Maybe this is the pain--the wanting and needing and loving something despite one's self. Maybe that is why Hamilton weeps, why he breaks so completely, comes apart so piteously on seeing Burr. He does not want to love Burr anymore. Maybe he can't stop himself anyway.
Burr doesn't do anything he didn't do before--sits there and brushes his hands over Hamilton's face scents him with what lingers on his wrists, let's Hamilton take from that small portion of his body, as Burr watches him, blank.
He doesn't know how to make Hamilton better. To undo what he's done, or fix any of this. To make himself feel more--more. It's been only part half a day, since Burr came home, and already they are broken.
"I'm sorry," Burr says, hardly more than a whisper. He's watching Hamilton still, petting. Slow, soothing strokes, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his thighs, knees brushing the bed. He won't join him. He can't. And he doesn't think Hamilton would be able to stop himself--from marking and covering and needing. Like when Burr came home, and Hamilton had sunk teeth into throat and then left Burr there, let him collapse into the floor. Left.
"You need to rest," Burr says, soothes. He needs to rest, so that Burr can rest too. So that the endless parade of people needing things from Burr can finally stop. So that Hamilton can feel better. Be himself. Burr needs--he needs Hamilton to be himself.
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Burr doesn't do anything he didn't do before--sits there and brushes his hands over Hamilton's face scents him with what lingers on his wrists, let's Hamilton take from that small portion of his body, as Burr watches him, blank.
He doesn't know how to make Hamilton better. To undo what he's done, or fix any of this. To make himself feel more--more. It's been only part half a day, since Burr came home, and already they are broken.
"I'm sorry," Burr says, hardly more than a whisper. He's watching Hamilton still, petting. Slow, soothing strokes, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows on his thighs, knees brushing the bed. He won't join him. He can't. And he doesn't think Hamilton would be able to stop himself--from marking and covering and needing. Like when Burr came home, and Hamilton had sunk teeth into throat and then left Burr there, let him collapse into the floor. Left.
"You need to rest," Burr says, soothes. He needs to rest, so that Burr can rest too. So that the endless parade of people needing things from Burr can finally stop. So that Hamilton can feel better. Be himself. Burr needs--he needs Hamilton to be himself.