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Sitting in a wooden chair at the head of a dining table, Andy looks down at a piece of stationary paper that he holds in one hand, the other lifted to his face, his thumb under his chin and thr side of his index finger curved against his slightly pursed lips.
His steel grey eyes search the felt-tip ink on the page. What is it that he's looking for? He can't say with any certainly. But he's searching for something. Anything. A sign. A whisper. A slip of the tongue.
The letters had seemed so romantic at the time, he thought to himself as he turns the page over. The old guard of cycling had put his sights on Andy several years prior, and his desire and lust had made the younger man a valuable prize.
Andy lets out a harsh laugh, bringing the hand down from his lips to toss the letter in a pile while he reaches for another one.
Andy should have known better. He should have known that everything was far more complicated than what it had appeared to be–and it appeared to be plenty complicated. Things were always complicated around Lance Armstrong. But Andy had been too… he settles on "foolish" … to believe that things were different. That things would change. That he could change Lance.
He had known too little about… everything… and it had devoured him.
When Lance enters, Andy is still looking at the letter that he holds in his right hand, his left back to his mouth, thumb under his chin, curve of his first finger against his lips. That is a deep sigh as he turns that page over, as well. He drops his left hand, the ring on his middle finger 'clinking' as it makes contact with the table.
"I saved every letter you wrote me," he begins in a quiet tone–one deep and dark with sadness and pain. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine. I thought you were mine." He sighs, eyes slowly closing. "You said you were mine."
He had been 24 the first time he had encountered the Texan–and barely so. He had thought it meant that he wad an adult. That he had done some living. That he was prepared for what it would be like when Armstrong came back to the Tour.
He had been dead wrong.
It had been not great secret–it had been no secret at all, come to think of it–that whatever Lance wanted, he got it. One way or another, he would get what he wanted. That included lovers, boyfriend, fuck buddies–whatever he wanted to call them. Armstrong was known for fucking around with members of the peloton in just about every way imaginable. It went from psychological to physical and every way in between.
But the first time that Andy had truly laid eyes on Lance in person, and not from the poster on his childhood bedroom wall, Andy thought he would be the exception. There had been something in the way that Lance has looked at him… something about the way that he had been whispered to… something in the way that Lance had held him down on his hotel bed, arms pinned above his head, as he fucked him–he thought it meant that he would be The One (even though Lance had another The One back in Texas--but Anna, like almost everyone else, understood that to be the partner of Lance Armstrong meant that acknowledged cheating, acknowledged non-monogomy, and that there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do about it.)
Andy had been stupid enough to believe that he could be the exception. That with him…it would only be him. (And Anna.)
Andy stands, picking up the stack of letters, eyes looking down at the papers still.
It wasn't the cheating that had broken Andy; it had been the other cheating. Cycling was dirty, and Andy knew it as much as anyone. But when Lance had said he had never, Andy believed him like a fucking idiot.
He holds the letters up, gesturing to Lance with the haphazard stack of papers. "Do you know what Fränk said when I told him what you'd done? He said, 'You have married an Icarus; he has flown too close to the sun.'"
When Andy had revealed to his brother all those years ago that Armstrong had taken an interest in him–especially a sexual and romantic interest–Fränk had been less than excited about the prospect. Less than excited that his brother, a man he loved above all others, was willing to put himself in the immediate path of the whirlwind known as Lance Armstrong–and hoping that he could stop the cyclone from continuing on its path.
Fränk had been helping Andy into his skinsuit before the time trial stage. As he helped Andy bring the fabric of his suit over his shoulder, he had looked at his baby brother with his own steel grey eyes. "Be careful with that one, love–he will do what it takes to survive," he warned as he reached down low and slowly zipped up the front of Andy's skinsuit.
Lance takes a step towards Andy, and he opens his mouth to speak. Andy recoils a step back, holding up his right hand in front of him. "Don't!" Andy warns. "Take another step in my direction–I can't be trusted around you." Andy lets out a harsh laugh. "Don't think you can talk your way into my arms."
It's how Lance had gotten away with so much around Andy. As he had to do was purr in that Texan drawl, and Andy would drop whatever point he had been trying to make when Lance would wrap his arms around him or kiss him.
Andy knew that if Lance tried, he could still hold sway over the much younger cyclist. And he couldn't let that happen. Not this time.
"I'm burning the letters you wrote me. You can stand over there–I don't know who you are."
Andy takes several steps back towards an open fireplace. He is thankful that it is winter in Europe, as a fire in the fireplace is not unusual or uncommon–but it has more importance than just warming the house.
Andy had thought about shredding the letters. He thought about using them for target practice. Hell, he had even thought about buying a fucking bootlocker, filling it with what was left of his broken life with Lance, and dropping it into the deepest lake he could find. But none of those seemed appropriate. When Andy was with Lance, his world seemed to burn with heat and passion–and love, or so he thought. It was only fitting that the burning passion that had turned into searing anger be matched by the red and orange flames in the fireplace, with its tongues that went up and up towards the chimney.
Still looking at Lance, Andy turned his face down and began to scan the letter on top, and the postcard that laid atop it. "I'm re-reading the letters you wrote me. I'm searching and scanning for answers in every line… for some kind of sign…." He sounds as broken as he feels. What had he missed? What had he overlooked, because he was so infatuated? Infatuation, no… he had been in love. What had his love blindness kept him from seeing?
"Now watch them burn," he says, tossing the pile into the flames. Lance lurches forward, but Andy, though much slimmer, blocks his path. Andy grabs Lance's shirt in white-knuckle fists, arms straight and locked. Lance reaches up and lays his hands on top of Andy's. He wears his own ring on his middle left finger.
"You published those letters they wrote you! You told the whole world!" Andy, in frustration, give Lance's chest a small shove, and he releases his shirt. "In clearing your name, you have ruined our lives!" Andy feels the pain anew, and it burns in his stomach the same as it burns in the fireplace. He wraps an arm around his middle in some vain attempt to ease the burning. He bends forward slightly, groaning quietly from the nausea caused by anxiety, fear, anger, frustration, depression, and every emotion in between.
He stands back up, his arm still across his middle. "Heaven forbid someone whisper, 'he's part of some scheme;' your enemies whispered, so you had to scream!" He spits the words out with all of the burning acid that he feels in his stomach. They feel and taste like poison. They're venomous. And the poison in his stomach only grows.
Andy takes a step back and he reaches for the ring on his middle finger. "I'm erasing myself from your narrative. Let your future biographers wonder how Andy reacted when you broke his heart. You have torn it all apart." Without even looking, Andy throws the ring into the fireplace, as well. "Put what we had aside. You can never be satisfied; God, I hope you're satisfied!"
The pain becomes too much, and a tear strings Andy's eyes. He drops his arm from his midsection and takes a step towards Lance. He's slightly taller than the Texan. Still, he gazes Lance in the face. "I hope that you burn," he whispers. The words, angry; but his tone? Devastated.
Andy turns around. As he walks by the advanced fireplace, and he presses a few buttons. A violent "whoosh!" comes from inside as he increases the gas, and whatever paper was left is incinerated. Andy looks to Lance one more time before he walks over completely, leaving his former lover to stare into the ashes.