Phantasmaphilia - to love the creation of one's own mind
So, the last chapter of Vargas has turned this story into more of an AU than it ever was before. Oh well. It makes me feel better about writing fanfiction of fanfiction. I can't believe I'm done... It's actually kind of sad. But hopefully, you had as much fun on the ride as I did.
--
You could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare,
either way, I don't want to wake up--
(Turn the Lights off)
-Beyonce
Edgar sat in a dark corner of a smoky café, glaring over a menu at his companion, who was amusing himself by sticking his hand through the little box of sugar packets.
No one else in the restaurant could see him.
"I haven't been out in a while," Scriabin said, by way of explanation, turning his attention to the salt-shaker, "although it was more fun when I had an actual body to interact with."
"My body," Edgar muttered, looking back down at the menu.
"Yes, well, there's only so many to go around."
Edgar hummed noncommittally and settled on a vegetarian dish, motioning the waiter over and placing an order while Scriabin amused himself by reaching through a few personal regions of the oblivious waiter's body. Edgar scowled.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," he said, resolving to leave a large tip in return for the imaginary hassle.
"It's not like he can see me," the figment shrugged. "If he could, we'd be out of here before you can say 'protected sex'."
"I hate you," the real man said, shooting imaginary daggers at the imaginary man.
Scriabin beamed. "Of course you do, my boy."
Despite all that, Edgar was actually quite happy with the turn his life had taken in the last month. Occasionally, he worried that he was spending too much time in his own head, but he was happy, and wasn't that what mattered? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? And anyway, he still went to work, still went to dinner (obviously), and he'd even started talking to his coworkers.
As it turned out, they weren't all bad.
The meal came, and Scriabin stared at it longingly. Edgar shook is head.
"No, you cannot take possession of my body to eat some lettuce. You know we agreed on this."
"Yes," Scriabin growled, "if by 'agreed' you mean strong-armed me into an agreement that decidedly favors you."
"Well," Edgar pointed out, "it was my body first. You're just going to have to live with that."
And the argument went on, following familiar twists and turns that they'd beaten out over the last month or so, occasionally venturing into the decidedly insulting, on one or two occasions almost tender. Life was a lot more interesting now.
"So," the figment was saying, "I was thinking that tonight we could visit Dante's corner of the Super, you know, since you're always so fond of his works."
"I prefer the mystery to remain mysterious, if that's alright with you."
"Fine. Ridiculous notion if you ask me, but it's your head, my dear. How about Lewis Carol?" Scriabin grinned impudently. "I know how much you love Alice in Wonderland."
Edgar rolled his eyes. "I've had enough of that for one lifetime, wouldn't you say?"
He remembered hearing once that the native Australians, long ago, had believed that the world of dreams was exactly as real as the one of daylight, and that things experienced there were carried back to this world as much as vice-versa. Scriabin sitting opposite him in the booth, vehemently refusing to visit Mr. Higgles, might have been the perfect proof of that.
As the waiter brought the check, giving Edgar a strange look since he just happened to catch the tail end of a conversation, Scriabin snapped his fingers.
"Of course!" he said, "I don't know how I forgot. Tonight's the night!"
"What night?" Edgar asked, preoccupied with double-checking the prices.
"The Night," his companion replied, put out. "Everyone goes there, it's really the place to be. Midsummer's night. Solstice. Dreams. Fairy Land. Any of this ringing bells with you?"
Edgar looked up, remembering something. "I think I may have heard it mentioned the first time I visited… there was a man in a powdered wig…"
"I'd bet you did," Scriabin said, sounding like he was trying not to get too excited. "Time is pretty fluid in the Super. There will be figments from all across existence, and who knows? Maybe one of them can help me out with the whole getting-a-body-thing."
"Maybe," Edgar agreed, not thinking it particularly likely. But who knew?
The imaginary man jumped out of the booth, turning and trying to pull Edgar after him—of course he forgot that he wasn't really there, so his hand just slid through.
His creator sighed. "Okay, we're going. But if something weird happens tonight, I expect you to take me back."
They left the booth and headed for the front desk. Scriabin laughed, and Edgar shot him a silent glare for fear of freaking out everyone in the restaurant. No talking out in the open.
"I don't have to," the doppelganger grinned. "You can do that on your own. All you've got to do is be back at home, and you will be. At home, that is."
Why the Hell didn't you tell me that when I was wandering around like a fool the first night? Edgar though, rather violently. He wasn't very good at communicating via mental connection, but you couldn't exactly demand answers of your alternate personality-cum-best friend in the middle of paying for dinner out loud.
"You wouldn't have believed me," Scriabin said, smug. "It's all very click your heels three times. I did tell you that you had the power to make reality what you wanted. It was a simple as believing you had the power."
Edgar grunted, a grudging accord.
"Besides," Scriabin went on as they passed through the front door—him, literally through, "it would have been so boring if you knew everything. Not much point in that, my dear boy."
And Edgar was caught between being annoyed and amused, because for all of the confusion and exhaustion that adventure had gotten him, it had also gotten him this. And, for once, Scriabin really had known best.
Edgar reached out and caught his creation's hand in his, never minding that the smirking man didn't exist.
What was existence, anyway?
FINISSIMO