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Somewhere around hatred and confusion there’s this space in between. It’s a small space, barely room to kneel, but nonetheless Roderigo finds himself, step by step, crammed into there.
To begin with the lines made sense with Iago’s lips at his ear, spitting poison like any kind of snake. To begin with he knew – thought he knew – what he was doing, there was a carefully laid-out plan and Desdemona was everything, slim and blonde like an angel in the window, untouchable but oh, he’d die for the chance to try. Needless to say, things are no longer so black and white.
He knew that he should not have listened to Iago, should not have sailed to this different and (for him at least) uncertain land. But he was almost as stupid then as he is now, and was quite happy to run after Desdemona, to whore himself desperately to her because there was a point at which Roderigo would have done anything for a touch. Not so much now. Now, he is more nausea and puzzlement than lust. And he can barely remember how he got here, to this point where he’s scared shitless and nothing will set him free. Melodramatic maybe; but he is still young. Cassio’s teeth embedded in his shoulder as they twist together like animals in heat; but by God, he is still young.
It started with disgrace and endless blame. It was, he supposes, partially his own fault, but mostly Roderigo will blame Iago. He would have done anything to have Desdemona; immature and desperate and full of unyielding lust – Iago knew this and took deceitful advantage. Roderigo blushes from the raw memories of how easily he was duped and used. Youth and insanity and Cassio was swiftly dismissed from Othello’s service like a dog. Roderigo knows that he is slightly responsible, but it was all Iago. He will maintain that until he dies.
He still felt the need to apologise. Stupid, really, but Roderigo is determinedly not a bad man, guilty of absolutely fucking nothing, and it was an accident. He’s realised that he was lead to believe that ripping Cassio from his position of power would somehow make everything fall into place. It didn’t. He helped Iago gain a foothold in a truly terrifying game that Roderigo doesn’t really understand, but there’s more at stake now than a few coins and a false sense of pride. Roderigo still hates himself and that was how he wound up begging Cassio to forgive him. He didn’t tell him the truth – never mentioned Iago’s name or his request – because Roderigo can be stupid but he isn’t that stupid, pretended he’d been drunk and it had all got out of hand.
Roderigo is in over his head now, it’s all gone too fucking far and Iago keeps exacerbating the whole thing and Desdemona is further away than ever and he’s not even sure that he still wants (or deserves) her any more. Cassio’s dark eyes narrowed and it was too dark in the barracks and nothing was right and Roderigo needed, needed him to forgive him.
“Please,” he’d said, half-mad, half-drunk, falling onto his knees too hard and looking up at Cassio with eyes wide and a plea written across his face. “I’ll do anything.”
Cassio looked down at him with an uncomfortable mixture of horror and bemusement on his face.
“I knew there was a reason I don’t normally drink,” he said lightly.
He sounded like a man minutes from going completely and utterly insane. Roderigo really could sympathise.
And that was how Roderigo found himself trying to pay penance with his mouth, clumsy and a little drunk and praying that this would be enough to make things right. His naïveté was laughable, because nothing can make this right, but at least he tried.
They haven’t stopped though, which Roderigo didn’t really see coming. He probably owes more to Cassio than he’ll admit, though, just praying that Iago never finds out because although he hates this (and the underlying guilt), Roderigo doesn’t want to be forced to give this up. Funny, really, but this is all he has, ripped up and stuck back together wrong on unfamiliar and damned shores. He’s probably going to hell for it all but then again – nothing new there.
Desdemona won’t acknowledge him. But Cassio will. Perhaps that’s really all it comes down to. It doesn’t matter whose hands are on him as long as he can retain the contact. Nothing about this place makes sense anyway- he might as well do what the fuck he likes. Retribution will wait for him in his homeland, yes, but he may never return there, and here his actions don’t matter. Like playing a game, and in some strange way, Roderigo can understand why Iago is doing what he’s doing. It’s so unreal, this Promethean heat, the stars too bright and the streets too wide and too dark. Home is a long way away and Roderigo is too tired to try and keep his morals around him, against so many odds.
They have no expectations, either of them. Together until a better offer comes along. Cassio’s smile is near inhuman, some days, he doesn’t care about leaving bruises, there’s no one to notice patches of purple on Roderigo’s shoulders and back and hips. No one cares about him here and that’s suffocating, these uncertain days of treachery and deceit. Cassio doesn’t give a fuck, one way or another, and Roderigo’s sense of self-preservation evaporated the night he stumbled down to the barracks and offered up his soul for penance.
(Is this penance? His knees are grazed anyway.)
Desdemona’s face is streaked with tears now, her prettiness overwhelmed by guilt and misery. They say that she is having an affair with Cassio, that there’s a handkerchief that proves this, that Othello will not speak or look at her, that it’s gone so far that there is only one way that it can end. Her golden hair hides her expression when she walks in public, like a doll, hands folded neatly in front of her, the picture of purity. But the ugly words continue to spread like fire through the taverns, Desdemona is a whore, Desdemona is giving everything to Cassio. Roderigo is confused, because surely that describes him better, but that’s not something he is willing to bring up. Not even to save Desdemona, and definitely not to save Cassio.
They have dug their own graves, they can lie in them.
He does ask, though. Once. Asks Cassio if there’s any truth in the whispers, if he and Desdemona are twisting themselves up behind closed doors, behind Othello’s back. There is no jealousy in Roderigo’s tone because he no longer cares what Desdemona does or doesn’t do with her time, and he doesn’t want Cassio anyway. He asks more plainly than he meant to – are you fucking Othello’s wife? – and Cassio flinches. Roderigo can see how offended the other man is; it’s etched into his eyes.
“I would never,” he murmurs, and when he punches Roderigo it’s hard enough to make him collapse. Cassio covers him a moment later, snarls between his teeth, he’s angry and hungry and with the candles out it’s so dangerous that Roderigo could fall apart right here and not be surprised.
A day later, Iago pours him a goblet of wine and smiles frighteningly wide. He talks as though he thinks that Roderigo is still in love with Desdemona. Roderigo sips his wine and doesn’t listen properly and realises that Iago knows everything about everyone, except about what Roderigo and Cassio have been doing behind locked doors. This unexpected edge makes Roderigo’s heart beat faster, as though by doing this he could save everyone. Except that he doesn’t like anyone enough to make the effort. So he doesn’t.
Iago tells Roderigo that the only thing to do to win Desdemona’s affections is to kill Cassio. Roderigo gets started on another goblet of wine, spills a few drops and watches them spread, deep crimson, on his shirtsleeve. He wonders why it is that Iago has not noticed Roderigo slipping into the military barracks at night. Cassio probably thinks that they are friends, because Cassio is as foolish as Roderigo used to be, before he lost his mind. Cassio is the only one willing to look Roderigo in the eye. Cassio touches him and doesn’t flinch.
And Iago wants Roderigo to kill him.
Roderigo takes another mouthful of wine, wipes his mouth off with his stained sleeve.
The way things are going, he’ll probably do it anyway.