[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.
[It hurts more than he expects it to. Not my friend, Dantes says, and what's special about that? Andersen has never been interested in making friends. He doesn't care. But the knot in his stomach says otherwise. His grip tightens on his coffee.]
I... wanted to Bond with you out of selfishness. [A little desperate:] I'm an author capable of understanding even the worst of monsters but I could never allow myself to be known. It didn't matter if I was known. I didn't care about it and when I first heard you needed a Bond, I considered it a simple contract.
I didn't think it'd go so deep. Neither of us did. Why else would we be knocking heads over this stupid matter?
You should have annulled our Bond after the first month if you had a problem with how deep a connection between souls would go. I know you in ways you hardly consider that I would. I know that the reader's curse repulses you enough that you wish to hide it, and yet you cling to it as part of yourself. I know that every time you speak, you can feel it in your throat, and you speak without regard for it.
[he'd never told him that. never said those words aloud, that he knew what Andersen felt on that level.]
I know how deep it goes. How far it will go. It is a rare, rare thing to find someone who looks at who I am and does not back away. And that is why I said yes. That is why you came back, and found me without one. Why, when you go, I shall continue on my solitary path until my sanity leaves me unless by some astounding coincidence I happen to find someone else who can look into the abyss and not flinch.
[Andersen flinches as if he's been struck but does not look away. He leans back into his seat, desperate for more distance. Subconsciously, his free hand brushes against his throat.]
It's always the same bullshit with you. "I'll bear it alone, I'll hurt anyone who reaches out to me, I'd rather die than be hurt again," you keep spouting all this crap over and over again! You say you're the devil incarnate when you're starved for any scrap of kindness you can get!
[He slams his hands on the table.]
How can I Bond with you, knowing I'll take so much of you with me? That you'll die like a miserable, rabid mutt because you can't overcome yourself? I can't be your only Bond, Dantes -- I can't be your only friend, not if it kills you!
[the words fall from his lips, not a roar but a curse, his expression twisting in what would be read by anyone as disgust, anger, a rejection while he readies his assault.
(only someone who knows him very, very well, will know how much of that comes from pain, how he'd draw his own blood if it meant he would be able to stand tall.)]
Am I supposed to blindly trust people here? Am I supposed to offer my very soul out to them to be exposed and ripped into at their leisure, because this world demands it? They have my name, they have my story - am I supposed to plunge myself into such an unequal partnership and smile when they try to pity me, try to say they understand? I will not, I cannot abide that, and I'll kill them if they try.
[he's on his feet, pacing with a frantic energy that wants to explode out of him, jaw clenched as he spits more words out.]
They already have my body, they distort it and pry it apart and reshape it in their own whims! They take my power and dare to try and call me monster as if I was not a better one before they even laid hands on me! You can talk to people, befriend them without having to reveal your innermost self to them - it would be better if they asked for my blood, for that I can give!
[it's a chaos, the hatred that burns in an Avenger, that wants to scorch them and destroy them to atoms. he's shaking with the effort to not physically destroy something, to vent his anger on something that's not his own body when he wants to hurt and to be hurt, to do nothing more than to tear something up by the roots and poison it from the inside out.
there is so little he has left that is his. so little of himself that could be considered the soul that someone would Bond to. he cannot bear to have multiple people touching it, touching him, because if they take that, then even in his undeath he isn't allowed so much as a single word.]
Take a dagger and drive it into my heart, because that would be a kindness compared to having to let this world near me. Everything, this entire world, I despise it!
[Dantes rants and rages, a veritable storm loosed. It is a sight that would make any man fear a blow, a great physical violence that'll crash upon either one of them. Andersen does not move from his seat. He listens, he waits, and it is only when Dantes is finished that he sets down his cup and says in a calm, level voice:]
Then I will kill you, Edmond.
[He goes to him. If he is allowed, he will reach for his hand.]
If you truly think you cannot walk among the people here, that you are beyond salvation, I will kill you by the month's end. Give me the dagger, and I will do the deed myself.
[Softer:]
You do not need to trust them all at once. But you cannot survive alone. Has your time at Chaldea not proved you capable of allowing people in? Am I not proof that there is still goodness in our worlds?
There are people here who don't know you. Doesn't that grant you the freedom to present yourself as whatever man you wish? To reframe your past, free of the author's influence?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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I... wanted to Bond with you out of selfishness. [A little desperate:] I'm an author capable of understanding even the worst of monsters but I could never allow myself to be known. It didn't matter if I was known. I didn't care about it and when I first heard you needed a Bond, I considered it a simple contract.
I didn't think it'd go so deep. Neither of us did. Why else would we be knocking heads over this stupid matter?
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[he'd never told him that. never said those words aloud, that he knew what Andersen felt on that level.]
I know how deep it goes. How far it will go. It is a rare, rare thing to find someone who looks at who I am and does not back away. And that is why I said yes. That is why you came back, and found me without one. Why, when you go, I shall continue on my solitary path until my sanity leaves me unless by some astounding coincidence I happen to find someone else who can look into the abyss and not flinch.
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It's always the same bullshit with you. "I'll bear it alone, I'll hurt anyone who reaches out to me, I'd rather die than be hurt again," you keep spouting all this crap over and over again! You say you're the devil incarnate when you're starved for any scrap of kindness you can get!
[He slams his hands on the table.]
How can I Bond with you, knowing I'll take so much of you with me? That you'll die like a miserable, rabid mutt because you can't overcome yourself? I can't be your only Bond, Dantes -- I can't be your only friend, not if it kills you!
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[the words fall from his lips, not a roar but a curse, his expression twisting in what would be read by anyone as disgust, anger, a rejection while he readies his assault.
(only someone who knows him very, very well, will know how much of that comes from pain, how he'd draw his own blood if it meant he would be able to stand tall.)]
Am I supposed to blindly trust people here? Am I supposed to offer my very soul out to them to be exposed and ripped into at their leisure, because this world demands it? They have my name, they have my story - am I supposed to plunge myself into such an unequal partnership and smile when they try to pity me, try to say they understand? I will not, I cannot abide that, and I'll kill them if they try.
[he's on his feet, pacing with a frantic energy that wants to explode out of him, jaw clenched as he spits more words out.]
They already have my body, they distort it and pry it apart and reshape it in their own whims! They take my power and dare to try and call me monster as if I was not a better one before they even laid hands on me! You can talk to people, befriend them without having to reveal your innermost self to them - it would be better if they asked for my blood, for that I can give!
[it's a chaos, the hatred that burns in an Avenger, that wants to scorch them and destroy them to atoms. he's shaking with the effort to not physically destroy something, to vent his anger on something that's not his own body when he wants to hurt and to be hurt, to do nothing more than to tear something up by the roots and poison it from the inside out.
there is so little he has left that is his. so little of himself that could be considered the soul that someone would Bond to. he cannot bear to have multiple people touching it, touching him, because if they take that, then even in his undeath he isn't allowed so much as a single word.]
Take a dagger and drive it into my heart, because that would be a kindness compared to having to let this world near me. Everything, this entire world, I despise it!
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Then I will kill you, Edmond.
[He goes to him. If he is allowed, he will reach for his hand.]
If you truly think you cannot walk among the people here, that you are beyond salvation, I will kill you by the month's end. Give me the dagger, and I will do the deed myself.
[Softer:]
You do not need to trust them all at once. But you cannot survive alone. Has your time at Chaldea not proved you capable of allowing people in? Am I not proof that there is still goodness in our worlds?
There are people here who don't know you. Doesn't that grant you the freedom to present yourself as whatever man you wish? To reframe your past, free of the author's influence?
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