|
Concession (Enjolras): January, 1832
Does this please you, love? I have never wanted anyone but you; never dreamed, on solitary nights, of any touch but yours. My heart is not made as yours is, to be divided, to be less than content with one and one only. I could be alone with you forever, and lack for nothing. They are friends. They are allies. They are nothing beside you. I could be faithful to you forever; and yet, if you ask it, I can be otherwise. Aimery is very dear to me; of anyone, he comes nearest to equalling you in my affections. If you had never existed, perhaps, I could love him. Or perhaps he would make me nervous -- his passion, his headlong intensity -- without you to balance him. We never speak of those first nights, the ones we agreed were necessary. I don't want to know if you enjoy them; you don't want to hear that I do not. So I cannot possibly tell you how close I came to losing my composure with Aimery, that time; how I fought to keep my face from betraying me, to remember that this was ritual, not dalliance. I was terrified that you would see how he affected me, as though you would be jealous, as though your seeing would make it true. When you wanted to bring him home to me, how could I deny you? I love you; you love him; and something in him inspires madness. The voice of decency grows faint in the face of such arguments. Yes, love. If it pleases you, I don't mind. And when I come home, after a late night, and find him dozing in my place against your shoulder-- How can I not join you there, slipping between the sheets to nestle against the warmth of the two of you? To feel you wake, and turn to me, is all the sweeter for his sleepy smile. There is a guilty thrill in seeing him so intimately -- for he is handsome, I will grant you that, with his hair tousled and his shirt open at the neck -- and then there is something else, hot and possessive and not altogether friendly. He has what he wants of you, companionship, pleasure, love; but you are mine, all the same. Are you glad, when he reaches for me? I am half afraid to accept his embrace, wary of the way he makes me feel. His eagerness is catching. I am not myself in his arms; I am feverish, impatient, maddened. I am at his mercy in a way that would infuriate me if I were not already bereft of my senses. It is for your sake. I could never bring myself to let go like this, yield to his damnable confidence, if I did not know the effect that it has on you. Through the pounding of my heart, I can hear your breath catch; between kisses that dizzy me, I catch glimpses of your face, rapt and yearning. And God, what irony! that he makes me burn as you never have, though I love you more than life, though he means nothing to me beside you; and, watching him in your place, you look more ecstatic than ever you do in my arms. Even in the depths of madness, when all I can feel is Aimery, when the heat and the pressure of him inside me makes me cry out in spite of all my resolve -- even then, I am thinking: Is this what you want? Does this please you? Does it, my love?
[ before | after ]
|
