Chapter Text
Work was dull enough to not create any unnecessary conflict between him and Scriabin. Maybe a slip up in spelling an easy word, something simple like that. A jab from him and an excuse from Edgar, nothing more but idle back and forth chatter to keep them both occupied. If he was really bored, Scriabin helped him with his job. Remembering a specific thing that Edgar had forgotten and sometimes, very rarely, organizing his thoughts for him to solve an issue he was having a particularly hard time with. He knew he would use it against him, and yet he welcomed his help without much defiance.
But that strange cooperation that came from both of them never sat well with Edgar, made him sit on edge, nervous for when it would end and when his voice would become hostile again. But the moments in which his brain felt smooth and serene, Edgar couldn’t help but relish in that feeling. Even Scriabin, he could sense, would release some tension.
It would never last, it usually didn’t, but Edgar knew he was selfish enough to want this feeling for as long as he could hold onto it. To keep it close. To feel it in his chest, his stomach. That this ideal fantasy of their relationship being anything but fueled by hate was possible. That the times in which they worked together was proof of that fantasy’s progression into reality. That it could be real.
It was such an ethereal thought. It made him feel good.
Then the reminder that the world wasn’t on pause, that he had things he had to do, and he was here to complete those things, giving him purpose to lose that grand feeling and continue with his menial tasks. Edgar would let loose a sigh, or Scriabin would, that meant their little speck of heaven was now a short-term memory to be lost.
His work usually flushed out the remnants the feeling had given him, but the tiniest trail that it left in its wake was always so vibrant, like he could feel it shaking inside him, as long as he could catch it before it disappeared. But the moment Edgar would reach towards his salvation, Scriabin would fill his head with words. Distracting him, insulting him, convincing him of other things, whatever he had to do to keep Edgar focused, even with a small tinge of reluctance in his voice that might have indicated something important, it was essential that he did it. Edgar knew why, and he hated it.
Scriabin had reminded him multiple times that a good or bad memory Edgar tried his hardest to freeze in time, or alter at his will, would accomplish nothing but unnecessary longing or pain. He was right before, as he had showed him in a rather… immoral way. But he explained that it was to ‘correct his understanding of right and wrong.’ It was to help Edgar. Everything that Scriabin did was to help him.
Everything that he did to him.
To help him.
He tried to understand it, he wanted to, but he never could. Why Scriabin ‘helped’ him in the way that he did, why they had to argue, why they couldn’t stay in that addicting atmosphere they both desired. Questions that he asked himself, knowing that a voice could answer him and knew each solution to each pleading question. And not once was there a response to such an impulsive thought.
Another memory to glide past him, this time, not reaching for confirmation that it ever existed. He would continue his mindless work and every so often be reminded not to forget the period at the end of his sentence, or that he used the wrong word, or that he had stopped breathing and should fix that.
Once another normal day at work was over, the most exciting game of his life would begin just beyond his apartment’s door.
The game of chance.
What would Edgar read today? What would Edgar eat for dinner? What nightmares would haunt his dreams? How many insults, daily tallying accumulated to 27 if Scriabin was feeling rather nice, would shave away his dignity? As much as Edgar would like to have some control over all or any of these things, it was always in favor of his other half. If he was feeling particularly generous, Scriabin would allow Edgar to pick what book to read or lower the name-calling, making it 60:40.
Though, that was foolish. Scriabin may let Edgar pick the novel, but his every thought was melded into some observation by him, making fun of his dislike in characters or when he would read a page and then have to read it again because he wasn’t paying attention the first time. That leading to a stab at his incompetence and Scriabin having to read to him because Edgar was just too stupid to do it himself. He would let him, of course, there was no other option. The only control he had was the paper flipping from one side to the other and still, Scriabin told him to do that too. A very authoritative Next page was all he needed to hear, and Edgar’s mechanical motor would move his fingers on Scriabin’s command.
Besides making a bowl of Skettios, he did exactly that.
Edgar ‘picked’ a book to read on the couch and searched for the page number he had left off on. Or rather, where Scriabin had left off on.
Edgar wasn’t so choosy with what books he liked to read, open to all ideas as long as it started strong and had a satisfying ending, but their preferences differed quite a bit. Especially with this exact book. It wasn’t that Edgar didn’t like the author’s writing style or what deeper meaning they were trying to portray to the reader, but it was how uncomfortable it made him. So of course, Scriabin read it every chance he got.
He sat there, wanting to sink into the couch cushions and suffocate as Scriabin read aloud the twisted psychological experiments on unwilling participants, the complexities of the human brain, and which awful decisions prove someone to be human.
A college psychology book he had bought to hopefully learn something useful for a friend of his. Although skimming through its index showed to be no help to Edgar, it seemed Scriabin had found some strange infatuation with its contents. Never with Edgar’s books could he sound so absorbed by a piece of literature. The attention he gave it, to a book of all things, was so… he couldn’t place it. His voice sounded philosophical in a way he couldn’t readily recognize. It was unnerving to some degree and furthered his irritation that he couldn’t exactly place why he felt that way.
The more he read aloud though, the easier it was to lose his train of thought, leaving him to focus on his voice and his words. Definitely giving him more awareness than deserved but he hadn’t much else to do.
As Scriabin spoke the blurred lines to Edgar, one experiment that had caught his attention, if only briefly, was one about a trolley whose course would be decided by a volunteer. Each choice given to the participant was going to harm someone, but would they rather hurt multiple people or one person?
He started to slowly drift from whatever was being said to him and focus on that specific thing, he didn’t know why but it interested him. Scriabin lowered his voice, still reading but being attentive to something else.
Edgar couldn’t help but think, what would he have done? Would he be able to pull the lever and save that group of people only to let that one other person die? Or would he be too afraid to do anything and let the trolley run its course? Possibilities of what he would do, of what he could do, it made him uneasy to think about and he wanted to stop the thoughts that flowed to him, but he couldn’t. It was like something was letting them fester and grow beyond his ability to control them, something allowing these intrusive thoughts to roam free. They all fought for his attention but ‘save the crowd’ had been the dominant thought as rationality made it so. It made sense to Edgar that to sacrifice one life for the greater good of multiple would be the correct choice. It fit with his moral and logical standards, so there was no need to keep pestering himself about the other option. He didn’t have to, he knew he was right, but the thought was becoming increasingly more apparent.
Scriabin had stopped reading at this point, but Edgar didn’t notice, he was drowning in that he possibly would let those people- that he was capable of doing such a thing. He wasn’t that twisted person, he wasn’t deranged, he wasn’t insane, he had morals, and he had faith. He was a good person.
The clear image of his hands on the lever came fast and detailed with a glass window in front of him displaying one track split to two. People were on the metal rails, their backs turned, unaware of anything that might come from what they stood upon. The trolley trudged forward towards the group of workers in construction hats, all hammering bolts to steel beams.
His hands didn’t move. The trolley approaching faster. He urged to pull the lever down, but his arms lay slack to his control. He willed for something to happen, anything that pulled the lever down to change its path. Nothing happened. He wanted to scream out, to warn them of the danger just a bit of distance from where they idly worked, and nothing happened. He wanted and willed and prayed, yet nothing happened. He watched the trolley unable to move from the panic that overwhelmed him, as it got closer and closer and closer and then finally…
The image dissipated into a wave of shudders that washed over him, causing the book in his hands to close with a loud thud, his thumb still in place from the page that he had yet to turn. His breathing was heavy and the scars under his eyes pulsated with itchiness, he found his other hand already scratching the open wounds with tiny trickles of fresh blood and skin caught under his fingernails. He recognized the pain in his cheeks and it only furthered his distress, but that was overshadowed by the immense guilt left over from that play by play of himself.
He hadn’t thought that, he hadn’t, he wouldn’t accept that as his own coherent thought. That wasn’t him, he wouldn’t let that happen, he wouldn’t…
And yet he saw with his own eyes, his arms outstretched to the lever, those people’s lives determined by one small factor that he controlled, and he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t move, couldn’t yell at them to get out of the way, couldn’t do anything except stand there and watch.
He had doomed these fake people in this fake scenario, but it all felt too real to be fake.
The pleased hum in the back of his head brought him back to some sense, reopening the book to find his hand that held it to be shaking in spasms. The pale white knuckle of his thumb almost blending with the page’s eggshell white. He could assume that Scriabin was the one to create that whole cinematic as Edgar wasn’t known for his imagination, but even so, he had thought of it first. Scriabin just, made it more than what he wanted to see. Or feel.
He wanted to be mad, be angry at him, but the guilt again seemed stronger than his need to out his frustration with Scriabin.
Edgar sat there in contemplation of what just happened, only hearing his raspy breath stagger without any composure. A few minutes passing.
Scriabin broke through the silence first.
Hmm, that’s enough reading for today, I suppose. He could hear the delightful smirk in his voice and the slight raise of his eyebrows, somewhat proud of his masterpiece as Edgar could clearly imagine him saying.
His breath slowed, still uneven but enough to calm his beating heart to a regular pace. He was tired, from work, from this, whatever. He was tired enough to not respond to Scriabin with any kind of remark and simply walked to his bedroom, leaving the book on the couch. In the morning he’d put it back in his bookcase as far as it would go, or maybe, he would burn it.
This was far from a perfect day for Edgar, but he’d seen and been through much worse. Kidnapped, knocked out, traumatized, and the fact that he had forgotten how many times he’d almost been killed proved his point. This was far from perfect, but he was almost grateful that nothing else had come to cut his throat, figuratively and literally.
Then the phone rang. That distinct buzzing pattern that was hammered into his brain and the equally distinct fear that came each time he heard it. No one ever called him and he never called anyone, so the identity that waited at the other line was easy to deduce without much thought. Still, it didn’t matter how many times Johnny called him, he was still terrified of a presence that wasn’t even there.
He heard a hard tsk in the back of his head before inching towards the phone and settling onto his bed.
“Hello?”
“Edgar?” Johnny’s voice came through quicker than he expected.
“Ah.” Still obvious panic in his one syllable response, as much as he tried to push it out of his system, it lessened through the constant reminder that he was far, far away. That there was no way he could be killed from talking to him on the phone, he was safe. He glanced at his window to make sure of that. “Hi, Nny.”
A short pause. “Were you sleeping?”
“No, I was awake.” He never asked about Edgar. That was strange. In person or on the phone, never had he acknowledged him fully unless trying to kill him or talking about killing him. He lowered his head and felt his hands reach towards his scars before forcedly pushing them back down.
“Huh, you’re usually asleep at this time.” Drastic change from curious to cold.
The switch in tone prompted an immediate spike of adrenaline as he whipped around to see his window still locked and his door still closed. He was fine, Johnny was talking to him through the phone meaning he was at his own house, it’s not like he could magically appear from his closet with a knife in hand, ready to plunge it into his chest or something like that. It was simply not possible.
Beautiful imagery, Edgar. Letting your creative side shine today?
I’m a little stressed, no thanks to you. Of all the times Scriabin had to poke fun, he never failed to do it when Johnny called.
I only showed what you were truly thinking, you admitted it yourself.
I know but… Flashes of those people and the trolley. Quick but not null of guilt. God, did you really have to go that far?
You wouldn’t have believed what I had to say. I just took the material you gave me and made a masterpiece. Flattering that you thought of it that way, my boy. He could see, without any lack of detail, Scriabin flipping his dark hair from off his shoulder in the cockiest and most insufferable way possible.
Don’t even start with that, you took it too far and you knew how I’d react. You did it just to torture me, why else would you read that book if not to make me miserable Scriabin? And it was a genuine question, why else would he read it?
Consider that your taste in books is utter trash and then maybe, just maybe, we can get somewhere with this.
My taste-
Do you realize how long I’ve had to endure reading crappy books and do nothing else? Do you understand how tiring that is? Obvious now, Scriabin had been holding a grudge that Edgar hadn’t caught onto. At least I chose something that was thought provoking and actually caused you to think a little, God forbid you use your brain outside of work.
You made me imagine killing people!
You imagined it, I made it better. He couldn’t deny it, though he wanted to. That’s what an intrusive thought is, genius. But you barely give me anything to work with since you’re so ‘Pure of Heart’, so sue me for trying to make your life interesting. Jesus Edgar you’re so boring it hurts to be stuck with you.
That last bit pained him more than he would’ve liked, aware that their relationship was fixed on hate, yet hearing it was different than feeling it.
I don’t want my life to be interesting, I want it to go back to the way that it was, before all this.
We both know that’s never happening. Another tsk and he knew his words struck him, although he hadn’t intended to do that. And we both know who to thank for that...-
“Edgar?” As if on cue.
“Oh, sorry, I was distracted.” Edgar rubbed the plastic phone in his hand as a reminder of who he was on call with, somewhat as a warning to stay focused. “What were you saying?”
A long pause.
“Distracted...?”
A very long pause. If he were to be stabbed at this very moment, giving the thought fuel in the silence, he wondered how long it would take for his undeniable end.
He waited much too long for him to continue.
“Yes, just distracted from the…”
Distracted from the conversation with myself Nny, I’m also madly in love with you.
“…this book I’ve been reading. It’s a bit creepy, for my tastes.”
Edgar could hear the shift on the other end as Johnny took a deep inhale, readjusting himself with the rustle of clothing. He sounded almost relieved.
“Okay, don’t make it a habit, I don’t want to kill you while you’re distracted.” The words that were coming out of his mouth were said with total carelessness, even though they carried such a strong impact. “That would ruin everything.”
“That’s… understandable enough.”
Doormat Edgar, you are living, breathing doormat.
Shut up.
Doormats don’t talk back.
“Yes, you understand, or you try to which is worlds better than most human scum I’ve come across. I guess in some ways you are,” Tapping on a tiled floor followed by a snap. “Tolerable.”
Wow.
Edgar was, in so many words, deeply offended by this.
Tolerable? He thinks I’m tolerable?
At long last! A compliment! I feel all comfy cozy inside, don’t you?
So that means he’s just been… tolerating me? This whole time?
Despite Scriabin’s overenthusiastic comment, Edgar was thinking of all that he had to put up with for Nny. All those times he could’ve hung up the phone, that he could’ve run away, against better judgement, he did it for him. Was it so wrong to expect proper recognition for risking so much for one person?
Ugh you always ruin it with your psycho analysis bullshit. Take it at face value, he tolerates you, which is probably a good thing, although, as ‘friends’, a little less so.
Do I really mean that little to him. That I can be summed up so easily, just like that.
Oh, I can sum you up in a few words if it helps, lonely, pitiful, incredibly self-
“No, wait, that doesn’t… more like…” Edgar couldn’t tell if this was another sudden mood swing or if this was relevant at all, he was preoccupied with his own battles to care. “What’s it called when the planets rotate around the sun?”
“What- do you mean the solar system?” He closed his eyes while rubbing the bridge of his nose, a headache was a perfect cherry on top to this conversation.
“Yeah that, but more so a concept than a thing. I think nail bunny mentioned it once, something about the way bugs fly around a dead corpse or the necessity of one to the other…” Incoherent mumbling. Johnny was talking to himself too quietly for Edgar to understand much of his thought process, although, he was never quite good at that to begin with.
I know he’s one to think, in simplest terms, outside the box, but none of what he’s saying makes any sense to me. Is he trying to compare me to a corpse or a planet? I just, why is this so hard…
Johnny thinks ‘Outside the box’ does he?
In simplest terms.
Brilliant. I was almost worried he was insane but no, he’s just ‘special’.
What do you mean by special?
Take a wild guess Edgar.
“Ah-hah! There it is. What the earth is to the sun, that’s what you are to me. At least that’s what I can remember before that woman started screaming, god they’re so inconsiderate sometimes…”
“Oh, I get it.”
I don’t get.
I must admit, it is a bit… abstract.
Meaning what exactly?
“…No, you don’t.”
This was familiar. He had heard this before, couldn’t pin point when but the faint memory of his condescending smile was brought up without warning. Seeing Johnny smile was a miracle in it of itself, but the reason as to what made him immediately back down was unknown to him.
“You’re right, I don’t.”
Remind me to look up synonyms for doormat later.
“Could you, elaborate?”
“Hm,” short pause, “I guess it would make sense that you can’t grasp the whole thing at once, you aren’t like me after all.”
You did not just ask the psychopath to explain his psychotic ways of thinking.
I did.
That’s right… you would ask him to explain what’s going on in his head because Edgar wants to fix his demented boyfriend so he’s all better!
He’s not- Having a better understanding of this will help in the long run.
Don’t worry Nny, Edgar’s read a single psychology book in order to fix years of torment that you’ve undoubtedly suffered through. And then once he’s all normal, as you’ve pictured a multitude of times, he can repent for his sins, I’m sure God will see the good grace in him like you do. Maybe overlook the basement full of people and endless murders leaving families without closure and Nny will become the perfect symbol of Christian healing, isn’t that right Edgar?
He asked for my help! He admitted to seeking out how to be fixed which is the first step to anything, won’t you give him a little credit?
Gloss over my words why don’t you, it’s not like it’ll help you sleep at night. But do me a favor a throw my decapitated toy head out the window so I can pretend that I don’t have to listen to you two flirt like love-stricken teenagers.
Scriabin!
Your heart is increasing rapidly, Edgar. Need I say more.
“Edgar Vargas.”
He jumped, giving out a soft yelping sound. He was not prepared for his name to be said outside of his own mind, let alone his full name.
“Edgar Vargas. Edgar, Edgar V. …” It almost seemed that Johnny liked his name or liked saying it.
He reached for his scars again, gliding along the unkept grooves beneath his eyes. They grounded him, to a sense, ensuring that this wound of his was real and inflicted by Nny. These scars were dug through his skin by his knife with intense bloodlust, enough to kill him. These reminders, red flags, signals were stapled to his face by the one he feared the most, the one who controlled him by a single change in his voice, made him fear being alone in case of being dragged back down to his familiar torture chamber. So why in the world could he feel the beat of his heart quicken when he said his name.
Because friends would react this way when being called.
“Edgar Vargas, it fits you perfectly! Edgar being that abnormal normal that you are and Vargas balancing it out. Edgar Vargas. That’s what I like about you.”
Excuse me?
“You’re grounded in a way I can’t be. You see all these people going about life like they completely grasp what they are and what they’re supposed to be. But they’re clouded by animalistic desires and such low self esteem, really, I’m doing these people a favor by ending it short. I take the roll of a teacher willing to right the world’s wrongs when nobody else will, the unwilling students are the most troublesome but they get it in the end. I make it so they do.”
This is wrong in so many ways.
Edgar could agree, this was wrong and terrifying to listen to, but lately he felt himself to be this unwilling student in a world of harsh teachers.
“But you,” he took a breath before continuing, “Edgar Vargas, so oblivious to everything around you. So untouched by the world of sick and infected people! One in a million. I can’t help but be curious as to why that is.”
He’s curious about me?
Curious why you don’t run away from him screaming every time he tries to kill you. Anyone would be curious about that.
Does that mean you’re curious?
No.
Oh. The urge to ask why was strong but he knew that would prompt for a conversation he wasn’t prepared for.
I already know why. I’m just waiting.
“But again, back to the point. You’re so closed off from everything around you that any slight touch of dirt or sweat could ruin you. And I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to stop it. I’ll fix whatever horrible thing they did to you, I’m the only one who understands. Do you get it Edgar? You need me.”
Oh, oh that’s rich.
“Just like the earth needs the sun to stay alive and rotating, you need me. You need my protection from those sick freaks up there with their ruined system. God, they had to pick you out of everyone else, the one person I could trust to be anchored to reality. The ONE person and they have to fuck up everything!”
Who is he talking about?
Who cares, Edgar, don’t listen to him.
“You don’t understand how much this hurts me, Edgar, you can’t understand it. I was so close to that perfection that we both wanted so badly, I worked so hard for it. But here comes these big oafs and their god awful shit for nothing system just to take everything away from me.”
You hear that? All he cares about is his happiness that he worked so terribly hard for. He doesn’t care about you Edgar, accept it and move on.
He said that he was going to protect me… that means something.
Honest to god Edgar, you’re so stuck in this delusion that he cares when he literally just said you’d be better off dead than alive. Unless you want to be forever solidified in his ideal perfection.
“I beat them before, and I can do it again.”
Do you want to die Edgar? For Nny’s sake?
“Edgar, you trust me don’t you?”
“What?”
“You trust me to protect you?”
You trust me to kill you, don’t you?
“Yes.”
“Good. I mean, obviously you do, but it wouldn’t matter if you didn’t. As long as I can catch the warning signs before anything major happens, I should be able to pull the weeds out.”
“What uh, warning signs should I be looking for?”
“Anything out of the norm, you know, the usual psychotic stuff you see in those lazy psychology books. They’re far from accurate but they show the simple signs to watch for.”
Edgar wasn’t sure what to do. He had so many questions and this conversation was only giving him more.
“The biggest sign is not being able to tell what reality is real and which one’s fake, that’s the big kicker. Most of the smaller signs stem from that, seeing things that aren’t real, feeling someone touching you when no one’s there. But that’s when the weeds are just starting to grow and root themselves. It’s when you see something and it’s real. You can feel it, you can see it, you can even smell it. That’s what those bastards do to you, they take everything that’s real and shape it to their own sick form of fun. God! it makes me convulsive… and itchy.”
The tiniest sound of nails scratching skin. Edgar couldn’t help but replicate.
“Ugh, just talking about it sets me off. I’ll be right back.”
Subtle steps getting farther away as Edgar could guess he put the phone on the floor. He had a lot to think about.
Small window of time before he could a sharp metal drag across wood before being brought back up.
“I’ll talk to you more about this later, so don’t go to sleep.”
“Okay.”
He expected to hear that familiar click sound in his ear but heard johnny speaking.
“Oh and Edgar, listen to me, if you hear your voice talking to you, do not talk back to it, do not feed it, that’s how they become so real you can’t ignore it.” Johnny scoffed. “Although I know you’re not stupid enough to fall for such a cheap trick. Okay that’s about it, talk to you later.”
Johnny hung up.
Edgar put the phone down with a soft click.
He knew he was already dead before Scriabin chimed in.