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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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[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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[his words are a whisper. he swallows, and he thinks something must have gotten to his head, or perhaps it is the years of feeling lonely even in an occupied house, adrift even in crowds and public places, untethered from the moment he was begged to live that drive him to finally, finally have a voice.
once, he was ruthless. closer to a demon than a man. his conscience was sealed away, behind walls of fire. if only those fires could be rekindled, or at the least, he could pour out his soul. but his confessor is long dead.]
Lie to me, well enough that I can believe I won't tarnish what's left of my soul, that I am not abandoning any worth I still have. I beg this of you. Grant me permission, for I am disarmed before you.
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[Oh, how sweet his name is in that voice. It makes him want to lie, to say yes, I can play the role you want me to, I can command you and take what I want. He can pretend for both of them, he can weave a story because he's a storyteller, isn't he? Such a feat should be easy.
But Andersen cannot let go of what he hears. He can't turn away from his own nature. He shuts his eyes.]
So that's how it is. That's what you want to believe! Grant you permission — when I've offered you countless excuses to fly from your home, when I've begged you to give me a sign of your affection in so straightforward a manner that I'd be tried and executed were I to repeat my words in public!
[What was burning earlier has now stoked into an inferno, hot and sickly like a raging fever. Andersen pulls away.]
Lie to you, lie to you, you say. About what? About who? I'd rather cut my tongue out than to disguise what I feel. I'm a fool in love, Edmond Dantes, but I'm not your savior. If your desire to repent is so much greater than your feelings for me, fuck off to a confessional.
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there is nothing, though. there is only wishing he simply did not care and that he could sail his boat out, to let it sink with him aboard, until the water takes him and he finally stops thinking.
his face in his hands, head bowed, and he wonders, he wonders, is he freezing from the chest outwards?]
Kill me then, and be done with me. I'll hand you the knife to do it.
[do something. leave him, kill him, hurt him - do something, or these chains will weigh him down like they should have so many years ago.]
There's not enough confession in the world for the creature I am.
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Kill you —
[A disbelieving echo with a thunderstruck look.]
Kill you! You ask such things of me when you refuse my hand? What good will your death do!
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[this darkened state, he's familiar with it. he used to live there many a day, when he could not fuel himself with anger.]
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You are the densest fool I've had the displeasure of falling for. Edmond...
[This time he approaches him, takes his hands.]
I love you. Do you not understand how your absence would undo me? Do you not see how you wound me, with your talk of our love being a sin when you excuse Haydee's imaginary indiscretions?
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how can he explain that Haydee's sin would not add to a weight as great as Atlas's? that Andersen's committed no crime to love? that the past drags on him, pulls him into the earth, to choke and die on dry land? and how much he craves to be touched, to be loved, to not feel the shadow of misery with every damned breath he breathes?
there are no words to explain it without seven days and seven nights. none that can certainly anchor Andersen here for that long. and Dantes looks up at him, before he's on his feet and his lips are pressed to Hans and he knows he's as much of a mess as he feels but he wants so badly that he might as well be bleeding out before him. he kisses him, and he feels the tears that sting his own eyes silently, scorching hot as they fall, tainting this moment.
but he is undone, by Hans's honesty and the drugs in his system and how he has held everything together for a long, long time when he has only wanted to disappear. if nothing else, he wants this one moment, so much warmer than anything he imagined.]
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[Hans knows what's coming when Edmond moves. Though he's never been kissed before, he recognizes the motion of it, the intent, and he smiles when their lips touch, relief melting away anger.
This can be enough, he wants to convey, and he would were he not occupied. So he lets his hands do the talking for him by brushing away Edmond's tears, by holding him close when Hans has to breathe and pulling him in when he's gotten his air. Everything you want from me, you can freely have.]
Sad even in this moment...
[He sighs the observation, runs his fingers along Edmond's nape.]
What the hell, I'll bear your misery with you.
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