drowning in despair

When Tartaglia told Scaramouche that he loves him, Scaramouche thought he knew exactly what he meant.

A flurry of desperation, a whirlwind that would not last. Kisses that are more teeth and blood than affection. Embraces that are almost strangleholds instead of sweetness.

It is love in the way that it’s a mockery of a word written again and again by poets. Love in a way that means one day I’ll destroy you and one day you’ll destroy me.

So, Tartaglia loves him. And Scaramouche believes him because it’s easy to believe he deserves something so twisted and toxic.

But he finds himself here.

The kisses are not desperate. The embraces do not take away the breath from his lungs.

Tartaglia is too gentle, dear archons, Tartaglia is too kind.

This love is pure.