He pulls on his ears, frustrated enough to reply less with words or even ideas than a burst of anger and old hurt and bitterness.
Fuck you!
This time he manages to mean it.
You didn't have to come back to the barge as a fucking animal. You didn't have to come back and look like-- like-- like a daemon, like something that isn't even its own person, like something that only exists because a human already did.
No! I didn't! Because my path is different! I had other shit to deal with!
Why the fuck do you think everything that happens to you is a judgment on you? Or is that just what you decided because it makes it easier for you to tell yourself that you're less and you're worse and you're not your own person?
Or you know what, sure! Sure. It's on purpose. Did you ever think that you ended up like that because you needed to see what it's like to be something like that because you aren't even though you keep thinking you are?! That maybe you needed to get angry with the idea to realize it's all in your head?!
He wads in on himself, shape going loose and formless as he squeezes around his crown until it hurts.
It's too much to think about, it's too much to feel, he can't even pick apart the first piece of what John says before he starts the second piece and it's in such direct opposition to the first part that it makes some bit of Edwin's psyche ache trying to get the two things into alignment.
Shut up, shut up, you're just fucking confusing me.
You said it wasn't on purpose and then you said it was, and I know you didn't mean both but-- I just-- I just--
He keeps squeezing the crown, not hard enough to break anything.
I'm afraid of it being a judgement, I'm scared that it is and that maybe I'll think it isn't and then I'll be wrong. That I'll-- I'll miss something that's supposed to be a lesson, o-or what I need to graduate.
His voice drops, shame-tinted again.
I-- I never noticed the things that Arthur wanted me to, I didn't... didn't know things were important that I should have, and I don't know what's a judgement and what's not.
Ah. Well, that does give him a few things to work with. He'll start with the most important.
Arthur talks a lot of shit. And he can be really unhelpful when he wants something, especially in a crisis, because he asks for things without any fucking context to tell you how he wants them. A pause. He used to bitch at me too.
Just to be clear about that. A moment later, he clarifies-
...I don't think it's on purpose. But his perception of things is pretty fucking warped when he's angry. I let him hit his head on things plenty of times just because he was being a shit.
I know you don't. But you should know that you're allowed to make me angry. I still love you, even when I'm angry. And I won't think that you're bad or stupid because you made me angry. I'll just be angry for a little while, and then it'll fade.
I know. And he means that. He does know, he believes John, he knows his brother's love like solid ground. He's not sure when it became a bedrock fact, but somewhere along the way it did. Yellow explores John's palm with his tentacle-tips.
The honesty gets him to emerge from under the turntable stand, which is where he ended up. He's more octopus-shaped than anything, having read about them since talking to Jamie. He pulls himself up onto John's lap.
The first thing I remember outside of the Dark World... the very first thing was Arthur... testing me. I didn't know anything, but I pretended to, and he played along just enough that I thought-- I thought he didn't know anything either. But then he told me what I was. Wh-what we w-- what we thought we were. He tried to make me remember. There was... was never a minute where he didn't want you instead of me. I don't know how to not... think you're better than me.
Touch will always, always be soothing. It's probably his favorite of the senses, if he had to pick, which is a helpful thought to have, since a dozen poets, singers, and colors occur to him all at once.
I like touch best of the senses, probably. I think. My favorite plants are begonias. And crab apples. Oh, I love Klimt! And Emily Dickinson, and Sarah Harmer, and-- lilac. The color. ...Or maybe robin's egg blue.
And if someone said they were going to give you a book of Emily Dickinson poems or show you a Klimt painting, and you got excited to read or see those... and then they handed you a book by Frances Sargent Osgood and showed you a painting by Alphonse Mucha...
He doesn't answer right away, thinking it over, trying not to let his metaphorical knee-jerk reaction (shapeless, aggressive resentment) blot out the usefulness of the comparison. He does understand (mostly). He does. But--
It wasn't my fault. I wasn't making any promises. I didn't make any deals. I told him to send me back if I wasn't what he wanted and he said no.
It's not the unhinged rage he came to the barge with, by any means. He cares about Arthur too much now for that. But there's still a broken bridge between his empathy and his grace for others.
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Fuck you!
This time he manages to mean it.
You didn't have to come back to the barge as a fucking animal. You didn't have to come back and look like-- like-- like a daemon, like something that isn't even its own person, like something that only exists because a human already did.
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Why the fuck do you think everything that happens to you is a judgment on you? Or is that just what you decided because it makes it easier for you to tell yourself that you're less and you're worse and you're not your own person?
Or you know what, sure! Sure. It's on purpose. Did you ever think that you ended up like that because you needed to see what it's like to be something like that because you aren't even though you keep thinking you are?! That maybe you needed to get angry with the idea to realize it's all in your head?!
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It's too much to think about, it's too much to feel, he can't even pick apart the first piece of what John says before he starts the second piece and it's in such direct opposition to the first part that it makes some bit of Edwin's psyche ache trying to get the two things into alignment.
Shut up, shut up, you're just fucking confusing me.
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Instead, he hunkers down and lays on the ground so he can look at Edwin, folding his arms underneath his head.
His voice is a lot gentler then.
Okay. Let's start there.
What did you find confusing?
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He keeps squeezing the crown, not hard enough to break anything.
I'm afraid of it being a judgement, I'm scared that it is and that maybe I'll think it isn't and then I'll be wrong. That I'll-- I'll miss something that's supposed to be a lesson, o-or what I need to graduate.
His voice drops, shame-tinted again.
I-- I never noticed the things that Arthur wanted me to, I didn't... didn't know things were important that I should have, and I don't know what's a judgement and what's not.
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Arthur talks a lot of shit. And he can be really unhelpful when he wants something, especially in a crisis, because he asks for things without any fucking context to tell you how he wants them. A pause. He used to bitch at me too.
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It's both a confession and an almost-amused commiseration.
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Just to be clear about that. A moment later, he clarifies-
...I don't think it's on purpose. But his perception of things is pretty fucking warped when he's angry. I let him hit his head on things plenty of times just because he was being a shit.
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...What'd he say?
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What?
Whe-
You mean when he was being a shit?
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Usually just 'fuck!'
Sometimes 'AUGH'.
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That makes him feel better about something anyway, for some reason.
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I don't want to make you angry. I don't want to... to... be... sad and afraid.
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I know you don't. But you should know that you're allowed to make me angry. I still love you, even when I'm angry. And I won't think that you're bad or stupid because you made me angry. I'll just be angry for a little while, and then it'll fade.
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He feels calmer now, at least.
But I don't know how to feel better.
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He'll let Edwin explore, but one finger will curl just so to rub his 'head' affectionately.
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I don't know how you did it by yourself. W-well, I know you weren't by yourself, but...
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That's some honesty for you there, Edwin.
And I fucked up plenty. You just didn't see it.
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The first thing I remember outside of the Dark World... the very first thing was Arthur... testing me. I didn't know anything, but I pretended to, and he played along just enough that I thought-- I thought he didn't know anything either. But then he told me what I was. Wh-what we w-- what we thought we were. He tried to make me remember. There was... was never a minute where he didn't want you instead of me. I don't know how to not... think you're better than me.
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Do you have a favorite poet? Or a favorite singer? What about a favorite color?
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I like touch best of the senses, probably. I think. My favorite plants are begonias. And crab apples. Oh, I love Klimt! And Emily Dickinson, and Sarah Harmer, and-- lilac. The color. ...Or maybe robin's egg blue.
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How would you feel?
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It wasn't my fault. I wasn't making any promises. I didn't make any deals. I told him to send me back if I wasn't what he wanted and he said no.
It's not the unhinged rage he came to the barge with, by any means. He cares about Arthur too much now for that. But there's still a broken bridge between his empathy and his grace for others.
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