This occurs between Ch. 9 ("Misplace") and Ch. 10 ("Empty") of Zarla's "Vargas", during the night Johnny spent at Edgar's apartment.
Johnny C. and Edgar Vargas appear quite without the courtesy of their original creator Jhonen Vasquez, who would be well advised to stay as far away from this bit of "writing" as possible. If not, I should fear for his digestion. Scriabin is Zarla's.
QUIET
by rueyeet
The problem with late-night television was that it sucked. Nothing but infomercials and re-runs and porn and test patterns and other useless noise. Obscure movies, sometimes, if you were lucky--which he, of course, was not. Johnny flipped through the channels a couple times and disgustedly turned off the TV.
Immediately, the silence returned.
He'd wanted quiet, had come here at least partly so the voices would stop pestering him, pulling at him, trying to tear him apart or reassemble him in their own image--he wasn't sure anymore. He just wanted them to SHUT UP a second. Leave him alone for once. And they did. They couldn't come here, couldn't touch him in this place. For once, it was blessedly, wonderfully quiet.
Johnny shivered, holding tight to himself, and looked around. That was the problem. It was TOO quiet--not just aurally, but visually. Everything in the apartment looked like a design magazine, carefully color-coordinated in neutral shades, contemporary shapes, with just enough art on the walls and books on the shelves and carefully chosen items on the tables to offset the decor. Nothing, though, that would betray the fact that anyone actually lived here. Nothing that wasn't neat and clean and tidy and decorator-perfect. It was like being inside a catalog, except more impersonal. Sterile. Lifeless. It gave him the creeps.
How could Edgar stand to live here? Edgar wasn't like the others, wasn't empty inside, wasn't one of the incomprehensible things that walked around wearing a face and pretending to be a human being. He was real. Edgar talked to him, listened to him, let him come over, tried his best to understand what even Johnny himself could not. He...cared.
Johnny couldn't for the life of him understand why. Why did Edgar allow this contact? Why didn't he run away? Why didn't he hate Johnny, like everyone else? There were so many reasons Edgar should have hated him. Johnny had tried to kill him, for one thing. Twice--or was it three times?--he couldn't remember. Because, as he'd told Edgar in so many words, he was indisputably and utterly insane. As if Edgar wouldn't have noticed that by now, wouldn't know what he was...Johnny's mind teetered dizzily above the fathomless abyss of self-loathing, hesitated there a moment, and veered away.
Music. That was it. He should put on some music. Everyone had music. That would relieve the oppressive silence. He jumped up, searching for some CDs. Usually he had some with him, but had thought bringing his own entertainment might have seemed rude. It hadn't occured to him that Edgar would want to sleep. Of course he would. Edgar was normal. Not like Johnny...no. stop it.
Dammit, didn't the man have any CDs? What kind of person didn't have any music?
What kind of person...?
Feeling suddenly chilled, Johnny half-sat, half-fell into the nearest chair, curling into himself in involuntary defense. He looked around wide-eyed at the cold, blank austerity surrounding him. What if Edgar was just like all the rest of them? What if he was hiding behind that calm and accomodating face, just waiting to laugh, to mock, to despise? How was he to know? How certain could one ever be about what goes on in someone else's head?
All this time, he'd talked to Edgar--no, at him, like the wall Johnny had likened him to--kept calling him, kept up this unexpected thread of contact, simply because Edgar listened. And Edgar always listened, never giving anything away, only barely reacting at all, except when Johnny poked him just to see him jump, to see something on his face, even if it was fear. It was maddening, really. Edgar was impossible to fathom. Passive. Impassive. Terrifying, because he never really knew what Edgar was thinking. He'd been afraid to wonder what Edgar really thought of anything he'd said. Afraid to know who Edgar really was. God. What kind of person...?
Restlessly he unwound himself from the chair and paced through the small apartment, flicking on light switches as he went, looking for any trace of Edgar in it. He detested consumerism, and its attendant expression of petty prehistoric urges through the never-ending accumulation of things, but even he had to admit that people's possessions did reflect them, in a way. Not that a person could really be defined by their dining room set, per se, but most people's homes did have some kind of personal touch. Pictures lovingly framed. Notes tacked to fridge doors. Objects in rememberance of a gift, or a loved one, or a vacation. He'd stolen into enough homes, peeked curiously into enough windows, to know.
Not Edgar, though. Johnny looked more closely at the pictures on the walls, at the decorative odds and ends placed just so, and had the impression that they'd been chosen not because Edgar liked them, but because they went with everything else. It was distinctly eerie. Growing more unnerved by the minute, he essayed a more thorough search, opening drawers and examining the contents, picking up objects and putting them back down absently. He discovered nothing that could tell him what he wished to know. He began to pull Edgar's disappointingly small collection of books down from their shelves, flipping through them impatiently and tossing them aside. Bestsellers, coffee table books, reference materials; read once, perhaps, and consigned to the shelf. Nothing. Nothing except...Johnny reached for the last book eagerly, seeing that its pages showed some sign of actual use, only to realize that he was holding a Bible. He snorted softly. Of course. He should have known.
There was a bookmark in it, towards the back, in what Johnny fuzzily remembered would be the New Testament. He opened it to the marked page and read:
"Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."
Johnny stared very hard at the page. Love.
Love is patient, love is kind. Is not provoked. Does not take into account wrongs suffered. Bears all things, believes all things. Endures all things.
The words reminded him of Edgar.
Johnny had no use for the Bible--for all he knew, God really was a lazy little lawn gnome spending eternity sleeping off Creation--but he knew that Edgar believed in this stuff. He didn't talk about it much, and seemed almost embarrassed whenever his religion came up in conversation, but Johnny knew that Edgar's faith was very important to him.
A heaven for me, and a hell for you.
Did that mean?...could that possibly mean? Johnny's heart leaped with a keen and painful hope, and yet pounded in rhythm to a dreadful fear. Was Edgar simply following the directives of his faith? Or was it something more...specific?
Completely unsettled now, his nerves tingling with alternating currents of terror and excitement, he carefully replaced the Bible on the shelf, and surveyed the now-cluttered room. Half-started thoughts flitted through his mind, chased each other, then vanished when he tried to focus on them. Focus. He needed to focus. He needed to write, to funnel the chaos into words, to put his thoughts down in a more permanent form to keep them from constantly getting away from him. He often did that, when he wanted to try and work something out for himself, without the voices tearing at him.
Except...damn. No backpack meant not only no CDs, but no Die-ary. Fuck. Johnny clenched his fists in frustration, and looked vainly for some paper. Goddammit, didn't the man have a desk? His mind conjured a shadowy image--imagination or memory?--of a desk next to a bed. He started toward the closed bedroom door, then stopped, feeling that uneasy tingling again. Turning away, he saw one of the books, lying open on the floor, its blank back page beckoning to him. Guilt fought briefly with the overwhelming impulse to impose some kind of control over the mess in his head, and lost. After a quick search and some experimentation, he found a suitable pen in the canister beside the telephone, and sat cross-legged on the floor to write. After just a few lines, he jumped up again, distracted. Thirsty. He went to get some soda.
The fridge was as spartan as the apartment, and there was no soda whatsoever. What the hell? What kind of person didn't have any soda? What, did Edgar have some kind of objection to caffiene? What kind of person... Johnny slammed the fridge closed, disappointment contributing to his already agitated state. He stalked back to his spot on the floor and dug his anger into the book's waiting page. Feeling mollified, he went and got some water, sipping it as he considered his next words. The apartment's blandness scraped at his nerves. There was nothing alive here. The page filled with his uneven handwriting as he contemplated it. Nothing alive here except Edgar, who slept. And Johnny himself, who didn't belong. Maybe that was why he felt so jittery. He reread the last line he'd written, staring at the words as if they had further secrets to reveal.
Scared of him. Ironic. Johnny was supposed to be the dangerous one, wasn't he?
Dissatisfied, he got to his feet. He'd come here for quiet, but it was driving him crazy. Well--crazier. He smiled, a brief lunatic grin. Grabbing the remote from the couch, he pointed it at the TV, flipping channels until he found something tolerable, and turned down the volume so it wouldn't wake Edgar. Peaceful, sleeping Edgar. He found another book and tried again. This time, it was his growling stomach that distracted from his task. Fucking organics! He strode impatiently back to the kitchen.
There were no chips, either. Johnny shook his head in disbelief. Edgar must be some kind of health nut. Maybe he should check the fridge for tofu and bean sprouts. He didn't want to raid the cabinets again, not after the Skettio episode. Edgar hadn't liked him throwing his food around. His innards made more noises, but he told them to shut the hell up, and commenced to ignore them. Back to writing, then.
Soon he'd filled another page. He skimmed through the entry. Did he always ramble on like that? Christ. Unwillingly, his eyes were drawn to where he'd started to talk about the coat Edgar had given him. He'd wanted to write that he loved it, but been unable to use the word. It looked lame, crossing something out only to write it again. He shut the book, put it down, went to find a different one. Remembering to put the now-empty water glass in the sink--surely Edgar would approve--Johnny settled in front of the TV and went through the channels again. Amazingly, one of his favorite cartoons was on. Acclimated to the low noise level, he didn't bother turning up the volume; just smiled happily, and continued to write during the commercial breaks.
It was becoming clear that he had a decision to make. I should tell him. Everything will be just perfect.
Except that he didn't know that. I'm afraid of him. Afraid of him turning into one of the others. Turning against me. How could he risk so much, take the chance of wrecking everything, when he didn't know what Edgar would do? What kind of a person...
Dammit. He blinked back tears, scribbling furiously, trying to talk himself into taking action. It didn't work. The cartoon ended, the page was full, and now he was all on edge again. He didn't want to wake Edgar up; was sure Edgar would be angry with him. Messing up his kitchen, ransacking his apartment...Johnny looked around despairingly. He couldn't even clean up the mess he'd made; he couldn't remember where anything went. Edgar would never want him to come over again. Distressed, Johnny paced out the confines of the apartment once more, finding himself in front of the closed door to the bedroom. Rocking from foot to foot in an agony of indecision, he spun about, and went back towards the living room. He'd gone back and forth several times before he mouthed a strangled curse under his breath and went back to pick up another book. The words came disjointedly now, his thoughts refusing to be corralled into something as limiting as words, and certainly nothing so restrictive as complete sentences. He threw the offending book away from him, and stood shaking.
Can't do this. Going to run. Never going to get this right. Never ever going to get this right.
...I want to do this right.
Maybe he should look in the bedroom. Maybe Edgar kept the things that were important to him close to where he slept, away from prying guests. Maybe something in there would tell him what he needed to know. With the unconscious yet practiced stealth of a stalker, Johnny padded soundlessly down the hallway, even with heavily booted feet. Just as silently, he edged into the room, closing the door behind him and pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dim light afforded by the streetlights through the thin curtains. He did not look toward the bed, or its occupant, but automatically noted the deep, even breathing. Johnny took a deep breath of his own, and began his investigation.
With increasing consternation, he opened drawers, pulled out clothing and desk supplies and personal effects, this time paying enough attention to put them back, more or less. There was nothing here either. In mounting dismay, he opened the closet and began taking things off hangers. Edgar dressed as if he picked his clothes to go with his apartment. Everything was mundane, ordinary, frighteningly normal, like a focus group had picked his wardrobe. Another trench coat hung there, its black a contrast with the monotonous neutrals, succeeding only in looking like it didn't belong there at all.
Goddammit!
Unwillingly, Johnny approached the bed, panic welling in him, tears starting to prickle behind his eyes. Aimlessly he picked up random things around the room, putting them down again, none of them giving him anything. Suddenly he stopped and stared. Next to the phone, near the bed, was an action figure. Fighting down hysterical laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of Edgar having such a thing, he dropped the desk lamp he was holding, and went and picked it up.
He had found the only bit of individuality in the entire place.
It stuck out like a sore thumb, so clearly did it not belong with everything else. Well, except maybe the trench coat. The small figure was oddly familiar. He racked his addled brain for a long moment. Oh, yes, that Zeitgeist movie. Yet another intriguing idea sabotaged by the Hollywood requirement that anything vaguely science fiction must be an effects-heavy action blockbuster. Funny he should remember that, when he remembered so little. Where had Edgar gotten the thing? He fiddled with the toy, amused, twisting the arms into a gesture of surrender. Unbidden, a very clear image of the character rose into his mind--Scriabin, wasn't it?--and he suddenly saw the resemblance to Edgar. Something about that, something about the little toy, made him uneasy. No longer amused, Johnny shoved Scriabin's figure into a drawer and viciously shut the little toy in. Beside him, Edgar murmured and turned over, but did not wake.
That was it. That was the sum total of what the apartment could tell him about Edgar. And he still didn't know a damn thing. All that was left was...Edgar himself.
Spent, tired, and afraid, Johnny walked over to the window and looked out. He caught his breath. Despite the lateness (or earliness?) of the hour, the moon was only just rising, and it lingered huge and pale and beautiful over the rooftops. He threw aside the curtain and opened the window with that same automatic stealth, then stood transfixed. Feelings, deep and incohate, welled up in him, pulling him inside himself. Everything else faded, becoming insubstantial, somehow far away. How long he stood there unthinking, submerged within himself and drowning in unguessable distance, he couldn't say; but eventually he felt behind him, encountered the bed and settled there on the edge of it like a wild thing coming to rest.
He'd woken Edgar. At the periphery of his vision and the edge of his awareness, he heard Edgar stir, saw him peer around the dark room, squinting futilely without his glasses.
"You asked me..." Johnny tried to grasp the tail ends of his scattered thoughts, tried to frame them in a way that would make sense to anyone else, to force something through the dark strangeness that wanted to immobilize him. He managed only a whisper, sounding lost even to himself. "You asked me if there was anything that made me happy."
"Yeah..." Even half-asleep, Edgar tried to reply, tried to show that he was listening. Johnny wanted to smile at that. He tried again to reach across the barrier, to communicate, to make Edgar understand.
"The moon..." His thoughts swirled and muddied, beyond comprehension or language. How could he explain? "The moon does...make me happy. The moon and the stars...look at it..."
The round moon filled his vision, perfect in its simplicity, alone in the vastness of sky, and yet whole, serene, beautiful. He drifted in the sight, wishing for that peace, that soothing coldness to quiet the fragmented clamoring chaos in his head, that many-sided tug-of-war that threatened to reduce his mind to its component particles every moment of his existence. Dimly he felt the small shifting of the bed, a soft scrape against the night table as Edgar felt for his glasses, and recalled that he wasn't alone. That there was something he had wanted to say.
"It is...it's rather pretty sometimes." Edgar said tentatively. Ah, Edgar. Always patient, always kind.
He attempted a reply, still stranded within himself. "It's..." No. That wouldn't make any sense. He cast about, formed a dozen different beginnings, discarded them all. "I can't explain it, really." Unconsciously, Johnny leaned slightly closer, as if physical proximity would bridge the gap that words could not.
"You can try," Edgar encouraged him. He also leaned a little closer, looking somehow younger without his glasses. "I'll listen."
"You'll listen..." Yes, he would. Edgar was always there for him. Was never provoked. Never took into account the wrongs he had suffered. Bore everything. Endured everything. Johnny drew a deep breath, and slowly, almost reluctantly, went to sit next to Edgar. "You listen to me," he said, marvelling at the truth of it, turning it over in his mind like a rare and precious thing.
"Yes..." The affirmative trailed off, inviting a response. And Edgar waited, watching him, ready for whatever might come. Still afraid--his hands played with the covers in the futile attempt to relieve the tension in him--but willing to hear whatever Johnny had to say. Without mockery or judgement or hate. Just there...for him.
Suddenly Johnny saw that he understood everything about Edgar that he needed to. None of the other, extraneous things mattered. He would tell him. He would explain everything. And even if Edgar didn't understand, he would try to. He wouldn't fight. Edgar would never, ever fight him, never try to hurt him. Because, for God only knew what reason, as wildly improbable as it was, Edgar...loved him. He looked back towards the window, hiding his exultation.
It would be perfect. As perfect as the moon, bright against the dark cloudless sky. And all at once, Johnny found that he did, in fact, have something he wanted to say. The words came clearly, firmly.
"I want to tell you something. It's important."
Passage quoted from the New American Standard Bible, 1 Corinthians 13:4-7.
This story can also be found at Zarla's site--www(dot)ashido(dot)com(slash)igtky--under Fanfics.
