Unpleasant Truth Laced With Gratuitously Vicious Barbs

Scriabin woke up in the white space, on Edgar's bed. "Woke up" isn't really the right phrase, because only bodies sleep, while mental voices always retain a certain kind of consciousness. But you could say Scriabin's consciousness gradually shifted from one state of sleep awareness to another. He slowly became aware of Edgar, curled up against his back, face buried in his hair.

Edgar shifted against him, sighed. He tucked his legs up closer into the back of Scriabin's knees. This was puzzling. He couldn't understand what Edgar was doing here. Did he feel bad about hurting him, and wanted to come back and comfort him? Or was he just so lonely he'd cling to anybody right now, even the hateful parasite in his brain? Or maybe, just maybe, though Scriabin didn't believe it for a second, he finally believed Scriabin wanted him, and decided he wanted him back?

Edgar nuzzled his neck, wrapped his arm around him and stroked his chest with the tips of his fingers. Scriabin shut his eyes and arched a little toward the sensation. Yes, yes, just like that.

"Mmm…" Edgar said softly. "Nny."

Scriabin went cold.

He felt his form start to change against his will, becoming smaller and thinner, flowing into that familiar shape. He couldn't stop it. The force of Edgar's self-delusion was too great.

Now Edgar was rolling him gently over onto his back. He allowed it to happen, showing no emotion on his face. Edgar leaned down to kiss him. He looked up past the side of Edgar's face, past these ridiculous blue bangs that fell uncomfortably into his eyes, and stared at the empty whiteness above. If he wasn't careful now, he would start shouting. Or become violent. Or…something. Edgar ran his hand tenderly up his side, moving against him more insistently, pressing him harder into the mattress with a deeper kiss.

"Do you love me?" Edgar asked, his lips brushing Scriabin's lightly. "Everything's gone to shit now, but it will all be okay if you love me."

Why not? Why not live out his own fantasy? Why should Edgar be the only one allowed to wallow in lies? "Yes, I love you. "

He wished he could feel the emotion behind it. But he couldn't. He could see clearly how pathetic it was. For both of them.

"Of course I do," he said, unconvincingly. "I love you."

Edgar froze. He opened his eyes. For the first time, he appeared to be fully awake.

"You're not Nny."

And just like that, the illusion vanished. Those stupid bangs faded, his body filled out to full size, and he lay beneath Edgar in his real form.

He didn't move. Just continued to stare up at the ceiling.

He fully expected Edgar to blame this on him.

There was a creak of mattress springs as Edgar moved away. When Scriabin leaned up to look at him, and he took his time about it, Edgar was hunched over on the corner of the bed, head was in his hands, fingertips pressed hard into his head like he was trying to crack the bones of his skull. Guilty. For some reason, that made Scriabin angrier than anything else he could have done.

"Jesus, Edgar. You never change, do you? You always fuck everything up and then want to be sorry later." He didn't try to make his voice sound insulting. He let it remain tense with pain he wasn't faking. He knew that would make it so much worse. "I mean, if you'd asked me to play this part for you, to be this lie for you, that would have been bad enough. But you didn't even give me a choice. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

Misery. It was pouring off Edgar in waves. God, that felt good. That felt delicious. It was wonderful to be the one making him suffer, for a change.

"You know, I don't think you'll never be able to stop this. I used to have hope that you'd snap out of it one day, that you'd come back to your senses. But not anymore. You'll never be able to stop doing this." He cocked his head to one side, contemplative. "That scares you, doesn't it? I can feel you panicking. You must know it's true."

"Stop." Edgar's voice was tight. "Just stop. I know what you're doing. I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to do that. It wasn't on purpose."

"Oh, no, Edgar. Sorry isn't going to help this one bit. You know what the saddest part about all this is? That you make me suffer right along with you. Because you can't get your shit together, I have to suffer for it. Does that sound fair to you?"

"I said I was sorry! Don't do this! I can't hear this."

"You're a child, Edgar." Needle-sharp words, carefully designed to cause maximum damage. "You wouldn't survive ten minutes without me. The darkness would swallow you, and there'd be nothing left but a gibbering mass of sickened flesh, wasting away in a padded cell. You know that, don't you?"

Edgar was shaking now. Scared? Or tense with the effort of repressing? It was hard to tell. Scriabin tightened his hand on Edgar's upper arm pulled him around.

"You can't do anything by yourself. Look at you now. A few words of criticism and you're practically in tears."

"I'm not crying."

"I said practically. And besides, it isn't strength that's keeping you from getting hysterical, it's denial. You know, I thought after what happened in the church, you'd get better at facing reality. But you haven't. If anything, you've gotten worse." He grabbed Edgar suddenly, gave him a hard shake. "Look at me."

"No."

"Look at me!" He pushed him down onto the mattress, gripped his chin, forced him to meet his eyes. "Listen to me. You are in trouble. Do you even realize how much trouble you are in?"

"Stop it! Why do you do this? It's like you're trying to make me hate you. Is that what you want? For me to hate you?"

"You're lucky I don't leave like you pretend you want me to. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I'll leave you behind. I'll make you beg for forgiveness before I come back. You need me. Admit it. If you can't say you want me, then at least admit you need me. At least give me that much. You owe me that much, Edgar."

He hadn't planned on saying that. Shouldn't have exposed himself like that. It was hard enough dealing with Edgar's problems without dragging his own out.

Strangely enough though, it might have been the perfect thing to say. Edgar weakened. Scriabin felt a wave of pity coming from him. He did not appreciate it. He felt a sudden tensing in all his muscles, a need for release, either through sex or violence, he didn't know which. He pressed Edgar's wrists into the mattress above his head. He got no resistance. He wanted to press harder, cause bruises, maybe even draw blood. But he didn't. All he did was reach between Edgar's legs and touch him, where his body was already responding to the sensation of being confined.

"Anh!"

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Scriabin's voice came soft, breathy. His anger and desire were mixing into one. The familiar rush of sadistic pleasure began to animate his senses. "You want to be pinned beneath me, don't you?" Completely smooth now. "Totally in my power, unable to get away."

"Ah! Oh God!"

"I'm your God now, Edgar."

"Don't…Ngh! Don't say that."

"Why not? No one can punish you for it. No one can touch us now. Now it's just the two of us. You and me against the world, baby. I'll protect you. I'll save you. I'll control you."

"Control me?"

"Yes. There's no need to be afraid."

Gratitude. He could feel it emanating like physical heat. Christ, that was sweet. That was beautiful. He couldn't get enough of it. When he made the first thrust, his mind was already boiling from that sensation. The sex was forceful, dominating, the way they both liked it. Scriabin thrust hard, as though if he pressed close enough, he could break down the barrier between them. He could finally make Edgar love him. When he felt that rush of gratitude, he almost felt like he'd succeeded.

Right now, you're mine. You might deny it later, but right now you belong to me.

It was possible Edgar heard him. He seemed to respond as if he had, wrapping his arms even tighter around Scriabin's shoulders. Perfectly compliant and submissive. Mouth half open, eyes shut tight. Giving himself over without the slightest resistance. When he came, he shouted loudly. But he did not call out Scriabin's name.

Afterward, they lay clinging to each other tightly.

"Why did…" Edgar's voice sounded shaky. "Why did you do that?"

"Why did I do what?"

"You said that you wanted me, didn't you? And I can believe that. You pretty much proved that right now, and you've proved it before. But you never said why. If you hate everything I do, why would you care about me?"

"Is it really that baffling?" Scriabin sounded quiet. Melancholy but for once not angry. "As long as I've been here, my boy, my every thought and action, has been devoted to you. You're literally my world, and everything I do is for your sake. Is it really that surprising that I'd ask for something in return?"

"But there's more to it than that. You're more protective of me than you are of yourself. There's more to this than just you wanting to have your way with me."

"Is that really what you think I want? Someone to fuck every now and then? Do you think that's enough for me? Would that be enough for you?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about you. I may have created you, but it wasn't on purpose. I didn't sit down one day and decide to go insane. You're always so eager to blame me for this, but you forget I don't want it any more than you do."

"God. This is exactly what I don't like about you. If you spent even half the effort solving your problems as you did trying to deny them, we wouldn't be where we are now."

"Well, how was I supposed to know what you wanted? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"I might have. You never tried. You've been in some kind of jealous fit all along. You've always been trying to hurt me."

"You wouldn't have believed me." Real venom now. More than he'd meant to let slip. He quickly regulated his voice. "I'm not the one here with misplaced priorities, Edgar. Everything right now is balancing on a razor's edge. The actions we take in the next few weeks or months could decide everything that ultimately happens to us. I've tried everything I can think of to fix things and nothing seems to be working. If something doesn't change soon, then we may really, really be screwed."

Edgar shifted a little, but didn't loosen his grip. Neither one of them did.

"What would change things?" Edgar asked. This was in his logical voice, the one that could almost convince you he had a spine.

"I don't know. I've been thinking things over, reviewing the possibilities. I keep coming back to the same places. It would be a lot easier if not for your little problem with evasion, but I'm finally starting to understand that that's just part of the sickness. I used to think if I could force you to face the facts, that would solve everything. But I think the real problem lies deeper. And, of course, you won't let me get to it."

Edgar was quiet, listening. He was always the perfect listener, so long as you weren't saying anything important.

So much potential, really. Edgar had the possibility of being truly great. If Scriabin could just get past this barrier…

He forgot he was talking to Edgar for a moment. As he often did, he stretched his memory back as far as it would go. At one point, he knew, he had been nothing more than a voice in Edgar's head, a variation on the cynical voice everyone had, the part of him that wanted to rage at his grandmother for every little unnoticed hurt she dealt him, and, after she was dead, wanted to walk right up to her grave and spit on it. He was also the voice that told Edgar there was no God, that all his prayers were a waste of time, and that his Granma was not in Heaven but just rotting grotesquely in a bed of dirt and maggots.

But that had been before. Before Edgar named him, cut him off, and made him a separate person. Now everything was different. He had his own feelings and desires, though he often wished he didn't.