Vargas

by Zarla

What if Johnny had not killed Edgar? How much of a difference does one person make?

13. Lies

Author's Note: For best effect, listen to Vast's "Pretty When You Cry" while reading this.

---

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name

I don't want to die please God please God I don't want to die

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done

I don't want to die oh please oh please have mercy on me I was only trying to do what I thought was right I don't want to die oh God please

on earth as it is in Heaven give us this day our daily bread

"Jesus Christ, Edgar, overreacting a bit, are we?"

And...forgive us...

He opened his eyes.

There was nothing.

It was all white. The ground, the sky, the walls, everything was white. Pure white.

It was an enormous void of nothing.

It was assumed that the constant color was what made the appearance of absolutely nothing possible, since Edgar was standing on something. It looked like nothing, but it was definitely something. However, whatever light source there was here was not kind enough to help develop distance. There was no shading, no dimming of color farther away. Everything was the exact same shade of white without exception. Or nothing was. Mind-numbingly empty.

He turned around.

They did look a lot alike.

A man stood there with his hands held behind his back and a confident smirk on his face, completely at ease with these bizarre surroundings. He had the same long nose, the same square-like facial structure, the same thin body shape...

But his hair was shaggy and long, he wore a trench coat and underneath a striped shirt with a blank white box in its center, black jeans and boots...

Reflective glasses.

And he moved...

"Oh come now, Edgar. You can't say you're really surprised, can you?" Scriabin smiled at him.

Edgar could not think of anything to say. He stared at the figment of his imagination without any real expression, too shocked for any emotion to leak through the logical breakdown he was currently experiencing.

But how...

All he could think about were all those times he had spent on the phone, passing time by moving the toy's limbs when he was bored. Now the toy moved by himself. He moved with a strange grace and ease that shouldn't be possessed by things that didn't exist.

And Scriabin didn't exist. He couldn't exist. Not like this. This wasn't what he looked like in that preview for the movie.

It was like Edgar was staring at himself. A more attractive, confident, sarcastic version of himself.

And that was what Scriabin was and couldn't be.

Scriabin seemed to enjoy the attention. He knew what this was doing. He had to know. He had to be able to feel the machinery in Edgar's mind shutting down. He smiled with a sense of contentment that caused Edgar to shudder.

"My goodness, you certainly picked up some melodrama from our dear now-deceased friend. Let me make this easier for you."

Scriabin snapped his fingers.

After the whiteness around them absorbed the noise, the familiar feel of his glasses pressed against the bridge of Edgar's nose.

His glasses. He must have lost them during the fight.

But how...how is this possible...

"Um..." Edgar finally said, his voice hollow and thin in this huge expanse of nothing. Once the word escaped him he gained a bit more control over his reaction to the figment's physical presence. The apathy and acceptance aspects of his personality kicked in, strong and protective. Utter shock and surprise fading to confusion and some vague curiousity. "Where...where am I?"

"Ah, my favorite part." Scriabin moved towards Edgar. He couldn't tell if he was walking or floating in this place. Everything was the exact same shade of white so he wasn't sure if there was a floor to begin with. It was hard to tell if this place expanded into infinity or just didn't expand at all. The color made everything too even.

Regardless, Scriabin closed the immeasurable distance between them and took hold of his chin, forcing them to make extended eye contact. He spoke with barely concealed excitement and sadistic pleasure.

"Edgar my dear, you're dead."

Edgar blinked at him for several seconds. Whatever it was that Scriabin said refused to register.

"No." He said without thinking.

Scriabin just smirked at him in response as if he had expected just such a reaction.

"Yes."

The shock of what Scriabin said began to wear off and Edgar felt himself able to think more clearly.

"I'm...I'm not dead. I can't be dead." He held his arms out to indicate all the white. "Where's God? Where's Jesus and Saint Peter?"

Scriabin laughed at him.

God, I hate you so much.

He turned away.

"It's all empty here...where is everybody?"

Ha, answer that.

Scriabin gestured to the white in much the same way Edgar had, mocking his tone of voice. "Well, I can explain that rather easily. As I told you before, there is no God, but that's not what's really interesting or relevant to your question. This, Edgar, is what your mind looks like on default. Safe mode. Any other metaphor you'd like to make. This is what your mind looks like when there's nothing there to clog it up, no mortal plane or petty responsibilities. Rather blank, hmm?"

Sure. Uh huh.

"Well then, why are we here? If I'm dead, like you say, then why am I in my head rather than in Heaven?"

Scriabin seemed to enjoy the fact that Edgar was playing along. "Think of it as a detour, although I don't know why you'd want to come here. It's rather depressing once you think about it. A gigantic realm of pure possibility without the chains of logical limitations and all you can think of is nothing. Not even a chair or anything."

He's lying to me.

Scriabin continued. "I think it's interesting how here, where you have full control over everything you do and see, over the entire area we're in, you're still the same. You could technically look like anything you want to here. And look at you." He pointed at his own face, beneath his eyes that were hidden behind his reflective glasses."You've still got those scars."

Well, how was I supposed to know I could change my appearance here anyway?

"Scriabin, I have no reason to believe you." There was a pause as Edgar looked him over again, despite how sick it made him feel. "And I hardly think you're one to judge on how I would decide to look, considering you've made yourself out to look rather handsome."

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." Scriabin smiled and then turned away to the vast blank whiteness. His trench coat followed his movement at a bizarrely slow speed. "This place is defined by your thoughts, not mine. Therefore, my appearance would only reflect badly on you. That's beside the point though. As I said before, there is no god. It's because of me that you're here at all. I thought this would be a good chance to spend some quality time with you."

Lying to me again. Well, no matter what he does, he's not getting the upper hand here.

"Yes, that all sounds very pretty but you've given me no reason to believe anything you're saying. You've lied to me before and you're probably lying now. This must be some kind of lucid dream you're using to try and trick me while I'm unconscious."

"I can see why this place is so barren." Scriabin crossed his arms. "You're so skeptical. Believing so strongly in one thing that nothing else is even a possibility."

What?

He turned back towards him and pointed upwards. "But since I can sense your curiousity, I'll explain a bit further. Your beliefs aren't entirely incorrect, but they aren't entirely correct either."

The enjoyment Scriabin took at abruptly changing the subject just when it approached Edgar's initial question was quite palpable. "Do you find it as curious as I do that when you have the opportunity, you make me look beautiful while you don't change your own appearance?"

Edgar ignored the question. "I still have no reason to believe you. Despite all your metaphysical babbling, you've given me no proof as to whether or not this is the afterlife. I don't exactly have a good reason to trust you."

Scriabin shrugged.

"Fine, don't believe me if it makes it easier for you. Never mind that you saw the whole universe dissolving before you passed out but hey! That was all a dream, right?"

That's right, he did recall...seeing something. But things were so hazy at that point...

"It doesn't matter to me whether you meet up with the lawn gnome or not. In fact, I'd rather you not meet him, that would make things awkward for the both of us. Anyway, that's not what I really brought you here to discuss after you've shuffled rather pathetically off this mortal coil. There's something more important I want to talk to you about."

Edgar turned away from Scriabin while he was talking. He was trying to find a way out of this white place, or at least some kind of tangible borders, vertical or horizontal. He tested the air with his hand in a few directions and met no resistance, but still had no sense of true distance. It was really disorienting.

I want to get out of here.

There was a pause in the conversation that was almost deafening and Edgar considered turning around to look at Scriabin, but found that he had no desire to do so. Every time he looked at Scriabin he felt his heart jump into his throat and his stomach turn. Something felt very wrong and yet very familiar about him, particularly seeing him in motion, and that familiarity was trying to trigger some emotion or acceptance in Edgar's mind of something he didn't want to think about. He felt his heartbeat rise as he even glanced over it. What Scriabin could mean. What Scriabin's presence could possibly mean.

"This is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Curiousity did kill the cat.

When Edgar turned, his previous surprise at seeing Scriabin come to life was nothing compared to what he felt now. He fell back against the white but since there didn't seem to be a floor, he didn't fall...or at least, he didn't feel himself falling in the strictest sense of the word. His hand leapt to his chest and clutched his shirt closest to his heart as he let out a sharp, pained gasp. It rasped through his chest with almost a coherent word. He stepped back again as Scriabin floated serenely towards him, apparently a bit more acquainted with the physics of this area than Edgar was.

But he had seen...but how...no...

"Oh, don't look so surprised." Oh God. Oh God. That mocking voice...this is wrong. This is so wrong.

The sheer enjoyment in Scriabin's voice was quite evident as he leaned in close to Edgar, his now dark-blue hair brushing against him. "I told you you could change your appearance here."

Edgar tried to scramble away from him again at the contact but Scriabin simply floated after him, still smiling. God, it was wrong to see that sadistic sarcastic smile on...on his face. On Johnny's...

"Scriabin, that's just sick." Edgar finally blurted out, his voice revealing more emotion than he would have liked. At the sound of his distress Scriabin laughed again, this time genuine enjoyment at the effect of his new body's appearance. He rested one claw-like finger on his chin as he looked upwards in a mockery of a scholarly way. Seeing Johnny's body do this, even if Scriabin was controlling it, made Edgar nauseous.

This is so wrong so wrong so wrong he shouldn't be able to do this how can he do this how can he do this oh God you can't do that you can't he's dead how could you

"Not exactly the reaction I was expecting, but interesting nonetheless."

God, everything about Johnny was perfectly imitated. From the dark stringy hair to his thin skeletal bone structure...even his clothes had been perfectly recreated right down to his boots. And yet, in Johnny's facial expression, Edgar could see Scriabin inside, just using the body as if it were some kind of marionette. He could see in the sadistic glee behind Johnny's eyes, the careful controlled expression as Scriabin thought of just the right way to exploit one of Edgar's weaknesses.

And here, he had found one of the biggest.

"Scriabin, this is wrong and I'm not going to be part of it." Edgar turned away from the Johnny-facsimile and crossed his arms, staring intently at his feet. Go away. Go away. Go away. Stop it and go away stop it right now you shouldn't be able to do this

"'Scriabin Vargas, you go to your room!'" Scriabin spoke in a mocking high tone. Edgar could hear the smile in his voice. "Edgar, you're going to have to sound angrier if you want people to take you seriously, and that's a big if."

Edgar crossed his arms tighter and tried to move as far away from Scriabin as he could in this strange place. Without distance, there was no way to increase it. He closed himself off as best he could in terms of body language, refusing to speak as if by ignoring Scriabin he could make him go away.

"Why are you shying away from me as if I'm going to attack you?" Scriabin asked in a lazy and somewhat smug way. "After all, you put so much trust into your relationship with Nny. Why on earth do you think that I would hurt you?"

Because you're not...

The sarcasm in Scriabin's voice hurt. "Oh that's right, this entire relationship is based on pain! On voluntary submission and eventual-but-quite-assured death! How could I forget that tiny detail?"

That's not true. It's not true.

Edgar shut his eyes and gripped his arms so hard he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. But he could feel Johnny's-...Scriabin's hand as it came to rest on his shoulder.

Almost paralyzed, Edgar could only mumble softly in response. "Don't touch me..."

Scriabin of course entirely ignored him, instead using the grip on his shoulder to bring Edgar closer to him as he rhapsodized to the sky.

"Ah, trying to shut me out again. I'm sorry to inform you that you can't ignore me here, not that you were particularly good at it back when you were alive. Another motivation for this conversation. This time we are going to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

Scriabin ignored him. "I remember it well. Don't you? I do. We were so young then, so naive and carefree. Back to the roots of all things. He let you go because he didn't need your blood, and then he called you for advice. Of course, back then you were more intelligent I would think. Not so much in need of my constant guidance. At any rate, it seems that as time goes by this relationship, and I'm not talking about ours my boy, has become something other than involuntary."

Not true. Not listening.

"Oh, I remember it well. Those little screaming arguments we had some time ago, if you recall, about how you just wanted to observe Johnny, just watch him and find out why he was insane, that you just wanted to stay alive, you didn't have any emotion invested in him, about how you weren't a bad person even though you did bad things..."

The tone that Scriabin used was a perfect imitation of that long-ago argument and, in response to the words, Edgar felt a familiar stab of rage. He wasn't-

"But what is it then, Edgar? What's your justification? Johnny just forcing you into this relationship? Just dragging you down and yet of course you've done nothing wrong? Yes, that's right. You're so totally innocent in this entire mess. Nothing you ever did was your fault, no. Nothing you ever instigated was your idea and look at where you are! Imagine, actually physically fighting someone, or at least pathetically attempting to, to protect a homicidal maniac from further pointless damage. What did it all come to? Now you're dead. You're dead because of him and still, you deny that it's your fault."

It's not-

"It's not my fault-"

Scriabin ignored him as he pulled Edgar closer. "You're so deluded into thinking that you're normal and without faults, that this entire relationship happened without your input and you have no part in maintaining its existence, but let's face it, Edgar. This is the only relationship that you have, as much as you pretend you don't need them, and it takes two to tango even if it's in blood. It took two people to use that phone and two people to hold hands and hug." A squeeze on his shoulder to emphasize the point. "I'm sure you remember that. That didn't quite turn out the way we expected, did it? But nothing can really be predicted in this elaborate farce of a real human connection. This is your relationship, Edgar, one that you're mistakenly and bizarrely proud and protective of, and it's getting worse one day at a time. The only relationship in your life that you have and that you tried to protect, to save, is masochistic, twisted, and shamelessly self-destructive."

He was only half-listening, focusing more on the physical sensation of Johnny's imitated body. "Don't..."

Despite his efforts to break away, Edgar's body refused to respond to his directions. He just stood there shaking as Scriabin steadily drew him closer as he spoke. Could shut his eyes but do little else. Whether or not it was Scriabin's influence or it was just the rush of confusion and disgust and everything just crashing in on him, robbing him of his free will, he couldn't say.

He tried. He really tried but in the end he could not resist. The most he could do was raise a hand to feebly press against Scriabin's chest. And God, even touching the fake Johnny's body made him shudder all over. He could feel the ribcage just as before, he could feel the bones underneath his hand.

Scriabin snaked his other arm around Edgar's waist and kept a firm grip on his shoulder, keeping him from moving. He wanted to move. Instead, he could feel the bones that he thought he knew so well pressing against his side, his shoulder, his chest and legs. Johnny's impossibly thin body doing things that God no God no stop stop it this is wrong no stop it

As Scriabin pressed his head beneath Edgar's chin, breathing across his throat softly, Edgar tried as hard as he could to get away. To get away, but all he could do was lean his head back, his teeth clenched as he hissed softly.

He felt just like him and that was what made this as horrible as it was.

"Scriabin..." He was struggling but he couldn't move. Something prevented it. The presence near him, the same deathlike presence of Johnny so near to him prevented it.

"But that's the whole point, isn't it?" Scriabin whispered, the flow of breath across his skin causing Edgar to shiver uncontrollably. He tried to push him away but his body wasn't responding. Not the way he wanted it to. "The pious little fortune cookie loves to be dominated. Controlled. Why else would you trust your life to some father figure that doesn't exist? Follow his rules, submit to his will, punish yourself for breaking imaginary laws. And you like it, Edgar. You're proud of it. You're not ashamed to admit it and yet now, you fight against it."

stop oh God please stop stop it stop it i don't want to hear this it isn't true if i could if i could move i would move why can't i move why won't he shut up i don't want to hear this i don't want to hear this it's not true it was never true it'll never be true i don't want to hear this please please please stop please make him stop please something stop make him stop make him stop make it stop i want control again i want to run i want to run i don't want to hear this i don't want to hear this it's not true i'm not like that and i wouldn't do something like this and johnny wouldn't do something like this its all a lie this has to all be a lie

The thin bones moved and shifted against him, falling in and out of place in a way that was sickeningly familiar.

Scriabin's lower hand drifted and his voice remained at a throaty whisper coming from the wrong throat. "Shameful, really."

stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop don't stop stop stop stop stop

The brief touch of teeth against his skin. "It turns you on."

You're lying.

A flash of fury that apparently only those words could trigger rushed through him, strong enough to give his body the ability to move. With a quick jerky motion, he threw his arm up and pushed Scriabin away from him.

"Get off me!"

Scriabin simply floated backwards as if Edgar's movement had not affected him at all. He had a pleased expression on his face, one that Edgar had never seen Johnny get. Ever. And it made him feel sick again.

"Look, I've tolerated your taunting and insults long enough!" Edgar advanced on him, one hand clenched in a fist at his side while his other pointed at him accusingly. "I'm not going to stand here while you use Nny's body to..."

He felt his breath catch as he tried to even talk about what had just happened. "To hit on me! I'm leaving!"

Edgar turned away from Scriabin and began walking.

Only a few minutes passed in thankful silence before he could hear Scriabin's voice from somewhere.

"You know the funny thing about nothing, Edgar?"

Scriabin appeared in front of him so quickly that Edgar could not contain a short gasp of surprise.

"It loops in on itself."

Surprise was quickly replaced with rage. Scriabin settled into a curious detached pose as he regarded Edgar clinically.

"You know what I think is interesting? Your reaction to me being all sexual and touchy-feely. Do you really expect a relationship like this to last?"

There is no relationship-

"Wait, no. I remember now. He's going to kill you because he loves you so very much, not make love to you. Unbelievable."

He wouldn't-

Edgar refused to respond, instead only shaking with visible anger. Scriabin looked at him and smiled in a condescending way.

"Would you prefer me to act ambivalent, moody, and distant? Is that the only relationship you're comfortable with? After all, that would match your god's profile pretty well, wouldn't it?"

Had to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Scriabin, let me out of here. I am sick of you. I'm sick of your lies."

Scriabin turned away from him, moving his hand in an imitation of someone talking. "'My name is Edgar! I deny everything!'"

Pure rage.

Normally he refrained from attacking others but at this point, it was all he could think of to do.

"While we're picking people apart for their mistakes, what about you, Scriabin?" Edgar hadn't thought this through all the way yet, but the way that Scriabin's borrowed body tensed showed that it had some affect. He quickly tried to find something to focus on. "You've built up this elaborate fixation on my 'relationship' with Nny to the point of using his body to hit on me!"

Scriabin turned and stared at Edgar and to his total surprise, he looked completely shocked. He had attacked Scriabin before but apparently nothing had ever quite hit this home. With a weakness to latch onto, Edgar thought and spoke quickly.

"Not only do you assign me flaws that you just make up, you belittle me for flaws that I don't have that you project onto me! Jesus, you're more afraid of Nny than I am!"

The look of shock on Scriabin's face was priceless.

Then there was a flicker near his darkly rimmed eyes.

A small pair of spectacles had appeared on Johnny's face. With them came Scriabin's stumbling and halting words.

"Well I...I um, you...you're not supposed to-"

"Where'd those glasses come from?" Edgar's confusion prevented him from reveling in his success for a few moments.

"What glasses?" And sure enough, they were gone.

"You had glasses a minute ago." Edgar pointed at him, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of confidence and superiority. Scriabin was definitely on the defensive now. And God, that felt good.

Scriabin finally got over his surprise and held out his hands as if to stop the current direction of the conversation. "Okay look, this isn't about me, this is about you."

Edgar could not resist. "Not exactly the response I was expecting, but interesting nonetheless."

Scriabin crossed his arms. He was visibly annoyed now. That was an expression on Johnny that Edgar felt more comfortable with. "I find this sudden attack on me unsettling. Considering who I am, that doesn't reflect well on your self-image."

He's trying to get out of this but failing. I've got him.

And with strange ease, Edgar fell into a very similar tone of voice that Scriabin always used. Condescending superiority. "You know, I've never seen you this flustered. Or heard you, as the case may be. You're contradicting yourself. Is it because I'm fighting back? You know, for someone who complains about me being too passive, you sure don't like it when I stand up to you."

Scriabin held up a hand as if to stop Edgar from talking and closed his eyes. Now that he had the advantage, Edgar wasn't about to shut up.

"You know, I can see why you like tearing people down so much. It's kind of fun."

With a gesture of his hand, spectacles appeared from the nothing and fell gently into Scriabin's thin fingers.

With a sigh, Scriabin put the small spectacles on and glared at Edgar in annoyance. "All right, allow me to explain. I hid these glasses because they are a comfort item. I do believe you recall that whenever you feel particularly weak, your glasses are missing. And you do recall that every time you put your glasses on, you feel more strong and capable. When you feel weak or helpless, your glasses make you feel better. You have this association, I have this association. I hid them because I didn't want to embarrass you."

The sight of those spectacles on Johnny's face was enough to make his stomach lurch again. It was another reminder of exactly what Scriabin was doing. "You're lying and you take those off."

Scriabin blinked at him and then smiled in an excited way. "Wait a minute, do these glasses bother you? Does the concept of Nny in glasses bother you?" Edgar's stubborn silence answered that question. "How interesting!"

He sounded sincere.

That didn't last long.

As quickly as Edgar had latched onto Scriabin's perceived weakness, Scriabin turned on him.

He had a great deal more experience in this field.

"It's another thing that you and Nny share this way. That's what's creeping you out, isn't it? The thought of you and Nny getting closer and closer. It ruins your image of superiority."

Edgar did not want to hear this. Not after his near-victory. He turned away from Scriabin and crossed his arms, closing his eyes.

"I don't-...just take them off, okay?"

He could feel Scriabin approaching him from behind, a few strands of his hair touching the back of his neck.

"What bothers you more, Edgar? The thought of Nny being sane or you being crazy?"

"Stop it."

Scriabin rested his fingers against Edgar's shoulder and leaned in close to him, his mouth beside his ear. Before Edgar could truly react, his other hand reached and removed Edgar's glasses.

And before he could do anything to respond to Scriabin's unwelcome proximity, something happened.

He could feel it, the breath passing by his ear and flowing past his scarred cheek. He could feel the air leave Johnny's body under Scriabin's control. The knowledge that Scriabin was in control of that body, not Johnny, was what had sustained Edgar through most of this torment.

But this. This was cruel.

The words came from Scriabin with the perfect accompanying body motions. It unmistakably came from him, from that body.

And within those words, the thorns. The thorns that he had known for so long, that had always been present. The same cadence, the same strange broken tone, the same soft dangerous voice.

But it was those thorns, those sharp and dangerous thorns, that proved the validity of these words as unmistakably Nny's, unmistakably from Johnny C.'s vocal cords. Not Scriabin. Not Edgar. No.

And the thorns jabbed into his heart and caused him to give a gasp of surprise, cause his body to fill with adrenaline, with utter panic and shock. To fill with the strange feeling that he did not know or understand because he had never felt or expected to feel it. Nothing in his life had ever prepared him for something like this.

The words came from Johnny in the perfect, absolutely flawless imitation of his voice as he felt his thin hand resting against his shoulder, his cold skin against his own, his body against his back.

"Edgar, I love you."

And something in his mind snapped.

He gave a strangled, shocked noise as if someone had struck him and he nearly collapsed, his mouth frozen open. The heat rushing to his face felt almost blinding and he could see absolutely nothing. The feeling of his glasses was gone and all that was around him was white and the words kept repeating through his head with the perfect danger in each syllable. Every logical part of his mind tried to disprove it, tried to stop it, tried to erase it, but it kept running through his head on repeat, over and over and over with the sensations from before, the feeling of Johnny's body pressed against his back and on his shoulder and the feel of his breathing and he couldn't deny that, no matter how many times he told himself it was Scriabin because it was just too much, just too much...

Edgar was struggling to breath correctly, his lungs refusing to cooperate as he tried to erase what happened, tried to justify it. Tried to reduce the utter horror he felt at those words, the pure and utter horror and terror and fear at those sharp words that cut right through every logical thing he could say. It cut through every small hope that he had for himself and for Johnny, it cut through everything and why not after all that was what thorns did and it was fear he felt that was all he could feel anything else would be wrong and this was definitely fear it had to be fear and oh God

Scriabin had moved away from him some time ago, although he still stood behind him. He hadn't said anything as he watched and probably enjoyed Edgar writhing in a mental paradox of emotion. Despite the fact that he had probably succeeded beyond his expectations, his voice sounded very quiet and level although there was a hint of a smile in his words.

"Not a bad impression, hmm? It certainly impressed you, if that's the word for it."

Edgar could not respond. He wouldn't respond. Not now. He couldn't say anything except incoherent mixtures of syllables. Scriabin watched him for a few seconds before speaking again. This time his tone was dead serious.

"You know what the saddest part is?"

He couldn't breathe.

Scriabin spoke with deliberate slowness so that not one word would be missed. "That's the only time you will ever hear him say that."

And he was right.

Somehow, this had some effect on Edgar. Perhaps it pushed his overworked emotional state over the brink right into apathy again. Perhaps it was because Scriabin had admitted that he had imitated Johnny's voice that made it a little easier to swallow. Either way, he could breathe again.

When Edgar spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. "Give me back my glasses."

There was a silence as he was sure Scriabin was staring at him in disbelief.

The heat was still present on Edgar's face, but he didn't want to touch his scars. He didn't want Scriabin to see that.

"I find it deplorable and shameful that in a realm of infinite possibility, you still try to shift responsibility to someone else. Do you fear control?"

I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't want to talk to you ever again.

"I just want them back."

Scriabin glared at him.

"Get them yourself."

He wasn't sure if he hadn't already been pushed over the edge by Scriabin's torment, but if he hadn't, he was certainly close to losing it now. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes once again, his only remaining method of shutting Scriabin out.

I made you so obey me and give me my glasses God I hate you so much why are you doing this to me

"You almost make this painful." Scriabin sighed in a bored fashion and spoke with obvious distaste. "Here." Edgar felt his glasses being pressed into his hand. "You're pathetic. You can believe in a big daddy god with all your heart, but not enough in yourself to make a single pair of glasses."

I don't want to hear this.

Edgar sighed as he put his glasses back on. The aftermath of all that emotion had left him feeling tired and drained. The exact memory of what happened was already fading as his mind struggled to repair its shattered defense system. Move along as if it never happened. "Look, I'm tired and I want to go home. If you want to argue circles about something that isn't important, fine, but can't we do it at home? I don't even care anymore. And-"

There was a sudden tightening around his neck that cut off his sentence.

Puzzled, Edgar tried to reach upwards to investigate but found that his hands were not responding. When he looked down, he saw that his hands were not only tied together quite tightly with leather straps but another longer cord ran from them down into the white until it faded into nothing, preventing him from lifting his hands at all. From the pressure against the bottom of his throat when he looked down, he assumed that there was something of a collar there. When he tried to step back, he found that the same bonds that had tied his hands had also formed around his legs, preventing him from moving anywhere.

While Edgar was making these discoveries, Scriabin was talking but not looking at him.

"And you're worried about Johnny and no, you don't have to say it because we both know it's true, so let's dispense with the formalities. You know, giving away control of your own mental world leaves you open to some rather embarrassing situations."

Scriabin turned and raised an eyebrow at Edgar, who was clearly not very happy. "You see? No good can ever come of absolving yourself of responsibility."

With a few more gestures, a leash appeared in Scriabin's hand with a metal clasp. At the sight of it, Edgar could feel every fiber in his being react, but bound as he was there was little he could do.

He did not want that on him.

But that didn't really matter, did it?

With no hesitation or fear of Edgar's potential resistance, Scriabin simply fastened the leash onto the collar.

And Edgar didn't do anything.

"Of course, if you don't like it, feel free to stop me." The sadistic joy was gone from Scriabin's voice. Instead, this was a challenge, albeit delivered in a rather monotone fashion.

His face was burning and God he hated that. "This is insulting and degrading to both of us. Let me go."

Why is he doing this to me

Scriabin did not respond verbally. Instead, he wrapped the leash around his fist and tugged on it sharply, causing Edgar to nearly fall forward. He kept the line taut as Edgar tried to fight against it.

"Scriabin..."

Inexorably, Scriabin dragged Edgar to the ground using the leash. He stared at him with utter distaste and disappointment as Edgar struggled to break free and failed. Unable to do anything, Edgar was forced to kneel in front of Scriabin, the tight grip on the binding forcing him to look up to his own figment.

With a measure of frustration, Scriabin spoke down to Edgar.

"You get down on your knees. I'm dominating you. I own you, Edgar. Your actions are mine, ordained by my logic. I control your emotion. I control your thought. You're below me. You've always been below me and if you've ever had the balls to fight for yourself or your dignity, get up. Make these bindings disappear and believe in yourself. Find your god damn spine."

So this has a point.

Edgar shut his eyes and tried as hard as he could to make the bindings disappear. To undo the clasps and locks, untie the knots, and make them go away. Make it all go away. He focused as hard as he could.

And when he opened his eyes, he was still bound. Only this time a new tightness had formed around his chest. When he looked upwards, he found that a series of whitish ropes now ascended from his back, stretching into the white like some strange empty wings. The ropes tied themselves around his chest and arms, tightening with each breath.

Scriabin looked at the new bindings without surprise.

"I suppose that answers my question then. Pathetic."

He had tried, he had really really tried and somehow, all he had done is get himself more tied up. Why? He could not think of an answer. Everything had been focused on getting rid of these bindings, not creating more of them.

He had asked Scriabin for advice since he had first heard his voice. Without thought, that was what Edgar did now.

His voice was soft and confused. "What's happening to me..."

He didn't expect sympathy.

"My goodness, Edgar, surely this blatant and rather unsubtle symbolism isn't lost on you, is it? Do I have to explain this as well? You must at least be able to understand the wing-like structure those bindings took."

Why did I say anything I don't want to hear this shut up

The tightness around his chest was growing in intensity and he felt heavy. He could feel himself growing heavier and he realized that more and more chains were forming around his limbs, tying him down.

Scriabin stood lazily, reaching out for a stray rope that was hanging near him. With a single pull, Edgar was lifted off whatever floor this place had, suspended by the ropes that now not only expanded from his back, but from the collar and from the bindings around his legs as well. Now he was truly and completely helpless, incapable of moving at all.

Scriabin's normally sarcastic voice now had a definite vicious edge. "You're trying to break free so I won't tell you anymore, aren't you?"

The clink of chains as they continued to wrap around his legs.

"You're getting more and more restrained as you give me more and more control. Your attempts at freedom only equal more control because you shouldn't be trying to escape from me. You hate me so much and yet you give me so much power."

In the depths of his confusion and hatred, Edgar resorted to his most primal defense mechanism.

"Scriabin, this is all a lie. I didn't do this to myself, you did it to me. You're trying to trick me into dropping my defenses and admitting that I need or give power to you when I don't. These bindings are your idea and your fault, not mine. This dream isn't under my control, it's under yours. If I could break free, I would have already. Obviously, I cannot break away because this dream is really not my creation, as you have claimed. For all you statements of this world being under my control, obviously it isn't. It's your world that you're using to convince me that I'm weak and I'm not weak. I have no reason to believe anything you say."

Scriabin walked up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, placing a finger on Edgar's lips.

"Shut up."

The hands moved upwards to cup Edgar's face, forcing eye contact with Scriabin. While before Johnny's eyes reflected Scriabin's presence, now they reverted to their familiar haunted look. With that change came the instinctual fear of Johnny, particularly considering the position Edgar was currently in.

His expression changed to that soft reverent one that Edgar had seen at that movie theater. The one that had shown him that Johnny was capable of emotion. Capable of being human. The one that had punched a huge hole into his method and beliefs around Johnny, had forced him to reconsider-

"Oh Edgar..."

Oh God NO not the voice again not the voice oh God please no

With perfect intonation, Scriabin spoke. The thorns dug into his words and into Edgar's mind, searing it with the flawless record of Johnny's speech.

This isn't Johnny this isn't Johnny this isn't Johnny it might sound like him but it's not him oh God it isn't him

"Edgar, you're the kindest person I've ever met." With perfect sincerity as Scriabin gently ran his hand across Edgar's face, a thin fingertip brushing across the scar beneath Edgar's eyes.

God, the mental pain this caused Edgar was almost enough to make him scream. The sound of his voice, the body, everything. It was like his dreams. It was like a dream.

Fear. His body was flooded with fear. Nothing but fear. His thought processes sped, desperately forming escape plan after escape plan and then abandoning them before they got past the halfway point. His entire body shuddered and he could feel his stomach clenching along with most of his muscles, all desperately trying to escape the bindings that were at current fulfilling their purpose all too well. The familiar sense of nausea came along with the terror, as if somehow vomiting could possibly help him in a horrifying situation such as this. He couldn't blame that entirely on the fear though, he had felt sick ever since he had showed up here.

The movement the bindings allowed him were jerky and quick, tests of the strength of his restraints even though he was well aware they would not give. He knew that the straps around his wrists were far stronger than the force he could exert that his current leverage would allow, but he kept incessantly testing them despite the futility of each effort. Perhaps the memory of each failed attempt was perpetually erased from Edgar's mind as he tried to focus on anything other than the horror in front of him. Perhaps this was all just another of Edgar's desperate attempts to gain control, through classification and measurements of how far he could test a rope before he could go no further, of a situation that had already spiraled far out of his grasp. At this point Edgar was in no position to argue one way or another. His personal opinion of his motivation was just slightly colored.

That and he was far too frightened for true rational thought.

"I admire you and you give me strength."

God stop it STOP IT

"SHUT UP!" Edgar finally managed to speak, his voice tremulous and high. He tried to turn his face away from Johnny- Scriabin but the hands on his face prevented him, their bones digging into him, forcing him to still stare at him. Forcing him to look at this living lie. Forcing him to look at

I won't look at it no I won't I won't this is a lie it's a lie it's a lie it has to be a lie because he would never say that he can't say that and he wouldn't say that this can't be real.

Edgar couldn't look away. Scriabin's expression was sincere and contrite. He mimicked Johnny's voice so perfectly, so painfully. He looked at Edgar with adoration that was so wrong.

"STOP IT! STOP IT!" Edgar screamed as if there was anyone present could help him.

Scriabin moved closer to him and ran one of his hands up into Edgar's hair, entangling itself in the short strands. He felt his entire scalp tingle at the contact and his face burned horribly. He felt as if his scars were bleeding again. He felt as if he were breaking apart. The ropes around his chest only tightened. They grew tighter and he was losing feeling to his legs, losing feeling to everything.

You can handle this this is all a dream it isn't happening you can handle this Edgar you've done it before you've done it before you can do it again just calm down just calm down you have to calm down you have to calm down you have to calm down and

Detach

"I need you." Scriabin looked at Edgar and he sounded so sincere. He sounded so sincere that Edgar wanted to punch him in the face.

"JUST SHUT UP!"

Nothing he said made a difference. Nothing he said did anything. It was as if Scriabin were replaying a memory, replaying a fantasy or a dream with pre-planned lines and roles. He ran Edgar's hair through his hand as he got closer to him, ran his hand across his collarbone, along the edge of his shirt. He caressed his neck with such care that it was impossible. This wasn't Scriabin that he knew, this wasn't anything, wasn't anything real. How could someone who hated him so much be so careful, put on such a perfect show of adoration...

"You're such a good person." Such love and devotion.

He couldn't detach.

He was trying and he couldn't. He couldn't detach anymore. He could feel every movement that Scriabin was making, each shift of his fingers across his skin, he could feel the trails that he left as he traced his way up Edgar's face, running a soft finger across his scars. The gentleness of this action caused Edgar's entire face to twitch.

The thorns in his speech were softening to the special tone that Edgar had only heard Johnny use with him. That tone that was reserved for him. That softer, gentler tone because Johnny accepted him as an equal.

What if Johnny's trying to make you Devi?

What if Johnny loves you, Edgar

What if Johnny loves you, Edgar

What if, Edgar, what if

"I would never hurt you."

And even the sense of regret came through his words, that promise that Johnny would not hurt him again. That sick twisted sense of sorrow that he could hear whenever Johnny tried to apologize but couldn't because his pride or dementia prevented him. And now there was nothing. There was nothing preventing what he had always hoped he would say. What he had never hoped he would say. What he would never say. Pure wrong escaping from Johnny's lips.

He could not detach. He could not detach. He was trying. All he could do was repeat one word to himself over and over and over again through panicked and tumultuous thoughts.

No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no nnno no no

Scriabin leaned in closer. His nails scraped against Edgar's scalp as his fingers tightened around his hair and his other hand began to explore down Edgar's back. His face was getting closer, close enough so that when he spoke, Edgar could feel his breath. Close enough that Edgar felt the urge to close his eyes and he could not say why.

He could not stop shaking.

His face burned so that he was sure that Scriabin could feel the heat emanating from his skin. He could feel something making its way down his face, leaving twin cooling trails.

Oh god please stop please stop I don't want to do this I don't want to hear this I don't want to hear this I don't want to do this or feel this or see this or hear this or feel this I don't want this please stop please stop I'm begging you I'm begging you please let me go please stop please I'll do anything just don't do this to me anymore just stop doing this

"You've fixed me, Edgar." Johnny...Scriabin said softly. Edgar wanted to break free. He tried to move his arms but they refused to listen. He could not move his body. There was such an overflow of emotion at the moment it was a miracle that he could think clearly at all.

I want you to fix me. I want you to fix me. I think you can fix me. You're not like the others. You're not like the others. I've grown somewhat fond of you. I like you. Thank you. Thank you. You're not like the others. I want you to fix me. I want you to fix me. You'll be beautiful. You'll be beautiful just like the others. You'll understand. You always understand me.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

I don't hear the voices when I'm here. They're too far away. I don't hear things now. I don't hear things when I'm here. I don't hear things. It's safe here. It's safe here. I can feel safe here. I can think here. Your house is quiet. It's very quiet. I want you to fix me. I think you can fix me. I trust you. I trust you to fix me. I trust you to fix me.

"I love you so much, Edgar..."

I'm going to kill you, Edgar.

"No..." Edgar whimpered. "Please..."

With the slowness of someone who knows their prey can't escape, Scriabin closed in. And just as he expected, Edgar did not even move. He did not even try to resist. He had tried everything in his mental arsenal to defend himself. Everything had failed. Everything. Now he was defenseless, bound in leather straps and ropes of his own creation. Without even the motivation to move. He did not try to resist because at this point, he found that resistance was futile.

He could not resist. A pervasive web of probability that couldn't be brushed aside.

The fingers in his hair clenched tightly, causing sharp pain that Edgar barely registered. The hand that had been moving in slow circles around the ropes of his back now took hold of his shoulders, dragging him forward. Why not. Johnny was forceful and direct in everything he did. Why not this.

He had tried everything. He had tried everything and nothing worked. He had nothing now. He could not detach. He was present when Scriabin kissed him. He was there and he did not even try to pretend it wasn't happening. He didn't try to rationalize it, understand what it meant, explain it away as metaphysically as possible. He didn't try to ignore the sharp pain from his tense grip, the pressure on his shoulder as Scriabin pulled him in tightly. He didn't ignore the sensation of Scriabin forcing his lips open and did not even try to stop him.

There was no point.

There was no point anymore.

He could not deny anything anymore. He could not stop him. He had no power.

No power.

He had never had power in his relationship with him ever. Why now.

Teeth closed on his lip with sickening confidence and he tasted pennies. Even in the face of this sudden sharp pain, of this sudden stabbing hurt accompanied by the uncomfortable sensation of loose, now-dead skin hanging from his wounded lip, he could not muster the energy to even react physically. His jaw remained slack and, discounting the initial instinctive jerk the bite had illicited, he did not move. His tongue did not move even as it was felt by Johnny's, even as the growing blood began to swell around his taste buds which did not improve his previous nausea. He didn't move at all. The pain dulled to a throbbing ache. Still, he did not move. Johnny did not notice. After all, it wasn't as if Johnny was trying to get Edgar to participate in the kiss.

He knew better.

Edgar had always been passive. Everything he had ever done was passive.

He could not rationalize this away. Make the copper fade. Every thought and reminder that this was merely a dream that Scriabin was controlling, mere thought manipulation was gone. Constricting strings of touch and voice.

He was going to accept this.

He already had accepted this.

His entire life was acceptance.

I'm not scared of death.

A heaven for me, and a hell for you.

I have nothing to fear.

And he was right.

This wasn't fear. Not right now.

When Scriabin broke away, the adoring look he had imitated was gone. Instead he looked disappointed and disgusted. Normal. He ran a hand across his lips, a faint trail of pink marking a skeletal hand. He stared at Edgar as if he had failed some test.

And he had failed.

Edgar desperately tried to reconcile what had happened, tried to piece everything back together into some kind of logical whole that was anything except what had just happened but it all kept crashing down on him, crashing down.

That would be what it would have felt like. Scriabin had imitated Johnny perfectly, even how Johnny would go about biting Edgar if he decided to do so. That would be what it felt like.

They were so in love and I loved them so much. And now I can look back on them and they're still so beautiful. Someday, when I look back on Edgar, it will be just as beautiful.

No...no, I don't hate you.

It's not supposed to be a bad thing. I like you, you know.

You...you don't want me to hate you...?

God no...no no no no...

Nny...I wouldn't...hate you. I don't hate you now.

Listen to me. I am going to hurt you. And when the time comes, I am going to kill you.

I want to fix you.

I want you dead.

Don't you get it! Don't you understand? That's all I have left!

I wish I knew something...anything...

I devoted precious time to it...

I'd rather not die...

Edgar...

"God..." The first word that Edgar could finally say. Tightening. He couldn't breathe. "God I...I..."

If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman,

"I..."

both of them have committed an abomination;

"I c-can't..."

they should surely be put to death.

"I..."

A heaven for me, and a hell for you.

A heaven for me, and a hell for you.

Heaven for me, Hell for you.

Heaven for me, Hell for you.

Heaven

He shut his eyes. He couldn't. It was the last thing that he had left.

It was the only thing he had left.

"I c-can't, I...you...s-so...so much i-it...it hurts..."

And it loosened.

The ropes, the wires, the straps, everything that had wrapped around him began to dissolve, began to fade away and fall to strips, fall apart.

And he slowly fell to the white, slowly and without emotion.

Scriabin knelt beside him and stared at the remnants of empty wings.

"And it all comes tumbling down."

I can't. I can't. It's my life. It's all that I have. It's my life. It's mine. I can't let it be taken away. I can't let myself do this. I can't let myself...I can't let Scriabin do this to me. I can't let him take away the one thing that gives my life meaning. I can't let him do this. I won't let him do this.

I'm so broken. I'm broken. I want someone to turn me off and fix me.

I want to fix you.

I can't let myself do this. I can't do this. I can't. I won't. I can't.

Edgar felt deeply sick, more so from the overwhelming amount of emotion that had crashed on him than anything else, and now he was huddled in a miserable ball, staring vacantly into space as he tried to get himself under control.

I am under control.

The copper taste was fading. The annoying sensation of loose dead skin remained.

"Weep and wail, sob and shiver. It's okay, my boy." A smile. "After all, there's no one here but us. There's no need to hide your feelings, no need to conform to that standard of the emotionally withdrawn male. In fact, there is no way to hide your feelings, considering. So feel free to burst into tears at any time."

Edgar ignored him.

This didn't seem to bother Scriabin too much. He leaned over and picked up the scraps of a white rope between his fingers. He studied it as he spoke, his voice bored even as he smashed through any of Edgar's desperate attempts to rebuild. "You really do love this Johnny boy, or at least, what you wish he was."

No I don't. That's not true.

Anger.

Scriabin let the piece of rope fall. "Here I am, Edgar. Here's what you wish Johnny was and what Johnny's trying to be, and you're having a nervous breakdown. It's pathetic."

That's not what I want.

This isn't what I want.

This isn't what he wants.

"You're not Johnny."

It was not often that he sounded so surprised. "Excuse me?"

Edgar stared at Scriabin, trying to see behind those ringed and tired eyes to see his mental tormentor. His voice was even and emotionless. "You're not Johnny. You claim that I reject perfection as if you were perfect. As if this is somehow my fault that your 'perfection' nearly gave me a heart attack. But you're wrong. This isn't my fault. It's not my fault because you're not Johnny, in whatever form you take. You're not what I wish Johnny was and you can never be what I wish he was. You don't know what I wish he was. You know nothing about me if this is as close as you can get to the truth. If this is what you think is my perfection, then you're wrong. You're wrong. You can't turn this back on me. You can't claim this is my fault. It only reflects badly on you, Scriabin. It only shows that you had to resort to such desperate measures as to create a false Johnny to force confessions that aren't true. Another failed attempt to make what you claim to be me a reality."

Scriabin sat quietly through this. When Edgar finished, Scriabin simply stared at him.

It took a while before Scriabin apparently either formulated his response or managed to get over what Edgar had just said.

"Now wait a minute." Scriabin put a thin hand on his chest. "Are you saying that I made this all up? That I manipulated your mouth and used my marvelous powers of ventriloquism to make you say that you loved Johnny?"

I didn't say that. I'd never say that.

"You know what you did." Edgar rubbed at his face roughly, sure that his scars were bleeding. If they weren't before, they certainly were now. He rubbed at his lips for a moment with intentional disgust. The back of his hand came back clean.

Scriabin took on an air of offended dignity that sounded almost in-character for Johnny, which gave Edgar another surge of nausea. "Oh that's right, this was all my doing. I created this form, this voice, I created myself and your masochism, I made those straps and your tears and your confession, I made you do everything. It's all my fault. For god's sake, Edgar, do you ever take responsibility for yourself? Your actions? You can't foist your teary, Harlequin Romance Novel confession of your undying love for an emotionally crippled serial killer on me."

Edgar adjusted his glasses.

I didn't say that. I didn't say that.

"Go back to normal, Scriabin."

Annoyed, Scriabin just rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever."

And before Edgar could even register the change, Scriabin was back to his original form. Despite the fact that seeing this living version of his toy made Edgar feel sick, it was better than the alternative.

"Feel better?"

Edgar crossed his arms, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for a speech and also to try and calm his stomach. "Scriabin, listen to me. I'm not going to let you manipulate me anymore. The fact that you had to use visual and auditory cues to force a false 'confession' out of me, which you didn't, only shows your inability to do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. You're the one who's failing, not me. You're desperate."

As Edgar stood up, Scriabin tilted his head to follow the motion. It was hard to read his exact emotion with his eyes hidden. "Turning this back on me again? I'm afraid I'm not the one at fault here."

"Yes you are." Edgar stood and looked down at Scriabin who stared up at him without saying a word. "You've said it more times than I can count."

There was a moment of silence before Edgar held out his hand to him. Scriabin stared at it.

"You are me."

There was another moment of silence.

Scriabin slowly reached out and took Edgar's hand. As Edgar began to pull him upwards to lift him to his feet, he found himself speaking with a strange lack of emotion.

"You say that I'm a masochist, in love with a demon who's bent on my destruction. You talk about me absolving responsibility for my actions. For my 'relationship.' About trapping myself in lies, devoting myself to falsehoods, trapped in a downward spiral of learned helplessness to my inevitable destruction."

As Scriabin opened his mouth to make some kind of sarcastic comment, Edgar cut him off.

"Scriabin, you've told me countless times that I am you. Now that we're here, there's nothing that you could want less. Now for some reason you are intent on differentiating yourself from me. It's not our fault I forgot a book or something of that nature, it's mine. It's not our fault I act 'stupidly,' it's mine. It's not our fault that we're trapped in this mess, it's mine. We're not in love with-"

Scriabin made a very strange noise at this point which stopped Edgar for a few precious seconds, but he recovered before Scriabin could break into the conversation.

"We're not in love with Johnny." Edgar repeated. This time, Scriabin kept silent. Something about him was tense though. "I am. We're not masochistic, I am. Do you see my point? For all your talk about how you are me, about how I created you, about how you're part of me, you certainly don't want to take responsibility for my...or rather, our faults."

Scriabin stared up at him for a few minutes in silence before speaking in a voice laden with condescending sarcasm and hatred. "I'm you."

Scriabin yanked Edgar's arm down so sharply that Edgar almost toppled over. Instead, he came face to face with Scriabin who hissed at him in a very angry and spiteful way. "You listen to me, I am not you. I'm not this you, anyway. I'm not a pathetic needy shell of a man who is prone to self-destruction as a method of validating my existence. I recognize and avoid danger. I am what you should be. I am what you were. When you got your frontal lobotomy, courtesy Nny, I am what you lost."

"No you're not."

Edgar pulled his arm back hard, this time dragging Scriabin up with him. The two stood and stared at each other.

Scriabin smiled in an irritating way. His voice was pure hate. "Oh that's right, I'm not. I'm sorry, I must have been confused."

"You're lying to me. You've always lied to me."

"What? Do you want an apology?" Scriabin asked. Edgar narrowed his eyes and assumed that Scriabin did the same, although he could not tell. "What do you want me to say, Edgar?" He pronounced his name in a strange way. "What is it that you'd like me to say to erase everything that just happened? What would you like me to act like? What do you want me to be?"

"I don't want you at all." Edgar matched his hate. Scriabin tore his hand from Edgar's grip, holding it to his chest as he rubbed it without thought.

Scriabin's voice was quiet and emotionless. "Then tell me, Edgar, what is it that you want?"

He answered quickly and without thought. "Not you."

"No, I'm being quite serious here, Edgar." Scriabin spoke as slowly as possible. "What is it that you want? If what you said before is true," Scriabin turned to one side and crossed his arms, mocking his previous tone, "And after all, you've always lied to me, if that version of Johnny is not what you want, then what is it?"

Edgar crossed his arms and looked at his feet.

Scriabin leaned towards him, confident in having found a question that Edgar could not easily answer. He sneered at him. "What is it that you want, Edgar? If you don't want me, why did you make me?"

"I didn't make you." Edgar gritted through clenched teeth.

"Of course you made me. But no, I'm curious. What is it that you want, Edgar? What is it? Because I'm looking back, rifling through all the old files and memories in your brain, and I'm looking for some goal, some kind of thing to strive for, something to keep living for, and what have I found?"

Edgar pressed a hand to his forehead. He knew that saying it out loud did as much good as saying it internally, so why waste the vocal power?

I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear this. I want you to die.

"I've found nothing, Edgar." Scriabin had abandoned sarcasm, his voice instead now laden with intense vengeful hatred. "I've found absolutely nothing. You have no friends. You have no family. You have absolutely nothing. No one notices you. No one will ever notice you. You have accomplished nothing of any lasting importance in your entire life. You've never affected anyone for better or for worse. You wandered through life as a phantom, a pale imitation of what a person should be. You will be easily replaced because no one noticed you were there. Your life is nothing. Your entire life has just been a pantomime of what someone visible might act like, put on for an audience that will never see or care. And when you die, Edgar, you will die alone. You will die completely and utterly alone and it'll take two weeks for them to find your body."

Edgar put his hands over his ears.

"And they won't want to waste time burying you. They won't waste the space that could be taken up by someone people would actually remember. Someone people actually care about. They won't give you a decent burial. They'll take you to a place where there's everlasting ever-burning hellfire that consumes your flesh and when you're ashes, they'll scatter you to the wind and no one will care, Edgar. No one will care."

He was trying hard to block him out but he could hear the voice inside his head.

"So tell me, Edgar, if you don't want a loving, supportive relationship with someone who respects your opinions, who finds you strong and mature and a good person, if you don't want a loving supportive relationship with the one person in your life who actually sees you, then what do you want? What do you want from Johnny, Edgar? Has this entire charade of a relationship just been an elaborate way of committing suicide without getting your own blood on your hands?"

It's not the same...

"You're not Johnny. That wasn't him."

"You're so very astute." Scriabin's voice dripped venom. "But that's not my point, is it? My point is, is that what you want? My point, Edgar, is do you want to be happy? Do you want a happy, supportive relationship?"

"I don't want a lie." Edgar glared at him, struggling to ignore the implications of what he was saying. "I don't need a relationship and I don't need you to pretend to give me one. I don't need you to lie to me. I have a relationship anyway, I have something that governs my whole life, something that makes-"

"Do you, Edgar? Think about it. It's one of the ten commandments if I recall. 'Thou shalt not kill'-"

"I never killed anyone-"

"But you wanted to." Scriabin stared at him as his voice mimicked Edgar's attempts to remove emotion. "Do you remember? Those two teenagers in the movie theater? Who, because they interrupted Johnny's precious sane time, made you want them tortured? You wanted them tortured and you wanted to watch."

"I didn't-...that was different-"

"Do you know what their names were, Edgar? Were you paying attention? Did you recognize her before you died? That girl who escaped? That was her, Edgar. Did you notice she was alone? Have you thought about what that means? That means that that other boy she was with is gone now. He's dead. And to think, perhaps you could have done something. You could have stopped someone's death. I would venture to say that is, if not exactly equal to, quite high on the 'thou shalt not kill' meter of evil."

"What was I supposed to do?" He had gone over this with Scriabin before. He remembered, he remembered arguing and getting nowhere. Before he even had a name. "Could I have saved them? Did I have the power, at that point, to stop Nny from doing whatever he wanted? Did I?"

"Why are you asking me?" Scriabin cocked his head at him. "Why didn't you check?"

"Because..."

"If you say it's because he would have killed you, I would have to disagree. If you feared death so much, you would not have gone this far. You would not have accepted the fact that Johnny plans to kill you. That he will kill you, when he feels the time is right. You didn't want to stop Johnny because you wanted those two to suffer."

"I didn't-"

"And in the end, one of them died. And that's one of the commandments. Which reminds me, I had almost forgotten about it before you thoughtfully mentioned it during the sparkly bubbles and rose petals, but I believe there's a verse in Leviticus..."

If a man also lie with mankind as he lieth with a woman-

"I don't- I don't do- I don't do things like that. I don't do that."

"Do what?" Scriabin smiled. "Since I know as well as you do that you have not had any kind of contact with Nny that could even, at the most generous, resemble any kind of sex, then why such a reaction? Or do you interpret it a bit more vaguely? Apply it a bit further? I know, Edgar. That your version doesn't just end with 'lie with mankind as with a woman,' that your concern and mild panic attack do not just apply to the non-sex you and Nny constantly have. No. You've expanded it, Edgar, to that word you avoid as though following that male stereotype I mentioned before. Altered the translation just slightly, but just enough. 'If a man also loveth a man as he loveth a woman,' or something along those lines. You're better at this bible-talk than I."

Silence.

Scriabin finally shook his head. "It's the dreaded L-word, Edgar, as much as it pains me to call it that. You didn't say a single word and you act as if that's all that matters. As if not saying that word negates everything. As if the word is all that matters."

"No. I don't. Not with...not with anyone. Anyone except...well, certainly not- you can't make me say that I do, no matter what you try. You can't make me say anything. Everything you make me say is a lie."

"Then what am I, Edgar?" Scriabin held out his arms. "What does that make me?"

"I don't know! I don't care!" Edgar rubbed at his forehead as it began to throb. "I just don't want to talk about this anymore."

"What is it that you want, Edgar?"

Wish I knew something...anything...

I don't want to die. I'd rather not die.

Scriabin laughed softly.

"If you don't want me, if you don't want Johnny, if you don't want happiness, if you don't want death, what is it? What is it that you want? Is it Heaven? Because if it is, I'm afraid you're a little too dirty to go there now."

"No, I'm not."

"Here." Scriabin waved his hands over himself again and took the form of Johnny without missing a beat. Edgar again felt the choking surprise and nausea that came with the imitation but refused to show any such thing outwardly. "Tell me, is this what you want?"

"No."

"You do make this so difficult." Scriabin's hatred had diminished along the course of the conversation and his sarcastic lilt was back. He moved in front of Edgar, making sure he had his attention. "All right then, how about this?"

And with the blink of an eye, Scriabin had become a woman. Albeit, a feminine version of Johnny, but nonetheless a woman. The hair remained the same length, but the body shape changed without any kind of effort.

"This would clear up that nasty Leviticus business, wouldn't it?"

"No!" Edgar closed his eyes in disgust, pressing on his forehead in an effort to get the pain to stop. He was trying very hard not to think about what he was offering. "It doesn't change anything. That's not the issue."

"Oh? Then what is?" Scriabin reverted back to his original form. "What is it? What is it that you want? Johnny to be sane? You said that once. You said you wanted Johnny to be happy."

He did say that.

"Yes, but I didn't mean..."

"What? Now you don't want Johnny to be happy? Isn't that why you invited him over?"

"God, look, this is pointless! It's not important! I don't want to talk about it anymore!"

"Or would you just prefer that Johnny be happy without your input? Without your sacrifice? Would it make you happy to know that Devi will make Johnny happy someday?"

Edgar moved his hands so he could stare at Scriabin.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Scriabin smiled at him. "Oh, did I not mention that? Sure. Eventually someday, Devi and Johnny will be happy. She'll fix him, you know. They'll get married. Have kids. The whole deal."

"Oh..." Edgar really had no idea what to think of that. He had never really considered Johnny restarting a relationship with Devi, considering how disastrously it had ended last time, and-

"Ah! I heard that." Scriabin laughed in a cruel way. "You tried to cut it off, but yes. I can hear everything, you know. You thought you were important to him. Is that what you wanted, Edgar? Is that it? You wanted to make a difference?"

No...

"I guess that's the wish of every invisible man. You wanted to fix him, didn't you? Did you want to make him happy, Edgar? That's what you said, isn't it?"

"That's not what I meant-"

"So you'll only go so far then. How important is Johnny's happiness to you, in the long run? I recall before that you put it ahead of your own, because since his is more rare, it was more valid. And if I recall, there was some mention of how Johnny really feels things, rather than pretend like some people I could mention."

"I didn't mean-"

"Tell me, Edgar." Scriabin waited for a moment, as if giving Edgar room to defend himself. Silence. "You were willing to give your own life for Johnny's happiness earlier. He said he would kill you and you said you would understand. Isn't that the ultimate sacrifice that a person could make? So why is it so abhorrent to you to allow him to love you?"

"Because he doesn't, that's why."

"Well, let's play along then and just say that I'm mistaken. I'm sure that can happen." His tone clearly indicated he thought no such thing. "But play pretend with me here. What if, to make Johnny truly happy, Edgar, he had to love you? What if that fixed him? What if the heavens opened, the earth sang, and little woodland animals came and frolicked around him because hallelujah, the love of a good man is all a person needs these days to cure schizophrenia? What would you do, Edgar? I mean...I ask you this in all honesty. If it made him happy, how far would you go?"

"It's not a relevant question because he doesn't love me." Edgar refused to even consider the possibility. "He's...well, his understanding of love isn't like other people's, it's different. And whatever it is, he doesn't love me. He can't. I've done-"

"Oh, you've done plenty for him, I'm afraid. And the real irony is, it's all because you've done nothing. He vents, you listen. And you do what he wants. You're one thing in his life that he can control. I'm afraid you do a lot more for him than you know. You give him stability. You gave him a coat."

"Regardless, I hardly think-"

"Well, how would you define that love then? He did seem rather pleased to see you near the end, despite his screaming fit beforehand. What is Johnny's love, Edgar? I think we know the answer from Devi. It's death. And what has he promised to do to you? He promised to kill you."

"That's not...the same it's something entirely different in that case-"

"No, it isn't." Scriabin's tone made Edgar fall silent. "He wanted you to be perfect and beautiful. Just like the others. He wanted you to be perfect and beautiful. Like Devi never was. He loved the others so much and they loved him back. Perfectly and beautifully and Edgar, he wants to love you the same way. He wants to love you and have you love him back, perfectly and beautifully. That is precisely what he said, in words and in print. The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"That's not the same thing, he wanted me as a friend, I know he...must have just...wanted a perfect friend...not a..." Edgar trailed off at Scriabin's expression.

"It is the same."

Edgar closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. He just doesn't...we can argue in circles all we like, but there's no point. I don't know what you want me to do. What do you want to accomplish?"

"Me?" Scriabin put a hand on his chest as if he had been offended. "I've been trying to keep you alive, you twit. I've been trying to make you grow a spine and realize that this isn't healthy."

Edgar held out his arms wide and stared at him. "Why do you care?"

Scriabin opened his mouth as if to say something, then ended up saying nothing at all.

"I want to go home."

As if Edgar's speech had jarred him back into motion, Scriabin spoke quickly and without pause. "Well, obviously because I want you to become sane and also to keep you alive..."

Edgar gave him an odd look. "Why did you hesitate if it was obvious?"

Scriabin suddenly became very interested in the white around him, turning away from Edgar and putting his hands in his pockets. "Since I do reside in your mind, it's in my best interests to keep you alive."

"You're not telling me everything, are you?"

Scriabin turned back towards him with a very monotone, "Duh."

Edgar put a hand to his forehead. "If you're a voice in my head and I created you, if I provide the place where you live, then why don't I have any control over you?"

Scriabin began laughing rather hard at that.

"It's not funny!"

Scriabin tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, it's just this is coming from a guy who was in psycho-sexual bondage a few minutes ago."

Edgar glared at him. "That wasn't my fault."

Scriabin held out his hands dramatically. "Yes, I tied you up because I'm a sick pervert, that's right."

Edgar sighed and rubbed at his forehead. His head throbbed. "How long are we stuck here?"

Scriabin hummed for a few seconds then shrugged. "It's really up to me."

"Can we go now, then? This is really getting old." Patience was indeed wearing very thin.

Scriabin held out his hands again. "Well, what have we learned? So far, that you're codependent, masochistic, a hypocrite, and have terrible taste in men."

Edgar took off his glasses, not even completely comprehending what Scriabin was saying anymore. He was exhausted. "Yes, I'm flawed. Oh no. The horror. Can we end it now?"

Scriabin put his hands back in his pockets. "Well, since you don't seem to have accepted anything I taught you-"

"Assuming you taught me anything to begin with."

"Perhaps we should continue this some other time when you're more receptive."

And much in the fashion of when they had first come here, Scriabin reached out and grabbed Edgar's chin, forcing them to meet eyes.

"Would you like anything before I go, dear boy? A board game? A portable electronic device? Little curly angel wings so you can fly about in a clearly impossible fashion? After all, I have only your well-being at heart."

Edgar brushed Scriabin's hand away from his face. "Just stop touching me and go."

Scriabin smiled in a strange way. "All right, if you say so. But keep in mind, if I do go, I won't be coming back. I have to think."

Edgar narrowed his eyes.

"Well, I hope you'll excuse me for not caring."

Scriabin slowly faded from view.

"I don't mind." His voice came from somewhere, but not inside Edgar's head for once. "After all, you don't get lonely, right? You'll be fine all by yourself."

Edgar looked around at the white surrounding him on all sides.

"I'm fine all by myself."

And with that, he couldn't hear him anymore.