Drabble. One of many endings for the Vargas story. Set a while after Zarla's story dead ends, when Edgar regains his mortality. Scriabin has a new body, courtesy of the system, Edgar makes his choice.
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The frantic man slammed the doors down, bursting in with coat flapping wildly.
"Where Is he?!" the figment screamed, eyes latching onto Johnny.
Johnny smiled dreamily, clasping a bloodied knife to his chest. "Beautiful," he whispered.
"You sick freak!" Scriabin stormed accross the room, face to face with his twisted adversary. "Where is he? WHERE IS HE?"
The maniac's smile faded and he grimaced at the man in his face. "In the bedroom. But you really shouldn't worry about him right now."
"What did you do to him?" growled Scriabin, grabbing the murderer by his collar.
"Only what he wanted." replied Nny in a steely voice.
"You have no idea what he wanted!"
"And you do?"
"Of course I do! Now what did you DO to him?" demanded the panicked brunnett, yanking the offending man off the ground.
"I killed him," he answered simply, distaste eminent on his face. "Now put me down. You're thouroughly spoiling the moment."
"I don't care!" shouted Scriabin, but he dropped the twisted man anyways. "Now get out of our house!"
"Fine," hissed the killer, "But it's not really yours. Nothing is. Not till he's dead."
Johnny stalked out of the house, leaving his oposite to his frantic search.
The figement slammed open the bedroom door, ready to fight off all of hell if he had to, but fell to his knees at the sight before him.
There lay Edgar, lifeless as stone on the bed. Blood seeped around him, dyeing the neutral gray sheets a sickly crimson.
"Oh."
Shoulders shaking from restrained tears, he gently reached for the bed, taking Edgar's cold hand. He pulled, more delicately than he'd done anything in his life, the empty form off the bed and into his arms.
"I'm too late..." he whispered.
There was a faint pulse beneath the paling skin, but it weakened with every passing moment.
"I..." the man broke down crying, something he never in a lifetime thought he'd do. "This... is all my fault. Oh god. It's not suppossed to be like this!"
Tears fell on Edgar's face, but he never felt them. Appologies he'd longed for since the figement first spoke were uttered--screamed--over and over, but he never heard them.
And Scriabin asked, he asked sweetly and angrily and desperately, if Edgar had loved him. Please, God, it doesn't matter as long as he loved me!
But the dead man couldn't answer. And Scriabin couldn't save him.
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Comments? Critique?