If you don't want to do anything with it, why do you look for it?
[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
[it doesn't make sense to him. it doesn't ring true, even if it is and he can read that in Andersen's face. he can only doubt in this moment, because it's never that simple. his truth is buried and locked in a place as inescapable as the Chateau - it's one of the very few things he has left.
he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
[There are truths too difficult to swallow, Andersen knows this well. Kindness is foreign to creatures such as them -- its softness is what gives it a poisonous quality, what makes their hearts ache. It's far easier to be hardened against it all. Far safer.
So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
[That is enough to quiet his tongue. Andersen doesn't smoke often -- his vice lies in drink, after all, and self-flagellation -- and he thinks it's because he needs good company to enjoy a cigarette. Tobacco reminds him of parlor rooms, of excitement coursing between words, and when he smokes alone, it feels like a hollow gesture to comfort himself with.
Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]
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[he's still waiting, ready for it all to leave. for this all to reveal something else that he knew far too well - for something to be taken from him, or the promise that something will be.
sentiment only went so far. it couldn't be all. he'd learned that.]
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Isn't it clear? I simply want it for myself.
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he cannot risk it so freely. not when even what he throws away gets used against him. even with Andersen, he cannot let himself go so quickly, without rhyme or reason. not even for a collection of words that scatter his emotions and make him need to clamp down on everything before it's so blatantly shown.
but he'll let Andersen have the last word, lest his impulses rise and he call him a liar for no good reason other than his deep seated cynicism. he exhales, and breaks eye contact, glancing to the side and sinking a little more into his chair.]
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So Andersen doesn't fault Dantes for retreating. He allows his words to be the final push on the matter and instead watches him, the way an artist would regard their model. At length, he says:]
Do you have a cigarette?
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[reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his case and light, pulling out two cigarettes and getting up to offer one to Andersen. they can light them together, and the familiar taste of the tobacco smooths over his senses, his concerns. this he knows and can do easily.]
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Dantes may not feel up to conversation, but his presence is enough. Andersen exhales and feels content for the first time in a long while.]