[Guy calms himself down, swallowing the last of his giggles, reaching up to rub at his mouth with a glove.]

Asch...it's not you. It's not-

It's not that I hate the way you look. You're beautiful, you know?

I know that you aren't your father, similarities or not. And ninety-five percent of the time, the similarities don't even matter. The problem isn't with you; it's with me.

I have to figure out how to undo years and years of association, of putting images to memories that just don't belong together. I'll get it eventually. Until then, if I get angry or upset, I'll leave the house. I'll go to the fighting dome in the woods or find someone to spar with. Or I'll find someone to talk to.

You- I don't ever want you to look different. You're gorgeous, even if your eyebrows crease in the middle.