Author's Note: I recommend an OC Remix called "Journey's End" from Final Fantasy X for listening for this part. You can find it at www dot ocremix dot org.
It had been years, years since he had last heard her voice, imagined it even, and at the sound of it again Edgar shuddered violently, felt fear that crawled all the way up his back and made his arms shake and his nerves slip into overdrive. Immediately he set to rubbing his hands, skin sliding over skin and he stared at Scriabin desperately.
Scriabin stared back at him and he found that he knew, he could see easily that he felt the same way. Scriabin had flouted, mocked the god that Edgar had feared and obeyed for so long, but this, this he had tied himself too close to, he had become too attached and this was something that wasn't as intangible, as variable and vanquishable as a belief system. These were memories, these were the building blocks for his life and his personality, for both of them. Both of them had these memories and perhaps against his will, Scriabin understood and Scriabin felt the same way, he felt the same fear.
Her voice caught on Scriabin's name, unfamiliar but that would smooth out soon enough.
"Edgar!" He didn't dare ignore her twice.
"Yeah, Granma?" Edgar gestured at Scriabin, told him to run and hide somewhere or something. To be honest he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted Scriabin to do and it was possible that his jerky hand movements were equally as unclear. Edgar turned and saw his grandmother standing in the doorway of the house. Behind him, he felt Scriabin's small hands settle on his sides, felt the warmth of his body close and felt his head touch his back. Using him as a shield, protection. Edgar warned him back with a hand and found he wanted Scriabin out of this, out of what he knew what would come.
"There you are. I've been calling you for hours. Why didn't you tell me you were outside? What have you been up to? I have something I need your help with..." Edgar knew that his grandmother had trouble walking sometimes, so he wouldn't force her to come and get him. That would have been selfish. As he had for years, ever since he met her and understood, knew even though she never said as much that he owed her, he owed her for taking care of him, he did what would be best for her, what would make things easiest. He repaid her kindness with obedience because as a child, he had little else to offer.
Edgar walked towards the house, and Scriabin stayed hidden behind him, his fingers clutching the fabric of Edgar's shirt tightly. Both shaking, and he knew that the minute he got into the light...
"My goodness, Edgar!" The inherent disappointment stung horribly, that painful perhaps unintentional accusation that he had not obeyed, he had hurt her somehow. He had disappointed her, and God, all he wanted to do was make her happy, to repay her for what she had done. How hard was that really, and he could never do it, he could never do it properly... "What happened?"
Edgar rubbed his nose hard and sniffed. He wasn't bleeding anymore, the time for that was long over, but he was sure that the evidence remained. He couldn't look her in the eyes, couldn't face that knowledge that he had let her down, that he had managed to fail at something that anyone could do, anyone should do, he had managed to fail and hurt her and God, he didn't want to hurt people, he never wanted to hurt people and he didn't want to hurt her, and that was all he did because he kept breaking her rules, he kept breaking and he kept disobeying and
Scriabin's small arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him tight and he could feel Scriabin shaking hard and felt his face pressed against his back. Breath hot through the fabric of his shirt, and it made sense that he would be more frightened. This was new to him, and it never would have seemed like this, seemed so real and so close.
The memories they created set a framework, and Edgar had a feeling that he could do something, that he could do something for someone he cared about. He was willing and able to do that, to shoulder the responsibility and pain for someone else. He had done that a lot as a child and he knew that in the end, even if it was unfair, even if it wasn't really his fault, even if it wasn't his crime to begin with, that if he could spare someone else some pain, however deserved, he would do it. He could do it.
"It was my fault." He felt Scriabin jerk behind him. "It was my fault, I got angry and...I got angry and got into a fight..."
"You got into a fight?" She sounded horrified, and Edgar wanted to sink into the earth.
Scriabin's head nudged his arm out of the way, and Edgar turned slightly, raised his arm and Scriabin looked up at her.
"It was my fault-"
"No, no it wasn't." Edgar looked back and forth between the two. "Don't get-, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't his idea. I swear, it was my fault. Don't-, don't get mad at him. Don't get mad at him, honest. It was my fault-"
Scriabin quivered and he tightened his hold around Edgar's waist, buried his head into his side.
"Nuh uh."
He was so deeply frightened. Getting lost...being this deep, being this involved in this kind of fantasy, in this kind of body, must have been a terrifying experience for him. Edgar couldn't recall any other time before that the two had woven such a thick web around each other, particularly regarding this kind of illusion. They had pretended at many things before, but they had never pretended at being children, and this world, this past that Scriabin so desperately wanted, proved to have a sharper edge than he must have anticipated. Pushed hard and he was reverting, he was allowing the reality, the false reality that the two of them had constructed, to have more power. Perhaps he felt powerless, which would have suited the situation far too well.
Edgar had never seen him like this, but this illusion was new to the both of them, the world the two of them had created, and he wasn't aware that its power ran this deep or this strong, that they could have created something that they both couldn't control. One of them always held onto things in the end, but Scriabin had tangled himself up a little too much in this, and now they both had nothing.
He was frightened, more than anything.
"Scriabin, I did, it was my idea-"
Scriabin shook his head and repeated with a bit more force, "nuh uh."
"Haven't I told you two how fighting doesn't solve anything? Particularly fighting over something that isn't worth it. You've got to learn to pick your battles, Edgar. There are certain things worth fighting for and others that aren't. There are times to fight and times when just staying quiet can solve a lot of problems, you understand?"
"Yes, Granma." Edgar found that he was rubbing his hands again.
"Now come on, I have something I need you to hold for me. You too, Scriabin. We're going to have to talk about this."
God, who knew that talking could be such an effective threat? Scriabin made an unhappy sound and Edgar rested a hand on his shoulder lightly. His grandmother walked back into the house, back to the room where she'd wait for him and Edgar would come. He always came when she called, because he at least owed her that much. He did what she asked because anything else would have been...
"It's okay." Scriabin's grip was getting too tight and he wished he would relax just a little. They were both shaking now, and Edgar let the screen door close behind him. Scriabin refused to let him go, just clung to him even though it made walking extremely awkward. Outside, Edgar could see dark clouds forming and he wondered if there would be rain.
"It'll be okay." He again tried to get Scriabin to relax his grip, but he refused. A few more awkward steps, and Scriabin's voice came muffled from behind him.
"I'm scared, Edgar."
His voice perfectly matched his body, his actions, and thus what he said did not impact Edgar as much as perhaps it would have in any other situation. He had never heard Scriabin say such a thing, but now, in this situation, in this place with these bodies and this memory that they were living out, reworking as they followed the patterns and changed them, it seemed natural. It seemed just the thing that Edgar's seven-year-old younger brother would say.
"Don't worry." Edgar tousled Scriabin's hair in an effort to appear more confident than he sounded or felt. "Don't worry, it'll be okay. She won't...she won't hurt you."
"Is this what it is?" More awkward steps down the hallway. "I can't...I'm not used to this. This isn't me but...but it IS me, but...it feels so- and I can't, I can't just...get out. What if, what if something bad happens?"
"Nothing bad'll happen. This has happened before. She just wants to tell us not to fight. That's all."
"I've never been scared of anyone before, but I'm...I'm scared of her."
"Are you sure? Are you sure that it's you and not just me? You said you took things from me...are you sure you didn't take this too?"
"She's different, she's different than God. She's...I don't know what to do." Scriabin pressed his head against Edgar hard, and Edgar had to stop to keep his balance. "I don't know what to do, I don't know how to make her go away, I don't know I don't know I don't know how to make my words, how to say it right so that she goes away. I can't even talk right anymore what if something bad happens and I can't go back and this is permanent I'm scared Edgar I don't want to change I don't want to become this I don't want to be afraid like this-"
"It's just a dream." He found himself in the position of comforter, and somehow that didn't seem unusual. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of it."
"I've never done this before, I've never really been there I mean, I've seen it, I looked at it before and I watched but I was never there I mean, she never did it to me, she never interacted with me 'cause I wasn't as real as you, I wasn't real like you-"
"Quiet..." Edgar opened the door to the room, and his grandmother sat in her chair and stared at him. She gestured to a cushion on the floor, beside the wicker basket, and Edgar found that he walked there without even thinking about it. It was automatic, empty, and he found that this must have been it, this must have been where it started, where he stopped caring, where he stopped feeling-
"Is Scriabin with- ah, there he is. Don't hide from me, I know you're there and I have a feeling that you're a bit more involved in this than Edgar would like me to think, hmm?"
"Really, it was my fault..."
"Sit down here..." Edgar did, and Scriabin reluctantly had to let go. He stood behind Edgar for a few seconds, completely at a loss as to what to do. He had never interacted with her, not really, not outside of stories, and he didn't know. Inter-relational abilities so crippled from just being with Edgar so long, and he stood there helpless and confused and no doubt filled with self-hatred for his ignorance. "Sit down, Scriabin! Honestly."
It was so easy to make up brave stories, but when faced with the reality, with a reality that he had never anticipated or expected or really given much credence to, Scriabin found that his behavior echoed Edgar's far more than he would have liked. He sat down beside Edgar, as close to him as he could get, and hunched over in a miserable ball. He kept his eyes focused directly down at his hands, refused to look up.
"Now, what was this fight about?" She pulled out a skein of yellow yarn from the basket, and Edgar held out his hands despite every single part of him screaming at him not to. Everything in him wanted to escape, to run, to hide, to do something, and instead he obeyed. He pushed down every part of him that rejected, that wanted to fight, and he obeyed. He'd done this for years. He'd done this his whole life and now, even in dreams, he found that the ability came to him so easily. He held out his hands, and she looped the yellow yarn around with an ease that seemed to indicate she wasn't aware of how he felt, how much he hated and feared this. He hoped that was what it was.
"Edgar, what was the fight about?"
He didn't want to say. There was no good explanation, nothing that wouldn't sound stupid under scrutiny. Self-hatred and loathing for his lack of self-control, and his hands shook and Scriabin kept trying to press closer to him.
"I...it was a stupid thing to do, I'm sorry, I just, I just got so angry, I really shouldn't have..."
"No, what was the fight about?" God, he had even failed in responding to her question. He closed his eyes and felt himself trembling and he wondered what it meant, what it meant that the one person that he wanted to approve of him, that he wanted to know cared for him, that he wanted to accept his attempt to repay them, that their validation was so important to him that the slightest disappointment, the negative word here and there, could hurt him so badly. All he had to do was listen to her, all he had to do was obey her, and he kept making mistakes, he kept doing stupid things. He wasn't looking ahead, he wasn't planning, he wasn't thinking and in doing so, in being so thoughtless and spontaneous he failed her, hurt her. He couldn't do that, he wouldn't allow himself to do that to someone that he cared so much about.
"I wouldn't leave him alone." Scriabin's voice was weak and his words slurred, and at this point he was almost in Edgar's lap, desperate to stay as close to him as possible in the face of the source of that other dialogue, that voice that ran deeper than either of them that constantly monitored, objected, punished for Edgar's behavior. Scriabin was aware of that voice, he knew of it, thought at first that perhaps it was Edgar's religion that was its source and later he had been proven incorrect, but he never anticipated to be its focus. It had been so self-directed for so long, and it had never occurred to Scriabin that if he got this close to Edgar, that if he wanted to be this close and work himself into so much of Edgar's life, that that voice may find another target for its ire and disappointment. "That's why he got mad at me."
"Now Edgar...I know you're more responsible than that." Even the compliment hurt somehow. "You can't just go and do these kind of things without thinking of the consequences. Look at your clothes! Did you think about what the kids at school will think tomorrow? Did you think of how long all those cuts and bruises will last? I know you did, I know you can look ahead and be careful."
"I-I know..." Edgar choked. "I, I didn't mean to, I..."
"Do you understand that?"
"Yes, yes, I do, I-I do understand, I, I know that it's important. I know that I should always look ahead and I was going to, I wouldn't have, I didn't want to but he...but I should have looked ahead..."
"It was my fault..." Scriabin had found his way into Edgar's lap completely, curled up under his arms and against his chest, unable to even look at his grandmother anymore. "I did it, I made him do it. I made him angry."
"You may have made him angry, Scriabin, but it was Edgar's decision to lose control." Edgar shuddered and swallowed hard. "You can't let him get to you, Edgar. He's just trying to provoke you. He always does that. Normally you just let it go."
"I know..."
"You're old enough to know that starting fights with your little brother is not an intelligent thing to do. You know better than that."
She was right and God, he hated himself for it. The last thing he ever wanted to do was disappoint the people he cared about...
"I'm sorry..."
"Don't say sorry to me, say sorry to him! He's the one you started the fight with."
Scriabin's head pressed hard against his chest and he could feel him breathing, feel him shaking.
"I'm sorry, Scriabin..."
Scriabin made a long and unhappy sound at the words.
"Edgar, you know that I won't be around forever, and I'm concerned about you." Her tone softened. "You need to understand these things, because someday I won't be here to tell you what to do, or what's appropriate. Someday you're going to be alone, and I want you to know what to do when that time comes. I want you to know what's right and what's wrong. You're your brother's keeper, and he's your responsibility. You've got to remember that, no matter how much he may annoy you. There are some people, Edgar, that are going to do that, that are going to try and provoke you into unnecessary battles and you have to learn how to stand above it. Turn the other cheek, isn't that right?"
"Seven times seven..."
"That's right, repay it seven times seven. Very good." And that took the edge, the pain away for a few seconds. Just that one moment of recognition and it made things that much better. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Granma."
"You know that I'm just worried about you, that's why I want to talk to you about these things, right?"
"Yes, Granma."
"And you know now that you should be more careful? Think ahead, be more cautious and responsible? You're going to have to take care of yourself someday, Edgar, maybe someday soon, and I want to make sure you know how to do that when the time comes."
"Yes, Granma."
"Good. Now, Scriabin..."
At the sound of his name Scriabin made a soft yelping sound and clutched Edgar tighter. Edgar could only just feel his heartbeat frantic and fluttering.
"Oh, stop that. I've never seen someone more melodramatic than you. I know you're younger, Scriabin, but that doesn't give you an excuse to torment your older brother whenever you please."
Scriabin was mumbling something, but Edgar couldn't make it out. He could feel his fingers digging through his shirt.
"Edgar's learning to take responsibility for himself, and you should too. Your actions do have consequences, you know. Aren't you sorry that you made Edgar angry, after he started that fight with you?"
Scriabin nodded just barely. Edgar shifted his weight and Scriabin moved with him, stayed as close to him as possible. Edgar's hands jerked a little and his grandmother compensated for the motion, knitting needles clicking softly.
"Scriabin, I know you're young and you don't understand how everything works just yet, but you've got to understand that other people have feelings too. Edgar has feelings that can be hurt just as easily as yours, and I don't like seeing you treating him badly. He's your brother, Scriabin, and you should be kinder to him."
Scriabin made another unhappy sound, almost a protest, and kept his face hidden. His grandmother made a chiding sound at his response, then sighed.
"Now, you two, do you understand why that wasn't a good idea? Why fighting isn't a good idea?"
"Yes, Granma."
Scriabin didn't say anything.
"You two have got to take care of each other. I'm old, you know that. When I die, it'll just be you two, and I want you to be nicer to each other. When it comes down to it, you two will always be family, and family will always...almost always be there for you. You don't realize how important it is, how fortunate you are to have each other. You'll never be alone as long as you two are together, and I know that you get frightened if you're left alone too long."
Edgar wasn't sure who exactly she was referring to, but he nodded anyway. He noticed that Scriabin nodded with him.
"No matter what happens, you two are connected. You'll always be connected. It would be so much better for both of you if you just learned to get along, isn't that right?"
"Yes, Granma."
A very muffled soft sound. "Yes'm."
A moment where she considered the two in front of her, and then she smiled just slightly. "Well, it looks like this is done..." His grandmother looked at the new yellow sock in her lap. "So Edgar, why don't you take Scriabin upstairs and get yourselves cleaned up? Come back down when you're done, all right?"
"Yes, Granma."
Edgar didn't move his hands, even though his grandmother said she was done. Instead he sat and waited until she pulled the yarn away from his fingers herself, a real physical confirmation that it was over and he was released, and then he looked at the shivering ball on his lap. Scriabin still had his hands tightly wound in the fabric of Edgar's shirt, and he had curled himself up as if to take the smallest amount of space possible.
"Now, if you boys are up for it later tonight, I did pick up some cookie dough at the store today, and maybe we could get together and make something." She smiled at him and it meant the world. "What do you think? I know you like baking, sweetheart."
She leaned forward and ruffled Edgar's hair, and Edgar bathed in the momentary attention, in that moment when he felt that he maybe he had done something right.
"I like baking." He said it before he knew what he was saying, and his grandmother laughed softly.
"I know. Go and get cleaned up, and try to get along, hmm?"
He wanted to thank her, he wanted to repay her because he knew, he understood well what she had sacrificed to take care of him, that she didn't have to take care of him but she did so anyway. She didn't have to take him in, but she did, and Edgar felt as though there was no way, no real way he could repay that and that made the guilt of getting caught misbehaving so much worse. He wanted...
He wanted to know she didn't regret her decision.
"Scriabin, come on." He shook the ball on his lap, and it reluctantly unfolded back into a boy. Scriabin looked up at him, matched eyes and then wrapped his arms around his neck. Edgar sighed, managed to stand with some difficulty--his arms around Scriabin's shoulders and below his knees--and he stumbled into the hallway.
Once out of earshot, Scriabin began trembling and mumbling to himself, although it was hard to make out any of the words.
"Speak up."
"Is this what it's like?" Scriabin felt so small in his arms. "Is this what it's like when you can't get out? Is this what it's like for you?"
"You mean, is this what it's like to be real?" Earlier Scriabin no doubt would have punched him rather hard for that, but as it was he just shivered. "You've always been able to escape, to change your reality...I guess some things don't change for me. Memories even. You've never had them before...not really, not like this. When we did this, when we...twisted things together, I didn't think..."
Scriabin's forehead pressed against him and he shuddered again, frail and weak.
Edgar sat down in the bathroom beside the medicine cabinet and he let himself return the embrace. He curled his arms around Scriabin, held him close to his chest so he could hear their hearts beating, and he found that they beat in unison. Scriabin so close to him that he felt that there was no space between them at all anymore.
He rocked just slightly, a motion because his hands were occupied, and he whispered into Scriabin's hair.
"I didn't mean for you to come with me..."
The hands behind his head caught in his hair, pulled sharply and a little painfully, and Edgar shut his eyes.
"I didn't mean for you to get hurt this way..."
"Edgar, I'm..." Scriabin took a deep shaky breath, and he pulled away from him. He pushed Edgar's hands off of him, leaned back and crawled out of his lap. This felt familiar somehow, to see him pull away like this, and Edgar did not pursue him. Scriabin shook his head, stared down at the floor with a tone that tried so hard for determined and failed. "This isn't me, this isn't..."
Edgar stared at him, sighed and felt it burn deep in his chest like when he'd gone swimming too long, and he stood. He turned to the medicine cabinet, opened it and pulled out a small tin of bandages, and his emotions had leveled, had fallen into that flat-line he had known for most of his life. It let him get things done, and it got him through so much emotional turmoil because when he wasn't there, he couldn't get hurt by what happened. Pull further away until everything faded, until he could dissect how to react and predict and measure and weigh and make sure that what he did was right, what he did was what he wouldn't regret later.
Perhaps it said something that Edgar feared regret in such an indistinct yet powerful way. He never would have put it into words quite so simple and accurate, that he feared regretting his decisions more than the consequences. Get further away. Scriabin kept talking as Edgar ran the hot water and held a small dishtowel beneath it.
"I'm not this, I'm not seven years old. This is-, this has gone too far. This has gone too far, I shouldn't..." He choked, coughed for a few minutes and his face turned red, panic in the glimpses of his eyes. Edgar stared at him for a few moments, waiting to see if he needed help, but Scriabin's voice came back, this time weak and breaking on certain syllables. "I shouldn't be here, Edgar, I shouldn't, I shouldn't this isn't mine, this is-, I just wanted it to be and this has gone too far, this is too real. This is too real and I want to get out and I can't, and I-, I-"
Edgar knelt beside Scriabin, who had pressed himself against the side of the bathtub. He raised the cloth but Scriabin pushed his hand away. He tightened his fist and glared at Edgar with forced and required anger.
"No! No, Edgar! This isn't-, stop pretending! Stop pretending, this isn't real! I'm not-" He stopped, and the pain on his face invoked unwanted empathy. Muscles tightened and he could see in Scriabin what he once saw in the mirror as a child, the desperate attempt to stop tears from coming and to erase the pain. Those days when he had studied his face, studied how his muscles worked and how he changed when he felt the urge to cry arise, and how exactly to erase, to compensate, to hide the evidence so that no one would know, and that it wouldn't happen. Pressure, painful behaviors that distracted, letting his eyes wander and focusing on the incessant motion of his hands, all to stop the telltale signs from continuing to completion, to stop the process that he could recognize at increasingly earlier stages as he aged until he knew how to prevent sadness itself from even taking a real hold, he could cut it off at the root. He watched and recognized each small twitch of the muscles in Scriabin's face, the trembling and heat and shivering voice, and he placed it on his mental gradient of how close he was to tears and went over the list in his mind of just how to prevent such a thing, although he did not say as such out loud.
Edgar learned how to stop his tears because he found them useless, shameful, and at all times undeserved. Unnecessarily worrying, earned him unwanted and undeserved attention. No. There was always a better solution to the current problem beside crying, if one looked at the situation with an eye unclouded by emotion.
Scriabin, trapped in the mental image he created and the scenario they both reinforced, had no such defenses. Perhaps he did not feel as Edgar did, and his method of dealing with such pain was not so streamlined, so defined. He said his words were going, and it could be that he was regressing emotionally as well, to times when despite his best efforts, Edgar did not know how to stop his tears, how to control. It was a skill that took a long time to hone, and trapped as they were in this vision of his past, it would not be well-learned. Edgar knew it, felt confident that he was under control.
And Scriabin, Scriabin lagged behind him by those few years.
Scriabin's small hands clenched tight, and he pressed his hands to his head. His voice shook in a way that spoke of attempted strength and control so useless. "I can't, I'm not-...I'm not..."
Edgar knew what Scriabin wanted to say, but he knew that he would never say it. Scriabin said he wanted the truth, that the truth would set him free, that if only Edgar had stopped shrouding himself in lies he'd find what he'd been missing, but he knew that was a lie. He knew it was a lie because Scriabin couldn't bring himself to break the illusion. He knew now what Edgar had always known; that illusions and falsehood could be appealing, could be healing, could be necessary. Could be satisfying, and Scriabin had worked so hard for what he had right now, and to give that up for what he assumed would be the greater good...it took more maturity than Edgar felt Scriabin had, or, he reminded himself, either of them had. Neither of them could do it now, could break what they had worked so hard to create and had enjoyed before it all became too real. Reality was what had ruined this, the fantasy itself...
The fantasy itself was what Scriabin wanted, and to break that to avoid both, to avoid the pain of reality, to destroy it all was beyond him. He couldn't say it. He wouldn't say it, and Edgar knew he wouldn't. It was too late for them now.
"You are real," Edgar said, and Scriabin turned to look at him sharply.
"We can't-..." Scriabin's face marked with emotional agony, of deep inner pain and paralyzing indecision so unfamiliar to him, and he sounded desperate and pleading. His voice was a surprisingly irritating and pathetic whine. "It's all pretend..."
His words still gone. He was sure the desire for his previous eloquence, what he'd long prided himself in, was a part of Scriabin's current emotional turmoil. Desperately seeking for the words that would make it go away, and they could not be found. There was only what he had created, the rules and boundaries the two had unintentionally set in stone, and Scriabin did not know how to break them.
Edgar raised the cloth again, and this time Scriabin didn't push him away. He touched it lightly to the scratches, mindful of how it may sting, and wiped away the dirt as best he could. The grass stains would be harder to get out, and he was sure that his grandmother would make them take a bath later tonight.
"Edgar, I'm..." He couldn't say it, he couldn't bear to say it. "I want this to be true, I want this to be true so badly but it's not. It's not! This isn't real! We can't keep pretending, I'm going- I'm going to get hurt-"
"You are hurt." Edgar reached up and picked a burr from Scriabin's hair.
"No!" Scriabin stared hard at him, and Edgar saw his reflection. "No, I mean, I'm gonna get really-, really hurt, like-"
"You were and are hurt." Edgar kept all emotion from his voice, the calm deadpan that got him through so much through his life. He sounded more confident this way, more knowledgeable. More in control. "She hurt you, that's why you're afraid."
"I..." Scriabin looked down at his hands. "I don't-, I don't want to hurt like-, this isn't mine to...this isn't mine to...this pain shouldn't be for me. I shouldn't hurt like this."
"Real people hurt." Edgar unwrapped a single bandage and pressed it to Scriabin's forehead. "They hurt like you hurt now."
"No!" Everything about him screaming to say yes, but Scriabin fought. He fought and bit his lip hard. "No no, no, this isn't-, this isn't-, we made it all up, Edgar! We made it all up! This was all a lie! It's all a lie, I'm not your little brother, I'm not-"
Another bandage.
"You're right, you're not."
Scriabin turned and stared at him, and he looked heartbroken.
Edgar's voice remained even, his face neutral. Another bandage across Scriabin's nose, picked up the washcloth and he dabbed at his swollen lip. Scriabin stared at him, apparently unable to voice how hurt he felt. For all his supposed love of truth, he was afraid and perhaps ashamed that Edgar could accomplish what he could not. Edgar could feel the heat rising to Scriabin's cheeks when his hands were close, and he could see the blush that accompanied tears, the heat and shame.
"Edgar..." Weak and desperate.
Edgar began to wipe away the dirt covering Scriabin's arms, clean away the dried blood from cuts that had already for the most part healed.
"You're not my little brother," Edgar said. He felt Scriabin's arm shaking in his grip, and he turned to grab another bandage.
Scriabin hiccuped, and Edgar kept his eyes down.
"Edgar..."
"He died a long time ago."
Edgar felt his eyes boring into him, felt the shiver of surprise that went through before he went stock still. Edgar kept working, and Scriabin said nothing for those few seconds.
"What?"
"He died." Edgar applied another bandage, moved on. "When he was ten."
"Edgar, no..." Scriabin reached out a hand to stop him, and Edgar batted it away with more force than he conveyed in his voice.
"That's why..." Edgar took a breath, and he grabbed Scriabin's other arm with a grip that immediately quelled resistance. "It was nice to pretend he was alive again."
"No, no, that's not true..." Scriabin put a hand on his shoulder, shook him gently. "Edgar, you didn't..."
"His name was Scriabin...just like you. You were like him...you're what he would have become, maybe. That's why...it's nice to remember him, remember him with you."
"No no no no..." It became a litany, a soft chant and Scriabin's voice caught and he struggled to breath. "No no no no..."
"He was ten when he died." Edgar didn't look at Scriabin. Another bandage across a small cut. Repetition bred reality. "His name was Scriabin, and it was nice to pretend he was alive again."
"No, no Edgar, that's not-, that's not true." Scriabin trying to pull his arm away, but Edgar's grip tightened until the skin around turned white and Scriabin stopped. "You didn't, you never did, you were alone, you were always alone-"
"After he died."
"Edgar, please..." Scriabin buried his free hand in his hair, his entire body quaking and his voice desperate. "Don't-, you don't have to-, you don't have to do this-"
"You see?" Edgar let him go, and his fingerprints remained on his skin. Scriabin pulled his arm back away from him slowly, hesitantly, unconsciously touched the darkening marks. "That's why you hurt. That's why you're real, like me. You were real, once."
"Edgar, I'm..." Scriabin stared at him, and his face burned with the pain he struggled so hard not to show. "Edgar, I'm not...there never was, I-, I never was-"
"Scriabin." Edgar put his hands on his shoulders, stared at his reflection in his glasses. "You hurt because you're real."
Scriabin's voice was verbal suffering. He shook his head rapidly, his voice gaining volume. "No, no, I hurt- I'm hurt because I-I believed a lie, Edgar! I still believe it, I still want to believe it, and that's why, that's why- it's not because-"
Edgar tightened his grip on his shoulders, and Scriabin made a soft whimpering sound but kept his head down. He could feel his bones beneath his hands, hard against his skin and he felt so small, so fragile. Edgar stared hard, and it took a moment before Scriabin could look up again. He sniffled and trembled in Edgar's grip, barely able to maintain eye contact.
Assured of his attention, Edgar spoke clearly and slowly. "So many things could be different if I wasn't always alone."
Scriabin's mouth fell open and he breathed hard and fast, shuddering breaths that spoke of internal panic or effort and still the blood colored his cheeks and he could feel the heat off his face, and those glasses made it hard to tell if he was fighting what Edgar knew he was, and maybe that's why they were still there.
He spoke with a strange kind of realization, of something that just became clear to him and the answer, the secret wasn't what he thought it would be. "If you weren't alone..."
Edgar nodded.
"This is for..." Scriabin gulped, and looked down. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice fluttered. "For a better, for the futu-...Edgar, how...how did I...how did I die?"
"Do you want to know?"
Scriabin didn't say anything for a few seconds and he kept his head down. "You weren't alone...you weren't alone, I was there. I was there so you weren't...'cause maybe things could be different. Maybe things could change, if...if I was...if I let..."
"Do you want to know what happened?"
"But it'll hurt. It hurts, and it didn't even really-, it'll hurt if we, if we...think about it again, won't it? Do we need more hurt in our lives? Does it need to hurt?" Scriabin pleaded. "Haven't-, haven't we hurt enough? Don't do this, don't hurt yourself anymore, please, please don't hurt yourself anymore-"
Edgar looked past Scriabin, found his mouth moving and his voice stayed the same, it always stayed the same. That was how he was able to give the eulogy at his grandmother's funeral, and before that, at his brother's. That was how he was able to tell people what had happened, how he was able to do so much, how he was able to avoid death when it came right up to him and slashed his face. Nothing, nothing, and that made the yarn just yarn and words just words, and set him comfortably at a distance, that dispassionate observer who wasn't involved enough to really feel anything. He stood outside, and he found he could speak and his voice didn't change.
"You were ten years old..."
"Please don't hurt yourself, you hurt too much, that's what I've been trying to tell you-"
"There was this special party someone in my class was throwing...we were both invited. Granma told us we couldn't go, that we had work we needed to do and that with our grades as they were, we couldn't afford to go out...the future was more important, it was more important than what we could have in the present. We had to think of the future."
"Edgar, don't, don't please, please don't do this, stop doing this to yourself, I'm-"
"You really wanted to go." Edgar matched eyes with Scriabin again and saw his lower lip trembling. "You wanted to go more than anything, to go to such a big kid party. To be invited was such an honor for you, even if it was just because you were my little brother. But Granma said you couldn't, we couldn't go. I understood, but you...you didn't."
"Edgar, stop, stop." Scriabin put his hands on his shoulders and shook him but his grip was weak and Edgar refused to move. "You don't need more, you don't need more on top of everything, this, this was all to make less, not more, you don't need to-, you shouldn't-"
Edgar stared at Scriabin with an empty soft smile, and his voice still didn't change. "You and Granma got into a fight...you said you would go anyway. She refused to let you out. You just kept yelling, kept screaming and kept fighting. You told her that it was unfair that she controlled so much of our lives, so much in the name of making us independent, and that we had the right to live our own lives as we saw fit. Her laws did not apply to us, we could decide for ourselves what was right and wrong, and you decided that going to this party was right. You fought, you screamed and yelled at her, and she yelled in return and I sat at the table and watched, because I didn't know who I believed. I didn't know what to believe."
Scriabin shaking him still, tried to speak but his voice caught and he had to keep himself under control. Syllables dissolved in panting breaths, in those moments where a soft frustrated sound spoke of his internal battle against his physical body.
"Then..." Edgar tilted his head slightly. "Then, she just stopped yelling. Grabbed her chest..." He lifted a hand slowly, took hold of the front of his shirt. "Just like that. Began gasping for air. Fell, and you didn't know what to do. I told you to call 911, and you just stood there and stared. I ran to go get the phone, I dialed the number, and when I got back to the kitchen..."
"God no, no Edgar no, I-I don't want to h-hear any more-"
"You were gone...the screen door was open, and it was raining...you were gone. I wanted to go look for you, but I felt like...I felt like I had to wait, to make sure Granma would be okay before I could. So I sat by her side and held her hand, and you...you were gone. They came, and I went to go look for you, I went to go find you I took out that flashlight we used for our shadow puppet shows in our room, I put on Dad's coat and I went out into the rain in the woods out back, and I called for you. I called your name and ran until I couldn't move and I couldn't breathe, and I still called for you."
"Edgar, don't-, don't do this to yourself, I'm not..."
"If I had looked a little further, a little harder...if I had followed you when you first left, if I had gone after you, if I had stopped you arguing, if I had taken a side instead of just standing there, then maybe..."
Edgar looked back at Scriabin, back to their relative reality and saw tears cutting lines through the few remaining patches of dirt across his face. His voice was choked and hard to understand.
"Edgar, I'm not-, I'm not worth this-" A heavy sob, and Scriabin let his hands fall from Edgar's shoulders to wrap around his own. "Something like this- don't hurt yourself like this for me-"
Edgar watched Scriabin cry, and his voice didn't change.
"I had to go back...I couldn't go on, so I went back. I would look for you tomorrow, and I did. But you never responded to my voice...I wandered the woods for hours, searching everywhere we used to hide and play, but I couldn't hear you. I went back to everything I could remember, back to all the places that we knew, all the places you could have hid and looked for you, prayed that everywhere I went, there you'd be, waiting for me. I always thought you'd be there, I still hoped when I went and checked the same place for the fifteenth time that somehow...you'd be there that time. I hoped, I kept hoping because I believed...I believed that you would never leave me. You wouldn't leave me like that, you wouldn't leave me alone like that. I believed that nothing could ever happen to you, that nothing could ever happen to us. We had always been together, it felt like we had grown together for so long and so far, and I couldn't think, I couldn't even imagine that you wouldn't...that I couldn't find you. I screamed and screamed for you, I looked everywhere because I knew, I knew I would find you again. I knew that that couldn't be the end, God wouldn't do that to me, to us. I believed...I believed in you. I believed in us."
Edgar's hands weren't otherwise occupied, so he found he was tracing over his fingers, rubbing the smooth surface of his dirty and broken nails, keeping motion.
"I refused...I refused to give up hope for you. You couldn't...you couldn't be gone. You had always been there with me through everything...through every horrible thing in my life you were there, and I always heard your voice. I called out for you, I called out for you to come back to me...to come back, that things would be okay. That everything would be okay, if you would just come back to me...if I could hear your voice again, if I could just know that you were okay. I was lost so many times in the woods for hours, but I never...I don't think I ever really found my way out again. Still calling for you, calling for you to come back..."
Scriabin's voice hitched again and he coughed through his tears, harsh and painful. Edgar's voice kept its same calm tone, the same even speed and cadence unfazed, untouchable. Concrete and real, and while Edgar reached out and touched Scriabin's cheek gently, his expression did not change, and his voice continued. "I felt that...if I could find you, if I knew you were with me...if you were with me, I was never lost. No one knew the woods like you did, no one spent so much time there as you did, and if I could find you...I would never be lost. I would never be lost again. For everything, anything you had ever done to me, anything you would have done in the future, it all would have been forgiven if I could have just seen you again, seen you. Even if you were just playing a game, just hiding from me to make me worry like you used to sometimes...even then, I wouldn't have been angry. I thought...I thought back then that I understood what feeling lonely was like...I thought I knew what it meant to be alone, in any sense of the word, but when I stood there in the forest with a dying flashlight in my father's coat, and I heard the echoes dying around me of your name and still no sign, still no response, I never felt...and I don't think I ever will feel so alone. Lost without you, and I would have given anything, but I couldn't...I tried, but I couldn't look everywhere, and I couldn't spend all day searching for you...I wanted to look until I couldn't do anything at all, until I couldn't move, but I couldn't...I didn't. I didn't, and I went back to make sure Granma was okay. In the end...I couldn't find you. I couldn't find you."
Edgar stared past him now, through him and his voice continued and his eyes were beginning to sting just that little bit. "I couldn't find you...not even when it was too late. It was a neighbor who did what I couldn't...a neighbor who found what had happened to you." Edgar's voice changed just a little, the temporary emotion that had worked through carefully removed. "There was this old concrete ditch in the woods, for a river that they moved somewhere else but it was still there, and we used to go there and hide sometimes, and throw rocks and sticks in the shallow water. I don't know why I didn't look there...why I didn't think of it when I still had a chance...when I could have maybe had time to get help. Somehow I didn't, and they found you there when it was too late...you were running too fast in the dark, trying to get away so badly and you didn't see it, didn't see the edge and you fell."
Scriabin pulled off his glasses and his eyes were shut tight, and it was only a few seconds before his hands covered them again. He cried with the desperation and strength that only children can really accomplish, the deep heaving breaths and pained cries before restraint knew to hold them back. It was an ugly sound but one that spoke universally to human compassion, to the desire deep within to stop whatever was causing this child pain, to help someone who could be suffering so much. "This isn't..." He managed to gasp out between sobs. "This isn't fair...it wasn't fair..."
"They called me...to ask me if it was really my brother that they had found...and I was at home. I wasn't looking for you then, I was at home instead of where I should have been, instead of being where I should have been, to find you myself as it should have gone...instead..." Edgar looked at Scriabin who still had his hands pressed tightly over his eyes.
"It isn't fair, it isn't fair it shouldn't happen that way, it shouldn't have happened that way..."
Edgar closed his eyes. "I ran all the way there...and I saw you...wearing that old sweatshirt that you liked so much, the one that was too big for you...old black jeans that had been hemmed up too often...curled on your side, half in the water and garbage and half not...your hair thick and wet and that little bit of yarn..." Edgar reached out and touched it, held it between his fingertips. He stared at it, saw the tiny hairs that broke off and the fraying over time, and he saw it heavy and weighed down. "That little bit of yarn you stole stood out against the blood..."
Scriabin sobbed with strength he didn't know he had, completely overwhelmed and past the point of words, just overcome with the sensation of crying this hard and with such painful honesty. Edgar let the bit of yarn fall back in place.
"I gave your eulogy...at your funeral. Granma couldn't do it...she blamed herself. I blame myself. There were so many ways I could have prevented it...I could have saved you. It was my fault because...because I know there was some way I could have prevented it, I could have stopped you, I could have done something to save your life and I didn't do it...I didn't act. Granma even told me, she told me to watch out for you, she told me to take care of you because you were all I had, and I couldn't even do that..."
Edgar picked up Scriabin's discarded glasses and folded them, set them to one side.
"I couldn't even do that right, save someone I love. I could have done something, and I didn't. I failed, I failed like I had before, and I promised myself then that I would never fail again. I would never let this happen again, I would never let someone's life...I would never do this, I would never make those mistakes again. It was my fault that it happened, it was my fault and the guilt and responsibility for it have been with me since then, and always will be. And they should be...it was my fault that you died so long ago, Scriabin. It was my fault, and all this time...there was so much I wish we had. So much I wish we could have had, if I had only done something. It was my fault. I killed you, no matter what anyone else says. Everyone tried to tell me otherwise, but I knew...I knew what I had done. I knew the truth...I let you die, and in letting you die, I may as well have pushed you."
Scriabin let his hands fall from his face, and Edgar got a glimpse of something red before he was knocked against the hamper. Scriabin had his arms around him, squeezing tight and his face pressed into his chest, and sometimes his sobs became close enough to words so that Edgar could piece something together.
"Edgar...Edgar, why...why...why are you doing this for me..."
Edgar let his arms return the gesture because he felt that was what he should do, and he still felt numb. So far away and he was just watching, studying what to say and how to say it and staying that distance away that let him make his decisions. "I wanted you to know."
Scriabin shivered violently in his arms, and Edgar found his hand went to run through Scriabin's hair, automatically and without conscious motivation. Logically recognized as a comforting gesture, although all emotion attached to such a thing was not present.
"I miss him," Edgar said to no one in particular. "I miss him so much sometimes. And it was my fault."
"No, no...stop saying that." Scriabin struggled to sound angry, and his grip on Edgar tightened. "Stop saying that, stop saying that, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't all your fault. Please, please, let...don't do this alone."
Edgar stopped, and Scriabin lifted his head to stare at him. Their eyes matched once again, and Scriabin's were swollen and red.
"Don't do this alone." Scriabin sniffled. "Don't..."
"Alone...?" Edgar wondered, and he tried to find his way back into his own body.
"You're always alone, you said so yourself." Scriabin rubbed a hand across his cheeks, tried to keep his voice level and utterly failed. "You're doing this alone now, too. It wasn't all your fault. If...if this happened like you said...it wasn't all your fault. You aren't alone."
Edgar stared and he could envision so clearly, so horribly the last image of Scriabin that really counted, what he considered the last time he had ever really seen him. It wasn't the same, it wasn't him when he was in the coffin, it was something foreign and unreal like how his grandmother wasn't her when he saw her at her funeral.
The real last time he had seen Scriabin was when he was crumpled on his side and the blood and that red yarn, that red yarn was what had hit him in the face, what made it real that this was him, this was really his brother and not some other unfortunate who had fallen into the concrete ditch.
Scriabin stared him, matching eyes, and Edgar let himself visualize it and he remembered, he could see it so clearly that it felt so real, it felt present and tangible, that when he saw the small form curled up below that he had nearly fallen in himself in his haste to reach him. He stumbled and scraped his hands and his knees as he half slid, half fell down the concrete incline and when he got close enough to Scriabin's body he remembered screaming something but he wasn't sure if it was a name. He splashed through the water, watched the tendrils of his hair move as the water rippled around him and Edgar sank to his knees in the thick mire and he couldn't reach out to touch him, he couldn't bear to reach out to him but he could see the blood and damage from where he was, he could see where Scriabin had fallen headlong and hit the concrete at just the wrong angle from such a height, and he was always such a small boy, and Edgar remembered staring helplessly and feeling equally dead until he caught sight of Scriabin's broken glasses nearby and then he wasn't just screaming, he was crying hysterically. Frantic laughter and broken words and tears that kept coming and eventually all attempts at locking feelings into words failed and he howled beside his body, the first and last time he ever let himself feel so much and so close.
He shook his head slightly, returned back to their relative reality, and Scriabin was crying again, his face hidden against his chest and his arms still wrapped tightly around Edgar, and Edgar finally found that the stinging in his eyes had gotten too strong, too much and he found that he was crying as well. Sharing again, unintentional or not he wasn't sure. The visual he knew was burned into Scriabin's memory now, as it was to him. It was the details, the details that really gave it the potential, the ability to sear into consistency, into desperate justification perceived to be necessary. The emotion connected to it mixed between the two of them, merged and changed and Edgar wasn't sure how to respond, what was real and he went through his mental checklist of how to stop himself from crying.
"It's not real..." Scriabin mumbled, muffled by his shirt and he shuddered, and Edgar held him as tightly as he could, held onto the warm body beside him until his arms shook and he refused to say anything, refused to make any sound as despite his best efforts, tears fell from tightly closed eyes. It was almost a question. "It's not real...it's all pretend..."
At that point, Edgar wasn't sure what he believed anymore. He had reality in his arms, the one thing that had remained constant here so far, and he held onto him. This at least would not change, not now. Every flash of that image his mind had created or remembered made him hold him closer. Scriabin fit against him, fit within his arms as though it was his place, where he belonged, and Edgar's back pressed against the hamper and he struggled through internal pain he could no longer differentiate from reality or fantasy and ownership was totally out of the question.
"She was right, you know..." Edgar's voice shook, and he tried to laugh. "Family will always be there for you."
"Almost always." Scriabin's voice muffled, and he kept his face hidden.
His weeping slowed to the occasional heaving breath and soft pathetic sounds. Still the same amount of pain, but the energy to express that was fading, exhaustion taking hold. Edgar kept his arms around him, held onto him.
"Why..." Scriabin whispered. "Why...why did I have to die like that?"
Edgar thought for a few seconds, let the images flick through his mind.
"Because when I lost you...when I lost you that day...so long ago, when you stopped talking and I was really alone...it was a tragedy. Your death...was a tragedy."
"It's not real..."
"Maybe."
"Don't give me that." Scriabin weakly hit Edgar's chest with one fist. "You know if it was real or not. You know that it, it isn't. It wasn't. It didn't happen that way. It didn't..."
"Does it matter?"
Scriabin stopped and stared into the distance, breathing softly in Edgar's arms.
"What it means...maybe it did happen that way. Who can say for sure? But that's not what's important, is it?"
"What it means..."
"Why."
"For...for me..."
Edgar rubbed Scriabin's back, and he smiled weakly.
"A little."
Scriabin looked up at him and punched him again, this time with a bit more force.
"Jerk."
The reluctant smile on his face kept Edgar's arms where they were.
"We're always connected." Edgar looked up at the off-white ceiling, and felt Scriabin's head settle back on his chest. "When you died...I was never the same again."
"But..." Scriabin rubbed his head against Edgar's chest for a few seconds, as if to wipe something off his cheek. "But I'm here now, right?"
Edgar looked back down, and saw Scriabin looking up at him. His glasses were back and were slightly askew, still reflective but around the glimpses of his own face, he could catch sight of reddened eyes that didn't quite match his own. His face was red, covered with small bandages, and that little bit of hair with that red bit of yarn was stuck to his cheek.
Edgar brushed some of the hair away from Scriabin's forehead, and he lifted his knees up, bringing Scriabin closer to him. Scriabin made a soft surprised sound, completely appropriate and endearing for a child his age. With a strange kind of ease, Edgar rested his chin on Scriabin's head, pressed to his chest, and his arms encircled him, trapped him.
"That's right...you're here now...and that's what counts, I guess."
A few seconds and their breathing fell into a rhythm, matched, and he could hear Scriabin's heartbeat and was sure that Scriabin heard the same. The house creaked a little, settled, and he heard the dim tap of rain beginning to fall against the roof.
He sat there and listened to the rain beginning to fall harder, spatter against the windows, and felt the warm living child in his arms, frail and small and familiar, and for a second there was this sense of clarity, of all the hidden motivations and metaphors all becoming clear, defenses dropped and he understood.
"And this...this is what you wanted all along, isn't it?"
Scriabin didn't say anything at first. Then he gently nuzzled Edgar's chest, and said in a soft voice, "this is what we wanted."
And Edgar wasn't sure he could disagree. His brother let out a soft, contented sigh.
"I knew it..."
I knew it...
A crack of thunder that shook the room, and Edgar sat up straight in bed with a deep gasp.
Momentarily panicked, he looked everywhere for some sign of where he was. His skin felt sticky and his sheets too thick, and he found the room surprisingly dark. His alarm clock was off, and he looked to his wrist automatically.
His watch was missing...
Edgar stared at his hand for a few seconds, noticed his longer fingers, thinner palms, a small scar at the top of his wrist from an embarrassingly mundane accident with a car door. He brought his other hand up to join the first, found them both clean and free of any bruises, blood, or grass stains.
Slowly ran his hands over his chest, his face, felt himself breathing deep and frantic.
A dream...
Still felt sticky and hot and generally unpleasant, and God it was humid in his room all of a sudden. What time was it? The question kept buzzing through his mind, insistent and worrying. What time was it?
Where did he put his watch?
He felt around on his dresser blindly, not acclimated to the dark just yet, and he couldn't feel the action figure that had been there so long.
Scriabin.
Scriabin!
No response at first, and Edgar felt around on his desk frantically, as if finding his watch would solve everything. He did find his glasses and he put them on, but his watch still eluded him, and nothing in response...
Scriabin, are you okay? Are you awake? Where are you?
He opened the drawer of his dresser and began to search through his clothes, pairs of socks falling to the floor and still no watch, he still couldn't find it.
Scriabin! Desperate for a response, and he found a deep sense of isolation he had never wanted to feel again. Scriabin, please...!
He shut the drawer and felt around the floor, thinking that perhaps it had fallen off his dresser at some point. Then he felt familiar plastic underneath his fingers, warm and smooth. He breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the action figure with both hands. At times he had been tossing in his sleep, flailed his arms and that must have been what had knocked him down...
He put it back on the desk, but he still felt anxious and worried. He wanted to know what time it was, and he wanted...
Oh God, please, please...not again...
Maybe Scriabin was still asleep. That had to be it. He ran a hand beneath his bed quickly then forced himself to be more thorough.
Not again, not again...
There, he finally felt something. He grabbed his watch and pulled it out, realized that it was no good to him if he had no light to read it by. He stood and walked over to the light switch and flicked it on. No light flooded his room, although a few seconds later a bolt of lightning outside did the job admirably, if temporarily. Enough for him to catch that it was seven something, and he guessed it would be somewhere in the AM. He had fallen asleep at a reasonable time the other night.
Scriabin...
I... A deep rush of relief, and maybe that was what caused Scriabin to pause as he did. I-I'm here.
Thank God...
A moment of awkwardness, of Edgar grasping for details from his dream that were already slipping away from him. Should he have said that? God, what had happened, exactly? He didn't want to forget, but it was fading the more he thought about it...
I'm here.
Good...
An extremely awkward pause, and Edgar looked at his watch compulsively despite the fact he couldn't read it, and then the rumble of thunder followed its faster brother.
God, if it's seven...I probably have to go to work...
Edgar, about...
What?
About...about that, um... Edgar couldn't recall when he had ever heard Scriabin stumble over his words like this. About that...dream...
And it was just a dream...
Yeah?
How much...did you really have a brother? When you were younger?
Edgar stood there for a few seconds, then sat on his bed. He fastened his watch in the dark, listened to the sound of the rain outside, and he sat there.
Edgar...?
Edgar looked over at the action figure on his dresser. He ran a hand through his hair.
You would know, wouldn't you?
A pause, and Edgar decided to get dressed. It took a while for Scriabin to speak again.
I...so you've just been hiding it, all this time? He sounded anything but sure. You've just internalized and, and... Gradually sounding more confident, older. Just taken that specific pain and broadened it, applied it to so many other things so that it didn't have a real source, then you locked it away...didn't want to think about it anymore, so you erased it, locked it away from me. No wonder you wouldn't tell me, you're always giving yourself these pointless guilt trips over nothing, and you probably thought I'd attack you for it. Just use that to pity yourself, that's stupid.
The tone in his voice made Edgar smile and shake his head slightly.
Isn't that right? You're always so focused on being alone and never trusted me or anyone to help you, and you always just kept it to yourself because you assumed that you'd be able to handle it, that you could handle it on your own. Bearing your own cross as always, fah. No wonder you never told me. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Edgar, honestly.
Edgar still smiled and he buttoned up his shirt. You got me. That's exactly why I didn't tell you.
It was so obviously a lie, a lie on both sides, but it bridged that awkward gap between the two, and while it was shallow and thin as paper, it was enough. It served its purpose. So many questions all answered, and that settled that for now.
And why not, it wasn't like anyone was being hurt by it...anyone important...
He briefly caught a flash of something like pride from Scriabin, perhaps contentment, at Edgar's lie. The illusion they refused to let go of.
Are you still going to work?
Yeah, I was planning on it.
Take the day off.
What? Edgar narrowed his eyes for a bit, found himself searching for their familiar battleground, their stances long established over countless months of interaction. A pointless bickering argument, their specialty, and the fact that Edgar found it soothing, normal, solid and concrete in a world that still seemed haunted by the shreds of his dreams...
Take the day off. His tone admonishing, and he just as easily slipped into his own position. You're exhausted.
I just slept for...God knows how long. I'm not tired.
You are so tired. You don't even know how tired you really are. Do I have to remind you who's got the direct line to your emotions here?
Oh, didn't see that coming. Edgar rolled his eyes. That's your answer to everything.
Maybe that's because it's true. You listen to me and you get some rest today. You hear me? Call your work...shit, don't call them. In fact, fuck your work. Go do something nice for yourself. You just went through a lot of pain-
Yeah, I'll just tell my boss to go fuck himself. I'm sure that'll go over real well. Edgar pulled on a sock. Money has to come from somewhere, and if I skip days randomly I don't think they'll be inclined to keep me employed-
It's one day! Scriabin said with exaggerated irritation. Just one day! For once in your life, Edgar, take a day off and do something nice for yourself! Do something YOU want to do!
One of the facts about living an adult life is that you can't go and do whatever you want. Edgar pulled on his other sock.
You never did anything you wanted as a child, and now as an adult you still can't do anything you want? You're still trapped by all your imagined responsibilities? God, Edgar! When WILL you have any freedom?
Argument traveling into deeper territory. I'm sorry if this comes as a shock, but people have responsibilities regardless of age-
"Bullshit!"
Edgar blinked and turned to the action figure. That was the first time Scriabin had spoken through it without Edgar's physical prompt...
There was a pause as Edgar was sure that the same thought went through Scriabin's mind. "Shit. Edgar, listen to me..."
"You've never done that before-"
"Well, I'm fucking upset, okay? Shit." Deeply resentful, and Edgar was almost sure it was self-directed. "If you don't take it now, you'll never have it. If you don't take care of yourself, who will?"
"And what, losing my job is taking care of myself?"
"That's not what I meant and you know it." Edgar glanced outside at the pouring rain, and made a note to complain about the shoddy power lines. These blackouts were too frequent. Still dark and too hot in this room, too humid. "Fulfilling what others require of you, doing what everyone else wants, surviving is not taking care of yourself. Not the way that I mean."
"I can't take care of myself if I have no money, can I-"
"For god fucking- god's...goddamn Edgar, go do something nice for yourself today, Christ."
"And why such sudden interest in what I do, anyway?"
A short pause. His voice was low.
"You know why."
Awkward pause this time. Edgar looked down at the carpet, and he knew that Scriabin felt just as uncomfortable as he did. Acknowledged as fact, relatively, but it was still difficult to talk about.
Quick to fill the empty spaces. "So that's why I want you to do something nice for yourself. That d...that dream...it took a lot out of...a lot out of you. I don't think you know how much..." Sounded guarded and almost distracted. "But I do, and trust me, you need to take it easy today. Make yourself feel good."
"Trust you. Fah."
"Think about it...when was the last time you ever did something because you wanted to? Because it felt good? How long have you denied the sins of the flesh, so to speak?"
"The fact that every time I want to do something you constantly jump down my throat about this and that and what it means and who I am and I'm doing it all wrong, all of that makes me just a bit wary, you understand."
"Change..." Soft word not particularly directed at him, but still intended for him to hear. Edgar ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.
"I don't know if I'm ready for this..." He shook his head. "Maybe this isn't really a good thing at all. Maybe this is a bad sign..."
Testing him, testing to see if his maturity was really affected by the dream's age limit, to see how much he was willing to risk, sacrifice...
"I don't...think so, necessarily." Hesitant and somewhat uneasy. "It's...it does signify a rather...large change, but it doesn't have to be all at once. I mean...right now, we were talking like we did before, weren't we? Arguing, I mean. Things have changed...heh, again. But we can handle it. I have confidence that we can."
Still couldn't let go. Edgar wasn't alone.
"For someone who claims to be a pessimist, you have a lot of faith in me." Edgar stood up with a sigh, and walked out of his room.
Scriabin was silent, and as Edgar got himself a glass of water, he tried to get a better look at what time it was. Still fairly dark. If it was morning, then this was a fairly intense rainstorm, to cover the sky so completely. Barely light, and it might as well have been night. He drank warm tap-water and he caught small pieces of what Scriabin was feeling. He wasn't good at it just yet, still a new ability he hadn't completely explored, but the line between them was gradually opening further, and the glimpses he caught were more than enough to help him, at least give him a general idea of what was going on. He tried to put a mental picture to the general uncomfortableness he could feel, and the strong image of Scriabin as the seven year old boy came to mind, dressed in clothes too large with his hands pressed near his chest, looking down and shuffling his feet.
He shook his head, forced it away, felt Scriabin doing much the same thing in his own way. He wondered if Scriabin saw himself as Edgar saw him, or if he had his matching mirror image of his supposed older brother, staring at him with a look of pride and superiority at the same time.
God, this complicates things.
Yeah. He expected more, but apparently that was all Scriabin wanted to say.
His head hurt a little, and he put the glass back in the sink. This complicates things a lot.
Yeah. Edgar headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. Scriabin's voice came quick and soft. Don't go to work today. Take the day off.
I don't have a vacation day.
Take the goddamn day off.
I don't know if I should...
There, weakness, and Scriabin knew it'd only be a matter of time before Edgar gave in.
Just do it. Go ahead. What difference does it make? Just do what you want today, do what makes you feel good.
Like what? Edgar studied his face in the mirror, made a note to shave.
Scriabin thought for a few seconds, hummed to himself. Then he snapped his fingers. It took Edgar a few seconds to wonder as to how he could do that exactly. I know. I know exactly what you need right now.
What?
You need a taco.
A taco? Edgar half-laughed, half-choked. A taco, I haven't had one of those in years-
Exactly, Scriabin said with satisfaction. Exactly my point, my boy.
Back to that again. Edgar was wondering when the diminutive would come back into play. Scriabin could never stray from it for long, particularly when he was trying to pressure Edgar into doing or believing something.
I don't even know if that taco place is still open-
Does the place really even matter? Have you ever thought about why you haven't had a taco in so long? Do you wonder about that?
Not really, no. It's just a taco.
Just a taco. Cha. Interesting, that when she died you stopped going there. Do you not feel confident rewarding yourself for your own actions?
It's not that, it's just...it felt weird to go there alone. We always went there together.
She gave them to you. Can't you give them to yourself?
It's just a taco-
You know this is about more than that.
Fine. Edgar rolled his eyes again as he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower. I just...it's been too long. I don't even know if I like tacos anymore.
You do. I know you do. Why not do it, Edgar? Why not go out and have a taco today and relax? You know how they make you feel, and I bet you anything that they still make you feel that way today.
I don't know...
Just for once, Edgar, take control of yourself. Of your life. No one will reward you anymore, no one will punish you. It's up to you to do both of those things. You've done a lot of punishing as of late, and I can hardly fault you for that, god knows, but you haven't done any...any rewarding at all, not that I can see. The closest is sleeping in, and that's pathetic compared to the agonies you put yourself through every day, for yourself and Johnny and your religion and Gran's memory and me-
He caught a tinge of surprise, regret, and Scriabin felt, worried that he had gone too far. Transgressed the boundaries when Edgar was at a particularly fragile state, and by all rights he should have been worried. Earlier times when Scriabin had dug too quickly, too powerfully at the truth, Edgar had done something that didn't exactly help the situation.
This time, Edgar let the water beat over his body, and he didn't say anything. He listened.
Stop hurting yourself. Scriabin's tone softened, and Edgar was aware of what emotions he was trying to resurrect with his wording. Stop hurting yourself for once. Do something nice, do something that will make you feel good. Get a taco.
I'm not hungry.
Shut up and go get one.
I...I don't know if I really deserve a taco-
Fuck you.
And somehow, that was a compelling argument. Edgar dropped his weak protest, and found there was something else...
Can I trust you?
...What?
If I go do something that I want for once, will you let me? I'm not the only one who punishes me for what I do. You know that. Can I trust you?
Edgar stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel.
Of course. Scriabin spoke with simple honesty, and Edgar heard that before not too long ago, from much younger vocal cords. I...
That's right... Edgar toweled off his hair, and went to go get dressed properly. That's right, you want them too.
A moment of hesitation, the temptation to debate and disagree and argue and mock, and Scriabin did none of these. Instead, he made a soft "mmhmm" sound that had none of his usual sarcasm in it, and Edgar was relieved that he hadn't been mistaken after all.
Shirt, jeans, and he knew that it would be cooler outside than in. He found his black trench coat on the floor, discarded from his previous trips outside that he couldn't exactly remember, and he threw it on with practiced grace.
Any place will do, really...I think so, anyway.
Edgar walked over to his dresser and picked up the action figure carefully, with both hands. He stared at it for a few seconds, then he slid it into his pocket.
I'll call in sick when I get home.
Emotion strong enough to be felt fairly clearly, and Scriabin was somewhere between satisfaction and anticipation, excitement, and Edgar found that in the face of his enthusiasm, suddenly so childlike and familiar, that he felt the same way.
An hour or so later, Edgar sat in a booth by himself with a single taco and a large, watered-down soda.
What kind of freak puts ketchup on a taco. You're hopeless. Completely harmless little jab, obligatory and understood. Scriabin felt happy, satisfied, and he knew that.
So did he.