[ All he'd ever wanted was to see him again, to know he was real. Hoping against hope, somehow, that he'd be happy. And now they're here, face to face, and all they have is this.

Why did he ever think it could be anything else? But that was him, wasn't it, making the best of it, trying to make things better or to be happy or to act like nothing had changed.

Something in him snaps.

The mask drops from his hands and it's as loud as if he'd slammed his hands on the table. It's only the knowledge that their younger selves are there that keeps him from being furious. Death had broken him again and again, left sharp edges rounded off by time but still capable of cutting. ]

«And you wonder why I never spoke to you.»

[ He doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is sharp and hurt and cold. He feels numb. ]

«If this is how you're treating me, then why should I bother?» [ His smile is bitter and frail and sad, because he can't in truth be angry for long, but it hurts. ]

«Why did I even bother to hope that I could do something?

I died trying to help you, and then I died trying to find you. And now we're both this and--it doesn't matter, does it?

It doesn't matter. Dying and coming back, it's all the same. To you, I'm nothing now.»