[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?
[that hand is accepted, held as if it was a lifeline in the swell of the ocean, before he drowns himself and chokes on everything he feels at once. somehow, the promise of his own death does much to help him breathe - the idea that he could finally, finally escape. maybe send his soul back to Chaldea, where he could do far more good than he can here.
he's quiet for a long moment, eyes turned down, still brimming with energy that could lash out at any moment. and then, he speaks softly.]
I found a copy of the book here.
[something he had hid from Andersen, months ago. a copy he had taken in his two hands and burned at the edge of the Wilde until there was nothing there but ashes, and then dust. if there was one, couldn't there be another? couldn't there be those that would hear his name and think they knew him? the very thing he wants least of all in the world.]
[A touch is all Dantes needed to anchor himself. Andersen knows this from the dreams he's seen -- dark as the ocean's trenches, colder than any cell -- and he's grateful it's helped him settle somewhat. The mention of the book, though, causes his brow to furrow.]
Several months ago. In someone's shop, when I asked him for help on binding the Abbe's words into a book.
[it had been like getting shot in the stomach, to see it there, the burning numbness that had spread through his body.]
When he went back through the mirrors, I took it and destroyed it. But it was enough of a sign to say I will never be free of that man's influence. He owns my name now.
How? Could you cast away being Hans Christian Andersen, Caster of Chaldea?
[gently, slowly, he raises their joined hands, until Andersen's is on his upper arm, where the crest is inked into his skin. the reminder, more than his scars, of who he is. what he is.]
As long as they wish, the Count of Monte Cristo, this Avenger, will continue to exist.
[He can't deny what they are, for their existence hinges on their nature as Servants. This isn't their second life; they were and have always been intended to be used as tools for a greater cause, much as their Master tried to treat them otherwise. But--]
Not in this world. Not here. Until I return to Chaldea, I can call myself Hans for a little while. That's what I'd wish for you: to return from the place beyond love and hate.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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he's quiet for a long moment, eyes turned down, still brimming with energy that could lash out at any moment. and then, he speaks softly.]
I found a copy of the book here.
[something he had hid from Andersen, months ago. a copy he had taken in his two hands and burned at the edge of the Wilde until there was nothing there but ashes, and then dust. if there was one, couldn't there be another? couldn't there be those that would hear his name and think they knew him? the very thing he wants least of all in the world.]
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What?
[That doesn't make sense.]
When?
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[it had been like getting shot in the stomach, to see it there, the burning numbness that had spread through his body.]
When he went back through the mirrors, I took it and destroyed it. But it was enough of a sign to say I will never be free of that man's influence. He owns my name now.
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[Andersen hesitates.]
Be the man I still call my friend.
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[gently, slowly, he raises their joined hands, until Andersen's is on his upper arm, where the crest is inked into his skin. the reminder, more than his scars, of who he is. what he is.]
As long as they wish, the Count of Monte Cristo, this Avenger, will continue to exist.
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Not in this world. Not here. Until I return to Chaldea, I can call myself Hans for a little while. That's what I'd wish for you: to return from the place beyond love and hate.
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