Scriabin felt young. His mind was technically that of a full-grown man, and he had nearly thirty years worth of memories to draw on for knowledge, but he still felt young. He was beginning to realize, dimly, that he possessed the arrogance of youth. He thought he knew everything when really he knew nothing. He was beginning to think that maybe this mess was partially his own fault. Maybe he'd been too impatient with Edgar all along, hadn't paid enough attention to his feelings, had been too demanding, assumed that because Edgar created him it meant he should always know the right thing to do.

"I think I ask too much of you," he said.

It came out sounding much more critical than he'd intended.

Edgar tensed, and Scriabin wished he could take it back. But all he said was "Don't get jumpy. I was making a comment about myself. I can occasionally be self-critical, though God knows where I picked up the habit."

"Is that supposed to be an apology? There was a whole other insult wrapped up in it."

"Oh. Well, maybe there was."

"God, you always do this. Every time I start to think I can trust you, every time I start to think I can listen to you, you turn around and prove that I can't. You're the one who wants to fix us, start by proving I can trust you."

Surprising himself, Scriabin laughed. "I love it when you act forceful. It's so rare, and very sexy."

Edgar made a sound of disgust. He tried to move away. Scriabin wouldn't let him.

"Let me go."

"No."

"I'm tired of your garbage. Let me go."

"Didn't we just go over this a moment ago? You don't want me to let you go. Should I prove it to you again? Besides, I only said it to get a rise out of you. You shouldn't take it so seriously."

"Oh please. You're not even putting effort into your lies anymore."

"What, are you insulted that I'm not?" he teased. "Why should I? It hasn't gotten me anywhere so far. We just keep going round and round in the same circles. One would almost think we were crazy or something."

"Crazy…" said Edgar. His tone became thoughtful. "I think that's my biggest fear at this point, that I really might be going crazy. That I might end up like Nny."

"It doesn't worry me. I don't think we'll end up like that. We're a great deal better than he is."

"You're saying I'm better than Nny? Is that a compliment?"

"I would hardly call that a compliment. But no, I don't think we'll end up like him. Still, I do think we're going insane in a certain way. The world doesn't function for us the way it does for other people. We're living by our own rules."

"No, I'm not insane. I'd know if I was insane. I feel perfectly fine."

"I don't think so. The wall between our minds has gotten thicker, I can't hear your thoughts the way I used to, but I can still feel when you're losing control."

Silence. Then Edgar said, "You always use the word 'we.' I remember reading in one of my psychology books that the submissive twin is always the one who speaks in plural."

"Are we twins now? I was thinking we were father and son. I wonder what it says about you that you flip out about being gay, but don't blink an eye at incest."

"I'll choose ignore that. Since we're talking about the future, what would your ultimate goal for us be? I mean, I don't want to parrot Nny or anything, but you've never told me exactly what you want."

"You mean realistically or unrealistically? Because, ideally, I'd want my own body. That doesn't seem too likely, but who knows? It could happen. Stranger things have certainly happened to us."

"Aside from that, then."

Scriabin had never been honest before. Why should he start now?

"Sometimes I feel like I want to hurt you, really hurt you. Do something to make you bleed. Mark your flesh so you couldn't ignore or forget about me anymore."

"That's disgusting."

"Oh come off it. I know how much you've wanted to hurt me, even kill me. I'm lucky you're so passive-aggressively dependent on me, or else my existence here could be a lot more painful than it is already. You are the dominant personality, much as I hate to admit it, and if you really wanted to hurt me, you could do a lot better job of it than you are now."

"You said I do hurt you."

"Unintentionally. That's due to your negligence and stupidity, not because of malice. Yes, you do make angry. I'm pretty sure I've made that clear. You're so eager to give up control to Nny, or to God, or whoever, and you never listen to me. It's like given a choice of people to rely on, you'll take the absolute worst option available."

Edgar hesitated. He seemed to be struggling with something. Some memory or concept he wanted to hide from Scriabin but couldn't completely cover up. "But it's still better that way, isn't it? Better than…"

"Better than what? Better to ruin your life and know it's somebody else's fault than to ruin it on your own?"

Then something happened. Something unexpected. Edgar had been following along with Scriabin's logic, somewhat reluctantly perhaps, when suddenly he hit some roadblock in his mind that made him backpedal, burying everything frantically, erasing everything out of his mind. The feeling knocked Scriabin wildly off-balance.

"No," said Edgar. "It isn't true. That's not how it happened. I was never given any choice about this. If I'd been given a choice, I wouldn't have picked this. Who would want this? This is completely the wrong angle to be looking at things. I don't think we should waste our time focusing on this, Scriabin. It won't help at all. This thing with Nny happened because I was forced. That's all there is to it."

Rattled as he was, Scriabin was not thinking clearly. He didn't stop to think about all the better ways he could have handled the situation.

"Don't give me that. Don't lie to me, not now! Don't you dare lie to me about this now!"

"It's just a matter of stepping back, taking a deep breath, and looking at things clearly," said Edgar with eerie calm. "If I do that, I know I'll come to the right conclusion. This is the path God set before me, there must be some purpose behind it. It's my responsibility to try to understand His purpose."

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

He gripped his fist tight in Edgar's hair. He wanted to smother him. Not until he died, just until he stopped moving. He wrapped a hand around his neck. He didn't know why he didn't squeeze tight enough to choke. He wanted to. But he couldn't. Not because Edgar was stopping him or anything like that, Edgar was putting up no resistance at all. He just couldn't.

"Don't you dare lie to me like this now. I can stop you. I will stop you."

He yanked Edgar up by the neck and kissed him. Edgar didn't fight back. He didn't say or do anything. If Scriabin had taken a moment to think about that he would have realized what a bad sign it was.

He was thinking about other things.

Do what I want for a change. Think about me for a change. Answer me. Look at me.

He worked with his hand until he got a response out of Edgar. A loud noise that sounded like pain. There probably was a little pain mixed in, caused by soreness and exhaustion. But pain wasn't the main thing either one of them was feeling.

He was saying things he would have never said out loud.

I love you. I hate loving you. When did I start loving you? I can't remember. I know I didn't always. Not when I first appeared. When did it begin? I don't know. It's not the kind of thing you can stop once you've started. I wish I could stop. I wish that the only thing I wanted from you was to destroy you and take over your body. I'd give anything to be in that state, where defeating you was all I wanted.

It was slower, as it always was the second time around. Less intense. More forceful.

With Edgar making all that noise, it was easy to think he'd come back. But it wasn't really him, was it?

God, I want more and more. I want all of you. The real you, not this dead zombie shell you go off and leave me with. I want to destroy you. I want to get away from you. I want to never see you again. I want to forget I ever met you.

Scriabin could hear their heart pounding. They were both frantically gasping. He closed his hands over Edgar's and gripped them tightly. He was getting close, so close, but that final moment stayed maddeningly out of reach.

When the orgasm finally hit, it was muted, but lasted a very long time. Just went on and on, drawing on reserves of energy he hadn't known he'd had, until it was done and he felt as raw as an exposed nerve. He laid down beside Edgar, shaking, wrapping an arm around his waist and laying his head down on his shoulder.

Edgar opened his eyes and looked up at the white space, a mirror of his own expression in Nny's body earlier. He didn't try to find out if Edgar was back to normal. He was afraid he might still be in denial-mode. If so, Scriabin didn't want to talk to him.

There was just silence, and the soft beating of their heart.

Why can't I get free of you?