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?
[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.
[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.]
[there's a long moment where he grabs what wrenches itself to life within him and throws it down, wrestles it into submission so that he does not turn around and go to find him. no. he has to be better than this, has to direct his fire forward instead of simply wearing a groove in the floor for no reason. it aches and snaps the way the logs in the fireplace do, but it yields, because it has no choice.
almost as if it repels him, he turns from the window and goes back to where he was by the table. sinking down, he eyes the work - words, numbers, things that only have one answer and are only tedious as opposed to meaningful. work gives him something to do apart from wallow in his sadness, and he picks up his pen again. if his free hand shakes, he clenches it into a fist until it stops. he hates, and he hates, and he hates - and that is being an Avenger, and that suits him just fine.
words claw like acid in his throat, but he scratches figures down until it begins to make sense and they have to yield to the iron lock of his lips. he's above this. he's better than this.]
[If he lays still enough, sleep will surely overtake him. His body is human here. It needs nourishment and rest, and he's just been flung across universes. Andersen whips off his glasses and throws them onto the floor. He waits and waits; hours creak by with the old theater's floorboards. Everything feels familiar and different at the same time. Sleep doesn't come.
He ought to write. Walk. Do something that will let him bleed out this feeling boiling him from the inside. Andersen tosses and turns and wishes he demanded a drink instead.
Why did he offer to Bond with Dantes? Why would he offer something so pitiful to him? He presses his palms against his eyes, thoughts racing through his head. He stays this way for the rest of the night, with no reprieve.]
[sometime in the middle of the night, the cat walks in on silent paws, leaping up onto his bed and curling up in the crook of his neck. he flops like he's used to it, like he's meant to do it - the actions of a cat who knows when comfort is needed.
Dantes, meanwhile, writes for hours. he writes and does calculations and when his body aches, he turns the sensation down so low he cannot feel it. when the fire grows low, he ignores it, letting it die in time since it's not terribly chill even with the window open, and only when dawn begins to creep over the horizon and stain the sky colors does he move from his seat. his body protests and is silenced, and Dantes turns off the light - he's mostly done with what he intended, so a brief break is alright. his hands might be inkstained and he may look even more like a worn down wraith, but he doesn't know, doesn't notice right now.
there's sound in the kitchen, beans being ground with a crank and water being boiled. a rhythm and a habit in the act of making coffee, and he pauses when he takes down one cup. should he take down another? should he even bother? he presses his lips together into a tight line, and reasons that Andersen will be asleep. still, still, he pauses.]
[Animals are always honest. Andersen can take Ignatz's comfort as it is and the purring of the kitten is enough to send him into a short sleep. His exhaustion is bone-deep, however. There is no reprieve to be found in dreams and he jolts awake just as dawn breaks. He lays there, hands folded over his chest, considering his options. At last, he gets up.
He knows Dantes well. The man is likely sulking in the theater, busying himself with one of his countless schemes. The faint grinding of beans drifts to his ears and he knows right away where his fellow Servant is.
Andersen stands at the entrance to the kitchen. Dantes's back is to him. He clears his throat.]
[there's a beat before he turns around, a subtle straightening of his spine - he can't look Andersen in the eye and not have a strong posture. he simply cannot.
instead of saying anything, he only looks at him, questioning what he wants without voicing a single word. if he's made up his mind, then so he has. if he's here to resume the argument, they can do that too.]
[his answer is equally quiet, since he can't hide this truth. he looks like he's been worn down, and the stack of finished work in the living room says where his mind has been for hours. he doesn't sleep when he's upset, evading the nightmares that constantly plague him - uninterrupted sleep is hard enough when he's in a good mood. a bad one is just asking for more stress.]
[he grumbles this, but turns to take down a second cup anyway, pouring for them both. he remembers how Andersen takes his coffee, and it's muscle memory that guides him into making their coffee how he used to every morning. when he's done, he holds it out to Andersen, looking to him to see if it'll suit him.]
[--he's being too generous after the fiasco last night. Dantes could easily flub Andersen's drink, could outright refuse him. Instead, he's taking care to make it just how he likes it -- two spoonfuls of cream, a dash of sugar. Andersen almost can't stand it and his pride rears up, says he doesn't deserve this kind gesture, that he's another author toying with Dantes--
[that's his concession of pride - that he may not get an answer. he's still wounded, barely patched up, and the ink on his fingers might as well be his own blood at this point. taking his own coffee, he walks back to the living room, sitting heavily in his seat on the couch and wrapping his fingers around the mug.]
[he sets down his coffee on the table and leans back, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs. exhausted as he is, his gaze loses none of its focus.]
I am honest with you, and it is the wrong thing to say. I am less than honest, and it is the wrong thing to say. Everything I seem to say right now only serves the purpose of dissatisfying you, because it's not the answer you want. So tell me, Andersen, what would you like me to say? How would you like me to treat you? Because right now, you are not my Bonded, not my friend, and I am finding it hard to understand why you care about what I'll do when you're gone if you're neither of those things.
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[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?]
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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.
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[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.
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You aren't serious, are you? Weren't you listening to me?!
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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.
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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!
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[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.)]
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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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almost as if it repels him, he turns from the window and goes back to where he was by the table. sinking down, he eyes the work - words, numbers, things that only have one answer and are only tedious as opposed to meaningful. work gives him something to do apart from wallow in his sadness, and he picks up his pen again. if his free hand shakes, he clenches it into a fist until it stops. he hates, and he hates, and he hates - and that is being an Avenger, and that suits him just fine.
words claw like acid in his throat, but he scratches figures down until it begins to make sense and they have to yield to the iron lock of his lips. he's above this. he's better than this.]
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He ought to write. Walk. Do something that will let him bleed out this feeling boiling him from the inside. Andersen tosses and turns and wishes he demanded a drink instead.
Why did he offer to Bond with Dantes? Why would he offer something so pitiful to him? He presses his palms against his eyes, thoughts racing through his head. He stays this way for the rest of the night, with no reprieve.]
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Dantes, meanwhile, writes for hours. he writes and does calculations and when his body aches, he turns the sensation down so low he cannot feel it. when the fire grows low, he ignores it, letting it die in time since it's not terribly chill even with the window open, and only when dawn begins to creep over the horizon and stain the sky colors does he move from his seat. his body protests and is silenced, and Dantes turns off the light - he's mostly done with what he intended, so a brief break is alright. his hands might be inkstained and he may look even more like a worn down wraith, but he doesn't know, doesn't notice right now.
there's sound in the kitchen, beans being ground with a crank and water being boiled. a rhythm and a habit in the act of making coffee, and he pauses when he takes down one cup. should he take down another? should he even bother? he presses his lips together into a tight line, and reasons that Andersen will be asleep. still, still, he pauses.]
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He knows Dantes well. The man is likely sulking in the theater, busying himself with one of his countless schemes. The faint grinding of beans drifts to his ears and he knows right away where his fellow Servant is.
Andersen stands at the entrance to the kitchen. Dantes's back is to him. He clears his throat.]
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instead of saying anything, he only looks at him, questioning what he wants without voicing a single word. if he's made up his mind, then so he has. if he's here to resume the argument, they can do that too.]
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[A quiet question. There's no bite to it, no authoritative bark. For now, Andersen wants to extend the olive branch.]
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[his answer is equally quiet, since he can't hide this truth. he looks like he's been worn down, and the stack of finished work in the living room says where his mind has been for hours. he doesn't sleep when he's upset, evading the nightmares that constantly plague him - uninterrupted sleep is hard enough when he's in a good mood. a bad one is just asking for more stress.]
Did you?
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[He's worked on less before, even as a human. Andersen takes the civility as a sign that he's allowed to come closer. His steps are careful.]
Make me a cup, too.
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[he grumbles this, but turns to take down a second cup anyway, pouring for them both. he remembers how Andersen takes his coffee, and it's muscle memory that guides him into making their coffee how he used to every morning. when he's done, he holds it out to Andersen, looking to him to see if it'll suit him.]
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Andersen takes the cup.]
... will you listen to me?
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[that's his concession of pride - that he may not get an answer. he's still wounded, barely patched up, and the ink on his fingers might as well be his own blood at this point. taking his own coffee, he walks back to the living room, sitting heavily in his seat on the couch and wrapping his fingers around the mug.]
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What will you do when I'm gone?
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[the question, dodged and thrown back in his court.]
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Answer the question, Dantes.
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[say why you need it. then he'll reply.]
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Why must you be so difficult! You're always like this! Why can't you simply say what's on your mind?!
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[he sets down his coffee on the table and leans back, lacing his fingers together and crossing his legs. exhausted as he is, his gaze loses none of its focus.]
I am honest with you, and it is the wrong thing to say. I am less than honest, and it is the wrong thing to say. Everything I seem to say right now only serves the purpose of dissatisfying you, because it's not the answer you want. So tell me, Andersen, what would you like me to say? How would you like me to treat you? Because right now, you are not my Bonded, not my friend, and I am finding it hard to understand why you care about what I'll do when you're gone if you're neither of those things.
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