[A partner who will remain at his side, no matter the strength of the winds. A companion who will tolerate all his poison and weaknesses, who will simply stay. It's not a vow for battle he seeks. Andersen knows this. He's come to terms with it, so long as he was allowed to lock the tremendous desire in him in a small, dark cage no one could see.
His fingers -- too small, too frail -- curl around Dantes'.]
And I, Hans Christian Andersen, swear to be your partner. I will accompany you wherever your story takes you. I will watch over all your changes of heart, all your pain and joys in life, all your faults and virtues. I cannot take them from you -- but I will strive to understand them as a proper author ought to. My pen is yours, as is my tale.
[What was a stream of magic widens into a river. Warmth floods from Andersen's end, a spring thaw after a long winter, and there is the sensation of calm April afternoons perfumed with flowers; of cigarette smoke entwined with whiskey; of fire burning the tips of one's fingers, the mind's hand snatched away from the burning emotion smoldering within the chest; of balancing precariously on his toes, praying, praying he does not fall because he knows the pain will always be the same--
--of the gentle warmth of a familiar presence he may lay his head upon, without worry or shame, all guilt erased by the hazy fog of a drug--]
[what comes from him is wordless, felt more than described. the relief of a warm room when one has been out in the snow, of seeing a new flower blossom, the feeling of the body being weightless enough to fly, hearing a certain passage in an opera that lingers long into the night when one does not sleep. the ache of spirits and cigars running through wounds, well worn leather and holding one's breath, spine straight and tell.
a strange tingling in one's head after they have wept until they can weep no more and have gone still, the salt of tears is the salt spray of the ocean, the burn in his muscles to hold onto rough woven rope and let the ship move as it needs and he is alive amidst the storm, his destiny's master-
a fire that does not rage and destroy and evaporate all. a fire that illuminates, and warms, where something small and trusting might sleep in safety. the sky with a thousand, thousand stars, and the full moon reflected below.
an anchoring right behind his ribcage, a thread to follow.]
[It is more than Andersen expected, and it is far more than he deserved. The intimacy of the Bond hurts, as if he's holding onto the thorns of a rose, but he tightens his grip and doesn't let go. His feet move on his own and--
--he can't let anyone else see. He can't have strangers gawk at this private, awkward facet of himself and so he buries his face into Dantes' chest (comfort, safety, a living hearth he may rest beside) to hide away from the Witch.]
[distantly, he's agreeing, bidding the witch farewell and thanking her, and guiding them outside. somehow, he gathers Andersen into his arms, carrying him as he once did before, and they are on the roofs instead of the ground, so they may travel more privately and faster. his head's practically spinning, and so on instinct, he's not carrying Andersen back towards their dwelling, but in the direction of the more abandoned parts of the city outskirts. where he goes to think, when the theater is too much.
[Their Bond overwhelms his senses, doesn't truly notice where they're going until the air brushes against his face, until Dantes' arms are around him. Only when they're high above the streets does Andersen realize they're not headed towards the theater -- they're headed away.]
Hold on-- wait, hold on! Edmond?! Where are we going?!
I thought we could enjoy the fresh air. But alone, away from any crowds who'd see us.
[the fact of his name slips through his grasp like common sense at the moment. but eventually he slows down, bringing them to a halt - the roof they're on has a good vantage point of the overgrown, disused paths, and for the moment there is no Cwyld. only silence, and them. gently, he puts Andersen down on his own two feet.]
[He doesn't move away. Andersen remains close to him, tilts his head up to get a better look at his face. The distance between their heights is familiar. But over their Bond, there's the slightest flicker of pain.]
Then why run out all the way here?
[He turns around, gestures at the rundown neighborhood they're in.]
Surely you could've picked somewhere less... wild.
Are you going to make a big stink about it like you always do? Go on. Rant and rave about how that name is no longer yours! Let's hear it, I know you're itching to thump me for calling you 'Edmond!'
[and through the Bond, he can sense the truth of that. that the name doesn't twist some chord in him better left forgotten - it just was, and perhaps it lingered in that sea beneath the stars.]
[The roof beneath his feet is firm, but his heart beats so fast it makes his body feel on the verge of a massive twitch. Andersen shifts his weight from one foot to the other; does it again, looking down at the abandoned streets, the verdant weeds overtaking the brick.]
You've always hated that name, no matter where it was said or who said it.
[it is a quiet sort of permission he's giving. to the man who bonded to his soul not once but twice now. a permission that is his to choose, his to take if he wishes.
that no one else in this world knows this fact about him helps. this world sees him as Avenger, as Jaques, as Louis, as Vergil - not as Edmond.]
[He hears what is being offered. Clumsily, almost too eagerly, he takes it.]
Then... Edmond.
[The name rolls off his tongue, new and strange. He isn't the sort to shy away from something once he's set his mind to it. But how does he break into this new territory, where words only muddy their feelings?]
Do you understand why I was apprehensive about Bonding with you? The issue wasn't with you. It was with me, all this time.
[he exhales, and moves to settle himself on the edge of the roof, sitting down and letting his feet dangle off the edge. a thousand things are in his head, and the words need to be pulled from some secret place he'd blinded himself to.]
But I don't know if I'd call it an issue.
[after all, his emotions still fill him, a cup right at the brim, asking another to sip slowly that he might not lose it all with a wrong move.]
[With great care, he sits beside him. His shoulders cannot reach his, but he can let it rest against his arm. That will have to be enough. There are so many things he wants to say, but the poison from his heart's thorns has to seep out first.]
Everything about me is an issue. The way I rant and rave over the smallest of problems. The way I look. [He turns over his hand in his lap, curls the too-small fingers.] The way I see the world, through a scavenger's lenses. Everything I have to give to you wouldn't even sell at a pawn shop. My affections are useless and closer to abuse.
[he's silent, listening - not even reaching for a cigarette this time. he listens to Andersen's words, and looks over where the greenery curves across the aged wood of a building.]
Are you finished? Is that all the trash you wish to hurl at yourself, to belittle and demean yourself with today?
[he's still quiet. accepting the words, not throwing them aside, but refusing to see them as more than words.]
Or should I wait until you exhaust yourself with self-deprecation?
All right. Shut up so I can continue shitting on myself. How are you going to bless me anyway? You're the one parading about calling yourself a demon. Any blessing you give will wither into a curse, if we accept your declarations as true.
[An echo of the sensation, painful and persistent, tugs at Andersen's heart. He moves his hand, so his fingers rest on Edmond's hand.]
Then you understand why I'm warning you. This body, this heart -- neither of them are wholly mine. That is the curse of Innocent Monster. I will never be able to separate myself from my identity as an author. I'm as much a story as you are, with the heart of a demon who thirsts for tragedy.
Suffice to say, I don't have any confidence that I can make you happy.
[because happiness to him was too ephemeral to exist in a person, given from their hands. happiness occurred and left. a bird that might stop in a ruined garden for a moment, and fly off.]
You wish for tragedy, and I am a tale of woe down to the marrow in my bones. All I will ask - all I would ever ask - is that when you read me, you resist the temptation to rearrange me to the shape that pleases your eyes the most.
[do not wipe the blood from his wounds, the sweat from his brow. do not pretend he did not snarl and show his teeth. do not give him a sweet ending, for his story is nothing like a fairy tale.
Andersen could use his blood to write commentaries on life, and he would not utter a sound of pain. but he cannot be what he is not, if he will remain so close. that was his worst curse. that was what would poison anyone.]
[A story who wants to be treated as a man again. An author wishing such kindness wasn't shown to him. What a strange pair they made. He looks to him and his body turns ever-so-slightly his way. His hand shifts, moves so their fingers may lace together the best they can.]
I'm an observer. If I couldn't capture my subject matter, I would've been a mediocre scribbler who died penniless and alone in Copenhagen's gutters. Sure, I'll capture your essence, down to the last drop of blood. Why would I go through the trouble of editing you when I hate the very act of editing?
[his hold tightens just slightly, enough that it's secure. he's not letting go, and he shifts in kind, to finally look at Andersen again.]
You are you. And if you were not, I would not have sworn myself to you.
[he would not have felt the way he did when it happened. would not be here right now, sharing a place that is private. would not accept the way his name sounds from the other's lips.
[That's all that needs to be said. Over the Bond there's a sense of easing into the truth, as one would into a chair after a long day. His pride, the hate he held towards himself, the cynicism frosted on his heart -- Hans sets it all down to focus on the hands holding his, akin to a tender embrace.]
There's no point in bellyaching about it any further. Both our hearts are set upon it. It's only natural for an author to become enamored with a story. That's a testament to how it's taken a life of its own. Yes, I wouldn't mind amusing myself by loving you.
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His fingers -- too small, too frail -- curl around Dantes'.]
And I, Hans Christian Andersen, swear to be your partner. I will accompany you wherever your story takes you. I will watch over all your changes of heart, all your pain and joys in life, all your faults and virtues. I cannot take them from you -- but I will strive to understand them as a proper author ought to. My pen is yours, as is my tale.
[What was a stream of magic widens into a river. Warmth floods from Andersen's end, a spring thaw after a long winter, and there is the sensation of calm April afternoons perfumed with flowers; of cigarette smoke entwined with whiskey; of fire burning the tips of one's fingers, the mind's hand snatched away from the burning emotion smoldering within the chest; of balancing precariously on his toes, praying, praying he does not fall because he knows the pain will always be the same--
--of the gentle warmth of a familiar presence he may lay his head upon, without worry or shame, all guilt erased by the hazy fog of a drug--]
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a strange tingling in one's head after they have wept until they can weep no more and have gone still, the salt of tears is the salt spray of the ocean, the burn in his muscles to hold onto rough woven rope and let the ship move as it needs and he is alive amidst the storm, his destiny's master-
a fire that does not rage and destroy and evaporate all. a fire that illuminates, and warms, where something small and trusting might sleep in safety. the sky with a thousand, thousand stars, and the full moon reflected below.
an anchoring right behind his ribcage, a thread to follow.]
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--he can't let anyone else see. He can't have strangers gawk at this private, awkward facet of himself and so he buries his face into Dantes' chest (comfort, safety, a living hearth he may rest beside) to hide away from the Witch.]
Let's go.
[Muffled, weak in its insistence.]
We got what we came here for.
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he probably should have warned Andersen first.]
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Hold on-- wait, hold on! Edmond?! Where are we going?!
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I thought we could enjoy the fresh air. But alone, away from any crowds who'd see us.
[the fact of his name slips through his grasp like common sense at the moment. but eventually he slows down, bringing them to a halt - the roof they're on has a good vantage point of the overgrown, disused paths, and for the moment there is no Cwyld. only silence, and them. gently, he puts Andersen down on his own two feet.]
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Then why run out all the way here?
[He turns around, gestures at the rundown neighborhood they're in.]
Surely you could've picked somewhere less... wild.
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[the answer is too simple to be a lie. but he blinks, and looks at Andersen closely.]
....you called me Edmond.
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Are you going to make a big stink about it like you always do? Go on. Rant and rave about how that name is no longer yours! Let's hear it, I know you're itching to thump me for calling you 'Edmond!'
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[and through the Bond, he can sense the truth of that. that the name doesn't twist some chord in him better left forgotten - it just was, and perhaps it lingered in that sea beneath the stars.]
Perhaps it's because we're alone.
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[The roof beneath his feet is firm, but his heart beats so fast it makes his body feel on the verge of a massive twitch. Andersen shifts his weight from one foot to the other; does it again, looking down at the abandoned streets, the verdant weeds overtaking the brick.]
You've always hated that name, no matter where it was said or who said it.
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[it is a quiet sort of permission he's giving. to the man who bonded to his soul not once but twice now. a permission that is his to choose, his to take if he wishes.
that no one else in this world knows this fact about him helps. this world sees him as Avenger, as Jaques, as Louis, as Vergil - not as Edmond.]
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Then... Edmond.
[The name rolls off his tongue, new and strange. He isn't the sort to shy away from something once he's set his mind to it. But how does he break into this new territory, where words only muddy their feelings?]
Do you understand why I was apprehensive about Bonding with you? The issue wasn't with you. It was with me, all this time.
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[he exhales, and moves to settle himself on the edge of the roof, sitting down and letting his feet dangle off the edge. a thousand things are in his head, and the words need to be pulled from some secret place he'd blinded himself to.]
But I don't know if I'd call it an issue.
[after all, his emotions still fill him, a cup right at the brim, asking another to sip slowly that he might not lose it all with a wrong move.]
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Everything about me is an issue. The way I rant and rave over the smallest of problems. The way I look. [He turns over his hand in his lap, curls the too-small fingers.] The way I see the world, through a scavenger's lenses. Everything I have to give to you wouldn't even sell at a pawn shop. My affections are useless and closer to abuse.
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Are you finished? Is that all the trash you wish to hurl at yourself, to belittle and demean yourself with today?
[he's still quiet. accepting the words, not throwing them aside, but refusing to see them as more than words.]
Or should I wait until you exhaust yourself with self-deprecation?
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I'm speaking from the heart! That's no way to treat confessions! Shouldn't you know, what with all your posing as a priest?!
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[he scoffs, taking the metaphor and running with it.]
And I get to give you penance.
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It's true, I'm made up of curses and poison. No playacting at being a priest will change that.
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Then you understand why I'm warning you. This body, this heart -- neither of them are wholly mine. That is the curse of Innocent Monster. I will never be able to separate myself from my identity as an author. I'm as much a story as you are, with the heart of a demon who thirsts for tragedy.
Suffice to say, I don't have any confidence that I can make you happy.
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[because happiness to him was too ephemeral to exist in a person, given from their hands. happiness occurred and left. a bird that might stop in a ruined garden for a moment, and fly off.]
You wish for tragedy, and I am a tale of woe down to the marrow in my bones. All I will ask - all I would ever ask - is that when you read me, you resist the temptation to rearrange me to the shape that pleases your eyes the most.
[do not wipe the blood from his wounds, the sweat from his brow. do not pretend he did not snarl and show his teeth. do not give him a sweet ending, for his story is nothing like a fairy tale.
Andersen could use his blood to write commentaries on life, and he would not utter a sound of pain. but he cannot be what he is not, if he will remain so close. that was his worst curse. that was what would poison anyone.]
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I'm an observer. If I couldn't capture my subject matter, I would've been a mediocre scribbler who died penniless and alone in Copenhagen's gutters. Sure, I'll capture your essence, down to the last drop of blood. Why would I go through the trouble of editing you when I hate the very act of editing?
[Though he says that...]
And what about me?
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You are you. And if you were not, I would not have sworn myself to you.
[he would not have felt the way he did when it happened. would not be here right now, sharing a place that is private. would not accept the way his name sounds from the other's lips.
would not have kept a room for him, waiting.]
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[That's all that needs to be said. Over the Bond there's a sense of easing into the truth, as one would into a chair after a long day. His pride, the hate he held towards himself, the cynicism frosted on his heart -- Hans sets it all down to focus on the hands holding his, akin to a tender embrace.]
There's no point in bellyaching about it any further. Both our hearts are set upon it. It's only natural for an author to become enamored with a story. That's a testament to how it's taken a life of its own. Yes, I wouldn't mind amusing myself by loving you.
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