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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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[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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...You leave me speechless, defenseless. I would give you all of myself, to love however you see fit.
[he feels like each word damns him to hell even as it undoes his self imposed chains. it breaks him open, leaves his heart exposed to be crushed or caressed. the ocean of self loathing in him has nothing to do with this love, but it wants to poison him all the same.]
Sorrowful, contemptible man that I am, I still will not lie and feign that I want otherwise.
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[This is what he's looking for, this openness, and the drugs and alcohol in his system only heightens the warmth blooming in his chest. Hans is a little less focused now in his gaze, though he keeps his hands on Edmond. He's caught him at last — it wouldn't do to let him go now.]
Haven't you noticed? I've tried to love you the day I met you. All my visitations... all the poems I've sent to you... they were my way of inviting you into my heart. Regardless of how you felt, I would have still loved you.
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when he pulls away, his voice is a murmur.]
Did you know that every time you sent me a poem, it would replace the prior one in my breast pocket?