dantes keeps him close and tries to reassure him. Andersen breaks eye contact.]
A poet knows the worth of words, Edmond. All your talk about my kisses being necessary to life while you refuse me... what's the purpose of telling me all this? I cannot help you. I... I am no master of myself. Whatever my heart desires is what I pursue, that's the sort of fool I am. But if it will hurt less for me to quit this game...
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