And it is Ned's little trick: to pile one thing on top of the other so that one denial or acceptance is a reflection on all others. Direct, always, in his addresses, yet that is only to the detriment of those who do not know him. There's more there, beneath that facade, workings nearly as deep as Alexander himself, if not lessened by good humors and stability. A great deal of reason and belief in logic and science.
I did welcome it, Burr wants to say and does, nearly. But Ned doesn't want to know, and in an instant Burr is nearly hysteric, heart hammering and struggling to swallow for all his outward demeanor remains placid.
"Oh, I may lie to you," Burr says, "if that is what makes it easier. But we know ourselves, already. How easily and neatly he has worked it out. Think you not his reaction would have been so, if some part of him didn't know?" That Burr liked it, that he's thinking about it still--the way Jefferson had commanded Burr's body effortlessly, drawn out those things Burr has long ago repressed, taught himself not to want. To not dare.
Burr is stretched somewhere in there: torn and threadbare and used. The place where desire meets disgust and helplessness in the brittle wasteland of a destruction that is not just his own. And he is daring Ned. Twisting some knife, deeper and harder and--he wants to hurt. He wants to hurt.
"You think you know me so well, then? Did you know the first time I saw you, you ignited fantasies? You look like him, but the desire was that you were not him, and that we might do some harm with our bodies, together, unable to resist. But I knew you would deny me, and I did not press the matter. But I am not--I am not who you think I am, Ned. I am sexed despite myself, and I want constantly. Those things they write about me--they are not untrue. And now--Jefferson has found it. And it is out, and it will never be tucked back inside me again."
The fervor fades, subtly and almost imperceptibly, into heartbreak. It isn't what he wanted, but he is--he is broken. And there is no going back. He can't even hold his husband's hand without--and. And Ned. He will leave now, won't he? And Burr can be alone. He just needs to be alone. And if he doesn't leave--Burr is on the precipice of shattering.
no subject
I did welcome it, Burr wants to say and does, nearly. But Ned doesn't want to know, and in an instant Burr is nearly hysteric, heart hammering and struggling to swallow for all his outward demeanor remains placid.
"Oh, I may lie to you," Burr says, "if that is what makes it easier. But we know ourselves, already. How easily and neatly he has worked it out. Think you not his reaction would have been so, if some part of him didn't know?" That Burr liked it, that he's thinking about it still--the way Jefferson had commanded Burr's body effortlessly, drawn out those things Burr has long ago repressed, taught himself not to want. To not dare.
Burr is stretched somewhere in there: torn and threadbare and used. The place where desire meets disgust and helplessness in the brittle wasteland of a destruction that is not just his own. And he is daring Ned. Twisting some knife, deeper and harder and--he wants to hurt. He wants to hurt.
"You think you know me so well, then? Did you know the first time I saw you, you ignited fantasies? You look like him, but the desire was that you were not him, and that we might do some harm with our bodies, together, unable to resist. But I knew you would deny me, and I did not press the matter. But I am not--I am not who you think I am, Ned. I am sexed despite myself, and I want constantly. Those things they write about me--they are not untrue. And now--Jefferson has found it. And it is out, and it will never be tucked back inside me again."
The fervor fades, subtly and almost imperceptibly, into heartbreak. It isn't what he wanted, but he is--he is broken. And there is no going back. He can't even hold his husband's hand without--and. And Ned. He will leave now, won't he? And Burr can be alone. He just needs to be alone. And if he doesn't leave--Burr is on the precipice of shattering.