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[That shuts Andersen up for now. He scowls and takes a long drag off his cigarette.]

Who am I to question you. I'm the same as you. I don't believe myself to be human, any more than you believe yourself to be whole.

We aren't human. We're Servants.

[it's his turn to lie down on the bed, blowing smoke at the ceiling.]

And I know I'm not even close to a whole man. Pretending otherwise would only lead to misfortune.

[There is a moment of quiet, filled by the smoke building up between them. Andersen watches the grey haze swirl and dissipate, lets the warmth of it build up over his face.]

Hm. Naturally. Rejecting one's true nature only causes tragedy and pain. However... allow me to speak as an author. It doesn't matter if you consider yourself human or not. In the end, you remain my Bonded and one of my readers. That designates you as someone I ought to cherish.

[for a moment, he simply looks over at Andersen, brow raised and silent. the space between them stretches, before he gives a little sigh, any number of a thousand calculations and ideas passing through his head to be considered and resolved or discarded. he thinks too much, he always will, but right now...]

Your trips through the mirrors have made you sentimental, my friend.

[he hadn't forgotten that declaration Andersen made. it, like other things, was lodged in his core as a foothold to steady himself with.]

Sentimentality is an author's lifeblood.

[No matter how many times Andersen tried to kill the kindness in his heart -- no matter how hard he tried to ward others away with heated words and biting contempt -- the fact remained that he could not help loving what the world could be. It's why Ritsuka shines as such a bright star for him, why he held Kiara's hand as she fell apart like petals blown from a withering tree. Humans hold potential. He sees that same spark of potential in Dantes.

He blinks away the sting of the smoke.]

I've always been this way.

I know.

[the cigarette hangs out of the corner of his mouth as he stretches his arms above his head.]

It's why you let Gerda's journey not be in vain. Why you gave the Little Mermaid hope. It's splashed all over your pages as much as ink, and it colors your daily thoughts.

[He laughs.]

You've been more diligent in your readings than I previously thought. Could it be you were a fanboy of mine all this time?

Is it so surprising I read your works? The ones I could not have seen in my lifetime reside in Chaldea's archives.

[so yes. he might have deliberately sought out some of the collected volumes of Andersen's works. he used a lot of free time in Chaldea to improve his mind, after all.]

Of course I'm surprised! It's difficult to imagine an Avenger settling in with a book of children's fairy tales. Tales of woe, of justice, of revenge... I'd take you as the sort of man who'd indulge in something richer. More grown up, so to speak.

Now who's the one without an imagination? Anyone in our group could be your reader. You judge too hastily by our class.

[as if Andersen's stories were written for children alone.]

Perhaps I preferred lighter fare than retracing the steps of my existence.

[He blows out a long stream of smoke and grins.]

I see. Then I'm a source entertainment for you. The author serves the story in the end.

Don't simplify yourself to that. Lest I lose my good humor and shout again.

[it is late, after all, and they could easily start another shouting match, but he's trying to extend the olive branch now.]

You've already thoroughly distracted me from my work, in any case. What other demands do you make, newly rearrived as you are?

[Immediately:]

What I have in mind is a bad idea. Even knowing that, will you listen to it?

Naturally.

[you say bad idea, and he's all ears.]

Bond with me again.

[that's enough to get him to sit back up, cigarette hastily plucked from his mouth, and eyes disbelieving.]

What?

[say it again.]

[Andersen remains on his back, smoke wafting slowly from his cigarette. He folds his hands behind his head.]

You clearly haven't been taking care of yourself. You're a Monster in this realm; you can't go without a Bond or you'll lose control. And from what I know of you, that's what you fear the most.

[Explain it reasonably, logically. He's doing his best to present it as a need more than the want it truly is.]

For whatever reason, you won't Bond with anyone else. That leaves me in an inconvenient position of responsibility.

How many times will I have to explain to you that I cannot Bond with someone else unless I could deeply consider the prospect of having them linked to my mind and not find it something to recoil from?

[but he looks down at Andersen, and can't hide the twitch in his expression that says he's wavering.]

...are you certain you'd make that commitment again? Even though you may only have so long before Chaldea calls again?

[are you certain you'd commit to me?]

[Surely there would be someone Dantes could better trust -- someone he could rely on, someone he could permit a glimpse into his mind. But Andersen looks up at him, with his hair white as the snow of a solitary mountain, and he thinks, No, he'd rather die than have his trust ruined again.

That only made it all the more baffling as to why he'd stick with someone as fickle as Andersen.]

I should be the one asking that, moron. I don't know how long I'll stay. No matter how you regard me, Bonding with me is a poor decision. You may be left on your lonesome sooner rather than later and I will suffer less for it. That's the only promise I can make to you.

Your honesty can only do you disservice.

[and yet. and yet he looks at him, searching for the lie, the regret, anything that says no, and cannot find it. so strange. so familiar.]

Very well. I'll Bond with you anew.

[Now it's his turn to jolt upright in surprise.]

You aren't serious, are you? Weren't you listening to me?!

[Andersen jerks up, and it means they smack their heads together, Dantes uttering a low hiss before replying.]

Do you deliberately tune out all the words I say that are not insults to you? At this point, I dare you to Bond with me and hold to your word. No one else in this city matches you as I do for sheer stubbornness, and you know that well.

[his eyes are practically blazing now with an old fire.]

Tell me then, in full truth, if you will or will not have me, and be certain this time.

[THAT HURTS? Andersen rolls over onto his side, clutching his head with a dramatic groan.]

You think I'm a child? You dare me? What, you want me to pinky promise with you next and cross my heart and hope to die? What reason do I have to listen to you! I didn't think you'd accept me back so quickly!

You were the one to propose the idea in the first place, moron!

[are they edging up to shouting again, probably.]

If you expect me to play coy and deny you, that's not the kind of man I am and you know it! I do not have the patience for that kind of cruel game One misstep and the other is lost for good. I will not do you the disrespect of toying with you for no one's amusement! Make up your mind, Andersen!

[he almost violently tears himself away from the bed, flinging the door open and stalking back down to the living room where he'd been working, papers and books accounted for while he had been considering perhaps repurposing one room into a study. it's all forgotten, though the fire still burns and the lamp is still turned enough for someone to see, and he angrily stubs the cigarette in the ashtray before crossing to the window. it's flung open for fresh air, and he braces his hands on the windowsill.

why does this cut him so deeply, wound him anew? he knows, he knows, but he cannot and will not say it. it should be enough that there is a conversation, he cannot speak to the flame in his soul that leaps to any fuel at all.

(on the table, near where his work had been, is a familiar brooch to them both.)]

[The door slams shut. Andersen is left lying on the bed, struck silent by these turn of events.

Then, very clear and loud, he says:]

Shit.

[He should've have opened his mouth to begin with. There's a reason why he kept his sentiments locked deep beneath layers of venom and vitriol and to think he backed out at the last second -- his own cowardice burns him. Andersen rolls onto his back.]

Shit!

[Ignatz, who has settled on the floor, startles at Andersen standing up. The author drops his cigarette, fiercely grinds it out with his heel, and leaves the ashes out of pettiness. He storms back to his room, immaculately and painfully clean, and throws himself onto his bed, face-first.

He wants to suffocate himself with his pillow. If God were real and merciful, He would allow that.]

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