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jtl-fics · 8 months

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Fluent Freshman - 38

If it weren’t for the fact that he and Riko had stumbled across a truly traumatizing video of his birth that they had watched secretly in Tetsuji’s office when he was away on a business trip one weekend Kevin would believe that he was born with an Exy racquet in his hand. But the image that is seared into his retinas to this day has proven that he came into this world empty handed.

That doesn’t change the fact that Kevin has spent the majority of his life utterly and completely submersed in Exy. He was trained as a Raven, he was court, he was a champion as both a Raven as a Fox and if he had his way he’d leave college with more Championships under the orange and white than the black and red.

Exy was everything in the world to him.

He could overlook many personality defects if someone brought something to the Court.

Apathetic five foot nothing who was more likely to stab him than shake his hand? Well, he’s the best goalie that Kevin had ever seen in his entire life (and that was saying something).

Tight ass who has anger management issues and will not shut the fuck up about his girlfriend now that he’s not even allowed to have? Well, he is a very solid backliner who has excellent ball handling skills (even if Aaron keeps telling him to stop saying it like that or why he keeps yelling that he’s straight).

Overly touchy, too emotional, will not shut the fuck up about his fiancé in Germany? Well, he is a very solid backliner who is great at rebounds (Kevin doesn’t get why Nicky gets mad when he says that or why he brings up Erik).

Guy who actively dislikes him and is dying for any chance to punch him and also being overly attached to his friends? He’s a great enforcer on the court and had the stamina to play far longer than the other two backliners (Why Dan always said “yeah he does” whenever Kevin commented on Matt’s stamina he will never understand, and he also doesn’t want to.)

Suspicious kid from Millport with a mouth that could strip paint and a past so shrouded in mystery that it even had Andrew perking up in interest? Well, he’s the fastest Striker in the game and the only person that has ever kept up with Kevin’s obsession with the sport. (There was the minor downside that he was the son of the Butcher and almost died before the championships, but Neil pulled through.)

He tolerated all of them and now they’re his best friends.

There are some who he does find personally objectionable but so long as Jack and Sheena manage to continue to be good on the court he doesn’t care about the many many faults in their personalities. They’re his teammates, they aren’t his friends.

He accepted that he might not like any of the others that came onto the team. For the most part he had never given a shit about before the Foxes, content with his brotherhood with Riko even if it wasn’t…perfect. Then he became friends with FF and FF had done him a truly large favor and Kevin wanted to pay that back the best way he knew how. Through his truly infallible health advice and through perfectly crafted smoothies.

Then Daniel appeared with the truth that FF truly met all requirements to be a Fox and Kevin tasted his own smoothie for the first time.

He considered both revelations to be equally upsetting.

Still…

FF was one of the best dealers Kevin had ever had the pleasure to be on Court with. The man knew his position well and interrupted offensives with an enviable ease that made Kevin wish to possibly strap some sort of device onto him and figure out how he did certain things.

It wasn’t that far off to believe that a man raised in the same environment as FF could possibly have similar talents and since Lisa fucked off back to some small town cult they really did need a good sub. Sheena was a good offensive dealer but they had games coming up where defense would be imperative and FF did not have the stamina for a full game and likely would not for quite some time considering he’d be recovering from being stabbed.

So, he’d defended Daniel’s right to try out.

At first, he had felt vindicated. Daniel kept up quite well during the initial warm-ups. Kept pace with Jack, Sheena, Aaron, Andrew, and Nicky. Kevin had been bringing up the rear mostly to make sure that Andrew didn’t stab the guy during warm-ups.

Then it was time for the first precision drill.

The other thing about how Kevin was raised is that he was raised surrounded only by the best of the best. The Ravens were at the top of the Collegiate hierarchy. The National Court used their stadium for practice.

The worst Exy that Kevin had ever seen in his entire life up until the moment that Daniel took hold of an Exy racquet was still only the worst team in Collegiate Division 1 Exy.

Then Kevin watched the ball go so wide that the entire court went silent.

All of the drills that followed were as bad, if not worse.

Kevin felt himself start to vibrate with anger the longer it went on. He started to shout corrections at Daniel but the younger man merely rolled his eyes, “I think I know what I’m doing.” He would say before pointedly proving that he did not.

Kevin only realized nearly an hour in that he had wasted his entire practice shouting himself hoarse at the actual waste of human life that was Daniel Stanton.

Kevin could accept being bad at Exy and having an inoffensive personality. Kevin could accept being good at Exy and having a bad personality.

Kevin could not accept being bad at Exy and having a bad personality.

Coach Wymack called the practice to an end and Kevin thought that he’d manage to keep his anger mostly inside (he is ignoring the near hour of practice he spent screaming directions) when Daniel decided to deliver the Coup de Grace.

Sweat soaking his bangs, panting, and without a single thing done correctly (even the way he was currently holding his borrowed Exy racquet set Kevin’s teeth on edge) the man had the gall, the gumption, and the absolute AUDACITY to come up to the coach.

“So, where do I sign?” he asks.

Kevin sees red and unleashes hell.

***

This was the most fun Andrew has had at a practice since he started having to come to them.

The look of embarrassment on Daniel’s face as Kevin accurately tore into everything he did wrong on the Court and every personal failing that Kevin could home in on. His attention shifted away to FF sitting in the stands near the University official who was shaking her head at the obvious poor showing. The University may have wanted Daniel around to spruce up the Fox’s marketability but even they couldn’t let someone so obviously awful onto one of their few Division 1 teams.

FF was sat sipping one of Kevin’s god awful smoothies looking completely unshocked by Daniel’s showing.

Kevin turned his attention to FF, “You said he was good!” Kevin points at the freshman as he continues to sip the drink.

Andrew interrupts, “He never said he was good.” He remembers the conversation so exactly and there are few things he loves more than having the opportunity to rub it in Kevin’s face when the man is wrong, “He said ‘Daniel has always been athletic’ never anything about him being good.” Andrew reminds.

Kevin whips back around to Daniel, “Have you ever even played Exy?” Kevin demands.

“I didn’t think it’d be hard to pick up.” Daniel argues crossing his arms defensively.

It sets Kevin off on another furious rant.

Andrew had thought that FF didn’t have a mean bone in his body and he’s quite pleased to have been proven wrong. The thought that FF had let Daniel get all the way into embarrassing himself in such a way?

Andrew had to give him props.

“How does it feel getting to watch this idiot crash and burn?” he asks coming to the glass.

“Really thought he could manage it if I could.” FF says with a shrug that has Aaron bark out a laugh.

“You really figured?” Aaron asks coming to stand next to Andrew.

FF just shrugs again, “I mean I also started not knowing how to play and now I’m on a pretty good team.” He says as if FF starting as a child not knowing how to play is the same as someone walking in demanding a spot on a college team.

Nicky lets out a laugh.

“Oh, Smithy I could kiss you.” Nicky laughs and makes his way towards the Court entrance to likely do exactly that moving past a Daniel who was so red in the face with embarrassment and anger that he looked as if he was about to turn purple.

Andrew tuned in.

“…small pond. The only reason you ever felt like you were worth anything is that Smiths was too nice to put you in your place before now!” Kevin was probably talking about medium-sized fish in a small pond but Andrew didn’t really care to know.

“Are you going to let him talk to me like this?!” Daniel finally turned to Wymack.

“Kevin, you shouldn’t talk to the public like that.” Wymack says without a hint of chastisement in his voice.

Kevin still straightened at the reminder, “You’re right. Sorry coach.” Kevin sneered at Daniel, “Get off the court before you taint it.” He hisses.

“You’re really not going to sign me?!” Daniel demands.

“Why would I?” Wymack asks with a raised brow.

“You took a chance on John!” Daniel points towards FF.

Andrew watches as Wymack’s face does something he’d rarely seen it do, it goes utterly and completely cold. “I don’t take chances with my kids.” He spat, “I give my kids a second chance. Get the hell off of my court.” He hisses.

Daniel’s face purples further before he stomped off of the Court.

“Don’t you dare walk off with that racquet! It’s worth more than you!” Kevin shouts after him and Andrew in that moment realizes that Daniel is going to do something stupid.

And FF is on the other side of the Plexiglass with only Nicky at his side.

It’s like watching a train crash.

Daniel might say something, but Andrew doesn’t know. He sees Neil rushing as well, his sense of danger always well-honed but Neil had been in Captain mode in the moments before walking some of the sophomore and freshmen through what they had done wrong.

Neither of them will make it in time.

Daniel throws his racquet, and he throws it right at FF barely 5 feet away in the stands.

The Racquet blows past FF’s head and Andrew lets out a breath.

Then before it could crash into the seats behind him and break FF’s hand wrapped around the shaft of the stick and stopped it’s trajectory.

“Your aim really isn’t getting any better by not listening to Kevin’s advice.” Smith says as he twirls the racquet in his hand so that the net was on the ground. “Also, don’t break the equipment, like Kevin said it’s pretty expensive.” He says.

Daniel let out a primal scream but where Andrew had stalled out to watch the miraculous catch Matt Boyd had not. Daniel was tackled to the ground by the backliner, “Absolutely not.” Matt said with a scowl.

“Smithy are you okay?” Andrew hears Nicky ask.

“Yeah, why?” FF asks as if he hadn’t just been attacked but considering everything that Andrew had seen it wouldn’t shock him if Daniel’s attacks were just par for the course back home for FF. “The racquet looks okay too.” He adds.

“Coach Wymack,” The University representative made their way down looking flustered at the outburst of violence.

Obviously not someone who regularly watched Exy or paid attention to their team.

“This is why I wanted absolute control over who does and who doesn’t get a shot here.” Wymack hisses pointing at Daniel as he struggled under Matt.

“You have our sincere apologies for this.” She says looking at Daniel, “He didn’t… we thought he’d be good for the team’s culture but it seems like we may have misjudged-“

“That guy just tried to take Smithy out!” Nicky interrupts.

“I told you he was dangerous.” Neil adds.

“Can someone call campus security?” Matt asks from the ground, “This jackass keeps aiming for kidney punches and I would like to not be pissing blood during winter break.” Matt requests.

“O-of course!” the University representative says fumbling for her cell phone.

Andrew looked at Matt and figured that the backliner had a handle on that particular mess at the moment.

He made his way over to FF and Nicky who was checking over the freshman.

“Nice catch.” He says.

FF shrugs, “It’s my racquet he was borrowing.” He says, “I didn’t want to get a new one.” He adds.

***

FF watches as campus security took custody of Daniel as he continued to spit and scream. There are talks about pressing charges, but FF just wants Daniel off of the campus and away from him. It’s Jack of all people who says that getting a restraining order is a great way to make sure Daniel stays the hell away from him and FF nods consideringly.

Honestly, he’s still mostly in shock he managed to catch his racquet the way he had. His reflexes weren’t quite up to snuff since he’d been trying to catch the netting, but his hand only closed around the shaft.

Embarrassing.

He really hopes no one teases him about his slower reflexes.

“He needs to be charged for assault at least.” Kevin hisses as they watch the security officers take Daniel away.

“It’d be attempted assault.” Aaron corrects.

“He assaulted my eyes with his Exy.” Kevin insists.

“If that counted as assault, don’t you think I would have pressed charges for all the times I have had to see you dance at Eden’s?” Neil asks. “Also, you’re the one that insisted he try-out.” He reminds.

“Smiths told me he was good!” Kevin screeches.

“No, we’ve been over this Day. Smithy said he was athletic.” Nicky reminds. “Are you going to do what Jack suggested?” he asks turning to FF.

“I’d like to see significantly less of Daniel.” FF admits.

“You know he did actually commit assault, if I pee blood I’m making Kevin go buy me pads.” Matt says.

“Whatever.” Kevin says as they continued to make their way back to the dorm to get ready for the day.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

#Fluent Freshman AU #Up next is the Winter banquet and Winter break #looking forward to that as well #I'd like to thank Snow for their help with some decisions made in this chap #and declunkifying some of my phrasing #I would also like to thank the new Jujutsu Kaisen OP for being a banger #also Unfathomed Force from Trails to Azure OST for continuing to be a banger #Grandma Smith is heading home in the next part which makes me sad even if she hasn't featured a lot in the drafts since the hospital #Daniel absolutely ends up punching a security guard #And ending up in like a holding cell at a real police station #He has one call #And he calls Smith's number demanding he come and help him get out #too bad the only number he has is a phone sitting in Wymack's desk #Guess someone else is gonna have to come and pay bail and help Daniel outta there #also my apologies for putting Daniel on u Elle Woods but it's for the meme #Also also I would like to give a shoutout to Matt Boyd who made the 'save of the day'#Its an award usually for goalies but u da real MVP today #AFTG #AFTG OC #AFTG AU #FF - 38

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vargaslovinghours · 10 months

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Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.