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Some nights were easy. Edgar brushed his teeth, changed out of his day clothes into something comfortable and fluffed the bedding before he lay down. But getting to bed wasn’t the hard part. Actually sleeping, now that was the challenge. Dreaming had always been a troublesome affair, even before Scriabin. Not that he blamed him, of course. Well, not that he could solely blame him. But Edgar’s nightlife had never been wholly peaceful.
It was the middle of one such night when Edgar woke with a whimpering gasp. His eyes burned with unbidden tears that left searing trails. And though he knew his vision would be hardly better afterward, he wiped the moisture away with the back of his hand. This only cleared the way for more to slip down along his cheeks.
What’s wrong with me, he thought as he used the heel of his palm to rub at them in mild agitation. He should be used to having nightmares by now. Nothing that happened in them was real and he knew that. So why was his body reacting this way? He should just turn over and go right back to sleep. However he hesitated, the lingering notion that he’d slip into the previous dream stopping him from doing so.
He instead felt along the internal pathways to the place where he used to feel Scriabin, merely out of habit at this point and recoiled at the yawning void within himself. The emptiness in his mindscape was gaping and heavy, its jagged edges where Scriabin had been anchored left raw and weeping from the violence of his exit.
The void pulled gently, coaxing him closer.
As always whenever he felt compelled to check on it, he was tempted to look over the edge. He missed Scriabin terribly and the pang of loneliness was no less heartbreaking than when they first had separated. It hadn’t healed at all, in fact it had only festered in his absence.
Didn’t someone say that loss got easier to bear with time? Edgar couldn’t say for sure if he agreed with the sentiment. Surmising that a book on the subject would help ease his continued state of unrest, he decided to look when next they went to the bookstore.
He started to lean while his thoughts drifted, drawn in by the memory of what they used to have and felt himself begin to slip forward ever slightly. Scriabin had told him time and again not to give up on things. Something about being stronger than he let himself be. Edgar wasn’t so sure.
Would it be so bad? To let go?
The precipice stretched out, beckoning. It offered the oblivion that he still felt in his darkest moments. A peace he longed for, but never had any hope of obtaining for himself. How sweet the fall, his for the taking. All he had to do was step over the edge.
At the last moment he caught himself, pulling back from the l’apelle du vie with a jerk of muscle and a gasp of breath.
But. . . If I fall into that bottomless hole, will I never come out again?
The question terrified him, but not more than what may happen if Scriabin ever found out. So he’d done his best to say nothing about it. Let him think his exit had not left the grand canyon of scars on his mind. Scriabin got the life he wanted. He was free. Edgar, with what little he had left to call his own, would do what he was best at. Carrying on and licking his wounds in secret. No need to be a bother to anyone.
On the tail of that thought, Edgar tried to get a better control over himself. He tapped into that inner calm that had gotten him through so much of his life. But as he attempted to take a breath it hitched on a weak sob, one he had not intended to make.
I can’t help it. . . I’m too broken. Covering his mouth, Edgar’s eyes widened in surprise. The honesty was too much, even for himself, that Edgar flung the thought in a blind panic as if it was alive. He imagined throwing it like a ball as hard as he could into the dark pit.
Stop it, his inner voice soft, but firm. I’m not hurt, he’s not gone, everything is ok. It was just a dream. Edgar listened, but the thought made no sound as it dissipated into the recesses of his mind, quieted by his logic. He waited, hoping his outburst would go unnoticed.
However it was too late. Eyes darting to the side, Scriabin squinting at him from his side of the bed. His dark hair wasn’t nearly the length it should be, but it was finally long enough that the wavy locks framed his face. Like now, he often used it to obscure himself in shadow.
Scriabin, the compulsion to call for him painful, but unyielding.
“What is it?” He groaned as if he heard Edgar’s silent plea, only the slightest bit of irritation present at being woken up. “Nightmares again?”
Edgar shook his head and tried to hide his face with their blanket. He really hated this. It was bad enough that his dreams caused distress. The last thing he needed was Scriabin giving him a hard time about them too.
Scriabin made a sound that was part groan and part incoherent complaint as he rolled onto his back. Edgar could barely pick out the words ‘such a pain’. A soft laugh escaped, but it broke into a sound far more wounded than he meant. Edgar clamped his mouth shut and covered it before more strange noises could seep out.
“Come here,” Scriabin said after he resettled, lifting one arm in a clear invitation for Edgar to cuddle closer. At first, there was no response. Edgar was scared to move. Was this a test? Scriabin doesn’t normally indulge me, but people provide comfort to each other in moments like this, right?
"Hurry up before I change my mind," He added, though there was no real threat in his voice, just the tell tale pull of sleep.
Edgar flinched into motion, sliding close enough to tuck under his arm. Scriabin’s arm relaxed over the top of Edgar's shoulder as his head came to rest on Scriabin’s chest. There was a tense moment, a heartbeat where he thought Scriabin would push him away, but when it did not come Edgar let out a shaky breath and relaxed.
Edgar draped one trembling arm across Scriabin's stomach in a loose hug. He should be happy, but at the moment all Edgar felt was this stupid mix of awkward and overwhelmed. As close as they were, they tried to give each other a modicum of space, at least at night. This was far closer than Edgar normally dared to be on his own.
Scriabin in almost perfect fashion, was completely relaxed by comparison. Perhaps it was because he had just woken up, or maybe he was making a point.
He does like to make those, Edgar mused, though he didn’t expect a rebuttal. It had long since been a habit to think to himself and Scriabin leaving hadn’t changed that. Always showing off what he can do so easily.
He found that it did make the habit lonelier now.
"What was it this time?" Scriabin asked, his voice getting clear as he became more awake. Edgar felt his chest tighten, but couldn't find his voice to answer. Flashes of the dream crossed his mind. He clenched his teeth so as not to let out another cry. The scars below his eyes prickled from the salt collecting on them, but Edgar tried not to rub at them. The last thing he needed was to have them split open.
A cold ball was forming in his stomach, one that was pulling more tears from him as he held onto Scriabin, his fingers curling around his waist more securely. Each breath ended in a slight wheeze as if he was compressing his lungs too hard and every intake was getting harder to pull in. Edgar knew he was starting to panic again and needed to calm down, but thought and action didn’t seem to add up together.
Having Scriabin now so close felt like having him in sharp relief, dangling over that abyss. Still so far away. Never to return. Was this really it? Edgar had never felt lonely before he knew Scriabin and now he felt it. He felt it and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this feeling. This crushing weight on his chest that by all rights should be the end of him. It was unbearable.
"God you're so selfish," Scriabin grumbled after a few moments, his hand sliding down to rub soothing circles on Edgar’s back. Edgar flinched, expecting a strike of some sort, though he hadn't thought he'd done anything wrong. It was so Scriabin, to say something cruel while he was doing something kind. For Edgar, who was trying to hold it in, it was too much.
He cried. Then after a few moments he began to quiet, though the tears hadn't completely stopped. The contact was novel and he wasn’t sure if it was helping, or if it only helped because Scriabin was doing it.
"I'm sorry, I don't know how to make it stop," Edgar replied automatically, his voice higher from pushing through the strain. He tensed for the inevitable retaliation that he knew was headed his way. Scriabin was always good at dishing out pain, and he had a particularly good knack for Edgar's weak points. But at least that was preferable over the little death he was going through in his head.
“Yes, you do Edgar,” Scriabin replied, clearly getting annoyed now. Grabbing Edgar’s chin, he forced him to look up at him. Edgar didn’t fight the motion, his eyes big and brimming with tears as he looked just above Scriabin’s eyes. Though it was dark and his vision was verily compromised, it was still unnerving to look Scriabin in the eye without his glasses. Scriabin seemed to realize this and loosened his grip slightly, a knowing grin tugging on his lip.
“You just have to take your mind off of it,” he added, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.
Edgar swallowed hard. Take his mind off, how could he do that? How could he possibly think about anything else at this moment? Especially when said person was looking at him like he knew exactly what he was thinking, which worried Edgar all the more.
The pit yawned wide, the feeling not so much like he was falling, but like it wanted to pull him in and swallow the both of them up. Edgar wished he could bring them together again, be what they were and knew that Scriabin would hate him for the notion. Why would he want to be a backseat driver in Edgar’s life when he could drive his own? The very thought made Edgar feel a pang of self loathing. He really was selfish.
“I-I know, but. I don’t know if I can,” Edgar admitted softly, his gaze falling to the left. Scriabin scoffed as he often did whenever Edgar doubted himself.
“Dear boy, there’s nothing you can’t do if you set your mind to it.”
Edgar was not used to Scriabin being so encouraging. Usually he’d tear him down and tell him just how many ways he was weak and useless and make him hurt so bad that crying would feel like a facility he was no longer even capable of, let alone be able to turn on.
Perhaps this encouragement was all he needed, or maybe he was just relieved not to get yelled at again. Whatever the excuse he'd come up with later, it prompted Edgar to lift himself up and press his lips to Scriabin’s in a gentle kiss.
Scriabin let out a surprised noise, but didn’t pull away. He let Edgar stay there, felt the trembling run through him and wondered not for the first time, what he'd dreamt to get him so upset. Clearly, it wasn't his normal fare.
"Scriabin I- '' Edgar managed to say when he had the sense to pull back. I can't believe I just did that. Scriabin is going to have a field day now. The kiss had been chaste, but they both knew that it was charged with desire even if one of them always tried to deny it. I should apologize. Right? I didn’t even ask after all. He knew Scriabin was sensitive. It’s not something he should have surprised him with.
His breath came out in short pants as anxiety tried to take a hold of him again. He couldn't explain himself right, couldn't kiss right, hell he couldn't even sleep through a night on his own. Edgar felt truly hopeless.
Reaching up in a gesture unexpectedly gentle, Scriabin cupped the back of Edgar's head, effectively silencing his mental tirade. His fingers pressed slightly in encouragement while his thumb ran along the outer ridge of Edgar's ear.
Eyes widening in surprise, Edgar stopped breathing for a moment. He shuddered from head to toe at the contact then leaned into it. Of course, why was he always forgetting? Scriabin knew him best. Of course he'd know how Edgar felt, even if he couldn't voice it properly.
The maw within him widened along those jagged cracks, splitting fresh and pulsating anew. And for the first time Edgar felt something rise out of that dark abyss.
The need for more.
He leaned in again, but paused with only a breath between them. Scriabin didn't know what he was waiting for, or if he was trying to talk himself out of something, but he knew how to get a reaction.
"Well?" He asked expectantly, licking his lips for good measure. Edgar locked onto the motion despite himself, and even in the dark Scriabin could make out the blush darkening his skin.
Scriabin loved seeing Edgar's struggle. All the more so when the pious boy was the one that had started it. He waited for him to move, but when Edgar couldn't close the distance, Scriabin got impatient. He brushed their lips together lightly, just to tease Edgar further. This seemed to unlock whatever held him in place and Scriabin thought that was an encouraging thing. Edgar kissed him once then let a groan escape as he opened up to kiss Scriabin properly, who grinned and sighed at the sensation.
Edgar didn't understand it. What was this feeling? It was strong, whatever it was. A bubbling warmth that felt like someone had pushed him down a hill and now he was tumbling fast with no way to stop himself. It egged him on, faster, more more, keep going, as if there was a purpose to this, beyond getting over a bad dream. The idea of something unfamiliar happening in his mind made him worry, but he felt unable to stop it.
Scriabin was shifting towards him, his hand still encouraging him closer as it kneaded along his scalp. The blankets that had been pulled over them now seemed more an afterthought, falling away as their bodies became more entwined. Edgar didn’t mind though, his skin only concerned itself with being in contact with Scriabins’ and their combined body heat was more than enough to keep the cold away.
It was easy to get lost in the moment, for a few of them were spent simply cataloging his taste and the sensation of their tongues massaging each other. Each time Edgar tried to stop himself, not being one usually swayed by carnal desires, and each time he failed, was driven a little further mad by it.
A kiss like this was normally enough to send Edgar into a spiral of sexually repressed denial where he'd turn it all away, but not now. The growing hunger in him demanded retribution. If it was not to have Edgar himself, it would take what it could.
Edgar could already tell Scriabin was getting excited, he was far more honest with his body than Edgar was. The wanton sounds he made coupled with how much heat was building between them was telling Edgar all he needed. Still, it wasn’t enough.
He wanted more.
He wanted more.
He wanted more.
The growing maw demanded it. And the more it demanded, the less Edgar could tell the difference between it and himself. That should have been a terrifying realization, he knew it normally was, but even that was swept away before it would allow him to break from their embrace. It was all getting swept away, he just didn’t know where it was going.
He trailed his fingers down Scriabin's side, taking in the lines of goosebumps like a blind man reading braille, which earned him a delightful gasp as Scriabin pulled back.
"Stop, that tickles," He panted past swelling lips. Equally breathing hard, Edgar gazed through half lidded eyes at his flushed cheeks. Then, in a rare spark of mischief, grazed fingertips up his side again. Biting back a moan, Scriabin squirmed closer to get away from the sensation.
"Nngh...Fuck, I said stop," He said louder, grabbing a fistful of Edgar's hair and giving it a tug. Edgar breathed sharply through clenched teeth as a sting of arousal ran from his scalp down his spine to heat up his navel, but lifted his hand away, amusement creasing his eyes.
"Aah, sorry," He managed in a wavering voice, already preparing to kiss him again. Scriabin tightened the hold on his hair, keeping Edgar just out of range.
It was odd to him, seeing Edgar eager like this. So quick to let his inhibitions go. And with hardly a complaint about his purity. Could it be that Edgar had finally seen the light? Scriabin didn't think so.
"Let me guess. Were you dreaming about me?" He inquired, his voice taking on a coy lilt. Edgar paused, poised above him. A shiver ran through Scriabin, one that he wasn’t entirely sure was rooted in excitement. That’s definitely a yes.
“I. . . I don’t want to talk about it,” Edgar managed to say, his voice low and thick with emotion. He looked like he was struggling with something.
“Typical. You say you want us to communicate openly, but it seems like only when it’s convenient for you,” Scriabin pouted, loosening his hold on Edgar’s hair.
“Nngh, that’s not,” Edgar groaned as Scriabin released him. “I don’t mean it like that. I do want us to communicate openly.”
“It must’ve been painful,” Scriabin countered spitefully, turning his face away.
“Scriabin stop,” Edgar warned. Stiffening at the threat of an argument and because he never backed down from opportunities to do so, Scriabin stuck his chin up to accentuate his irritation.
“I bet I left you, didn’t I?” He sounded smug.
Edgar winced. How can he be so callous?
“No dammit, I lost you!”
"So what? It’s all the same."
Edgar let out a frustrated sigh. God he’s so childish, he thought, then reminded himself that technically Scriabin hadn’t had this body for all that long. So perhaps his behavior wasn’t entirely unexpected. No, he’s just an ass.
"Please, just forget about it. For a little while," Edgar murmured. He waited a moment, but when Scriabin stubbornly didn’t move, the emptiness within him that had ebbed during their moment apart returned with a surge of desire that was almost painful.
He didn’t know why, didn’t know if it was really him or some trace part of Scriabin that felt this, but it didn’t really matter. He wanted more. The hollowness inside him needed to be filled, one way or another. It ached and pleaded and threatened to widen further, all of which he didn’t understand. He didn’t feel this way normally. But all the same, the abyss threatened to swallow him up if he did nothing about it.
The feeling was almost suffocating, but Edgar didn’t know how to proceed beyond it. With Scriabin not actively encouraging him, how should he engage him again? Had he completely ruined the moment, by not telling him about the dream? Edgar wasn’t sure. Scriabin was usually so dodgy when it came to intimacy of the emotional sort that he had a hard time knowing what to share with him. The irritation he gleamed from him now was certainly telling, if only he could figure out why.
Still, he couldn't let this darkness drag him under too. They’d survived so much. Too much for him to fall apart like this. Edgar needed to get a grip. He could handle this. He’d survived worse.
Leaning closer, Edgar shifted against him. The sensation caused him to gasp, which paired well with Scriabin’s echoing moan. Forethought evaded him, but instinct flared to life the desire that Edgar felt incapable of shaking off. Even if he didn’t know what to do, he intrinsically did.
And still the maw demanded, swallowing up any guilt or shame before it could touch him, pulling all from him and spitting back only the desire for more. Insatiable, that was the word that came to his mind before it too was gobbled up by the ravenous void.
“Please Scriabin,” he pleaded softly next to his ear.
“Oh fuck,” Scriabin exclaimed in surprise. Clearly he hadn’t expected Edgar to try anything further. And truth be told, Edgar was just as surprised in himself, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like it. Almost to prove the point, he could hear Scriabin’s breathing grow heavy and his body begin to twitch involuntarily as Edgar placed a few kisses under his ear and down his neck.
"Please," Edgar asked again between kisses. The hand that had been tickling before now curved around to cup his backside. Scriabin instinctively lifted that leg to hitch over Edgar’s hip, who took that as a sign to continue moving, albeit teasingly slow, against him.
"God damn, I love the way you beg," Scriabin sighed fervently, his hips shifting to move in time. He clung tight to whatever was closest, his grip near painful, but Edgar didn’t mind in the least. The sharp stings to his shoulder and arm only served to encourage him.
"Just for a little while. I want to think about something else,” Edgar whispered against the skin above his clavicle. Placing a few open mouthed kisses along it, he felt tempted to nibble the soft flesh near his pulse point, but resisted. Despite the temptation, he didn’t normally like to leave such marks without asking first. In any case it wasn’t really necessary, if the frustrated noises Scriabin kept making were any indication. It was clear he wanted more of what Edgar was doing, but he wasn’t going to rush it.
Such was the nature of their exchange.
"Fuck it fine. I'll drag it out of you later anyway," Scriabin suddenly burst out when he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.
"Haa, thank you," Edgar sighed. Adjusting his hand to have a more firm grip on Scriabin’s rear, Edgar rolled his hips and hummed into the crook of his shoulder. Scriabin tossed his head back into their pillows.
“Jesus, aah.”
Each sound that Scriabin let loose as Edgar continued to move was flung haphazardly into the shattered ruins within his mind. He wondered if he kept feeding this famished thing if it would finally heal over. Edgar had no idea how long such an endeavor would take, if it was even possible. It certainly wasn’t the worst idea he’d had. Far better than diving into it himself in any case.
“But you don’t get to think about any old something else Edgar,” Scriabin interjected, as if realizing Edgar’s wandering musings.
“What?” Edgar paused, snapping back to attention. Had he gone off in his own mind in the middle of, of this? How embarrassing.
“I want you to only think about me.”
“You?” Edgar pulled back enough to look at Scriabin’s face. He was flushed, out of breath, hair sticking to his face and he had the most mischievous grin he could muster.
“Yea me. You certainly aren't allowed to think about someone else while we're fucking," Scriabin retorted, giving Edgar's back a thump of his palm. Offended that he'd even suggest such a thing, a sound of indignation escaped Edgar. This pleased Scriabin far more than if Edgar had tried to argue. He loved his devotion. And he wouldn't let anyone else have it.
"Can you do that for me Edgar?” he asked, lifting himself up to get closer to Edgar’s face. Edgar pulled back instinctively, but he could rise only so far before his back stung from the angle and still Scriabin rose to meet him. He paused a breath apart from him, waiting for an answer.
“Yea, I...I can do that,” Edgar stammered with a nod.
“Good boy,” he replied, smiling at the bashful aversion of his gaze. As a reward he kissed Edgar again, who sighed in relief as if he was starved for attention. But instead of falling back amidst the pillows and letting Edgar have his way with him, Scriabin used his inattention to his advantage. With a shove to the shoulder, he pushed Edgar onto his side of the bed and rolled with the momentum. When Edgar opened his eyes in surprise it was to see Scriabin grinning down at him.
“What are you doing? Scriabin-”
“I’m just making sure I have your full attention,” Scriabin interrupted as he settled more comfortably on Edgar’s lap. Edgar clenched his jaw as pressure settled on his groin, his eagerness impossible to hide.
“You, you do...nngh. Always,” Edgar admitted as he placed his hands on Scriabin’s hips, who had begun to rock slowly above him.
“You say that, but I’m not taking any chances,” Scriabin replied suggestively as he reached between them. Edgar didn’t know what to expect but he let out a shivering gasp as suddenly he felt Scriabin’s hand. Looking down, Scriabin had in fact released them both from their shorts and began slowly stroking them together.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked weakly, purely out of habit. They both knew he didn’t have it in him to ask to stop now, not after he’d asked for attention, but he wasn’t used to being handled like this either.
“Haa, you know why. You asked for this. It’s because you want me to,” Scriabin mocked as though he wasn’t totally into it. However it was a thin veil, a game at this point. Roles they played to scratch an itch that felt so good. Then he leaned forward slightly. “I’m just doing it my way.”
Scriabin’s way was better than Edgar expected. A heady combination of warmth and softness of skin mixed with the pressure and friction of motion. All of it sent pulses of pleasure through his body, each one more intense than the last.
At first he was able to keep up with it, flinging the sensations over his metaphorical shoulder into the darkness.
He was feeling it, but he was in control of it. Part of him felt a semi disconnect as part of him focused on syphoning into the hole. He could see himself shoveling and throwing handfuls of what looked like shredded red yarn, the bits fluttering on non air before disappearing into the void. And on the other side he could see himself with Scriabin, the object of his affection and ire.
Then his eyes actually rolled back into his head as Scriabin picked up the pace.
"Ah God, " He moaned as the tension began to build higher. His hands guided Scriabin's hips as they moved, bringing them together in just the right way. Scriabin made all sorts of noises above him, moaning and sighing mostly, which only encouraged Edgard more.
So much for being in control.
"Look at me Edgar," Scriabin demanded, his voice airy and excited. With a little effort, Edgar opened his eyes.
Scriabin had one hand on them like a handlebar, stroking them together while he moved his hips, undulating his spine to over exaggerate the motion. Meanwhile his other hand was sliding up along his torso like he was putting on a show. His hair was fluffed and messy from sleep, but it framed his smiling face in a way that fit just right.
Edgar felt like his throat had gone dry. Where did he learn to move like this? It certainly wasn't something he'd shown him.
He looks so seductive Edgar was taken by surprise by his own thought. Never had he considered such a thing, despite how often Scriabin talked about his sexual prowess. He always assumed it was his Charisma, Scriabin’s sheer tenacity that people might find attractive. However, seeing him move like this, he knew it was something more than that. He couldn’t quite identify it, but Edgar knew one thing. He liked it.
Scriabin, feeling a direct reaction in his hands, laughed in satisfaction.
“Fuck, you look so good,” Edgar admitted, then tensed when he realized he’d said that out loud. He’d intended only to think it, but control seemed to constantly slip from his grasp tonight.
“Yea?” Scriabin replied, the tone of genuine surprise in his voice. Compliments weren’t common between them, sincere ones especially. However he knew that at least in this moment, Edgar wouldn’t have the capacity to lie to him. He might deny it later, but he’d be honest in the moment. It’s just the way he was.
Edgar nodded and hummed an affirmation. His head was getting hazy as his field of focus narrowed. Scriabin watched Edgar a moment before chuckling softly. He looked so good when he let his inhibitions go, focused on him completely. Scriabin wished he was like this more often, receptive to it at least.
“Of course I do... I’m the most beautiful man around. You are super- fuck- lucky to be graced- ngh...with my presence.” Even though he tried to appear unaffected, it was clear that what they were doing was driving him over the edge too.
“I am. So aaah lucky lucky,” Edgar stammered, his voice hitching as Scriabin made long purposeful strokes with his hand. His grip on Scriabin’s hips tightened, his own moving on their own to grind against him to a matching pace.
He was so close, just a little more. The maw stretched, waiting eagerly from the deep. Edgar could actually feel a sharp pinprick of pain from it, the tell tale sign of a headache brewing in his temple, but he didn’t care. The rational part of his brain had long since shut off and all he wanted was to break the tightrope he’d been balancing on for what felt like an eternity now.
Scriabin was moving in earnest above him and that image was too much. He tossed his hair away from his face and braced himself with one hand on Edgar’s stomach, his feet curled under Edgar’s thighs. Each breath ended in a high whine as if he was begging to get there too.
Instead of shoveling, Edgar suddenly felt overtaken by the pleasure they were building together. It was too much to handle on his own. Edgar stepped back from the pit, letting the sensations flow through his system into it.
With a gasp, Edgar tensed as pleasure blossomed from his center too radiant to contain and flooded over him. A great roaring in his ears drowned out other sounds and bursts of light went off behind his eyelids as he spasmed through each quake. Several waves were so intense they made him cry out, but all of it was swept away as the maw drank it down.
He felt Scriabin’s warmth and the spasming of his body at his own release, but it was a moment before his eyes could focus well enough to make him out again. Gasping from the effort, Scriabin let them slide from his grasp, collapsing atop Edgar’s chest. Though it took a little more effort from the added weight, Edgar didn’t complain as they caught their breath.
As sound began to register again, Edgar felt the rising wave of euphoria that usually accompanied these moments. Like a soft cotton barrier between them and the world.
Edgar lay there, his eyes closed.
Inside he looked at the maw. With its wounded edges and fathomless depths. It had not been filled. Nor had it healed.
Edgar felt a twinge of disappointment. What more could he do? Would it be satisfied with nothing less than himself? It was impossible to know.
At least for the moment, as he peered into the void within, it didn’t call to him as it once had.
Sated into silence. But for how long?
A chill ran down Edgar’s spine. He ran a hand gently through Scriabin’s hair, feeling him take a deep breath. He murmured something incoherent, but didn’t seem to mind the petting.
Edgar’s jaw was forced apart by a mighty yawn.
Some nights were easy. Others’ not so much. Edgar accepted this and was grateful, knowing it could be worse.