He'll focus down on a little crack of gray, clearly just a spot that's in the end of it's cycle. Edwin can probably see and feel and hear the memories he's drawing on to make the area around it bright and molten and golden. And slowly, they roll over the gray mark and the feeling of something patched fades.
It's the two of them watching Hogfather for Christmas.
Oh. That-- doesn't hurt, exactly, no. That's not the right word. It aches, though. It makes him feel... Lonely is the wrong word, too. He feels strange and cut off from the warmth of the memory, like it's something behind a gelatinous, shifting barrier that will drown him if he tries to push through it. Like he's a ghost watching a better version of himself live the life that got taken away.
Yellow resists, briefly, half habit and half nerves and wholly not wanting to ruin the memory by touching it. He braces himself for it to crumble or darken or something as the thing he is brushes against John's recollection. Braces himself for a poisoned well, a fresh and different injury to his brother.
There are so many reasons. There are so many. Physically, he tucks little tighter underneath John's chin. Internally, the cascade of why colors his form in dim shades of emptiness that move over the surface of his being like spilled oil over water.
He's afraid he'll take so long to graduate that the Admiral will let him disappear. He's afraid John will get tired of waiting, that Arthur will graduate, that Astarion will, that they'll both get their deals and then Arthur will leave and John will go too because it's Arthur. He's angry, so angry about his own ignorance, so angry that John would be glad he doesn't know things, so angry at humans, humanity and its seesaw of hypocrisy. He's angry that the only time he's ever felt strong is in a dream. He's scared that no one will ever look at him and see anything but a knock-off of John, that he'll find out the people who love him do so because of how like his brother he manages to be. He's scared of never measuring up in John's eyes and angry for wanting to so fucking much.
It's true that I-- I hate humans sometimes, when I forget how many are my friends.
It's harder to admit it to John than it was to admit it to Hunter. He winds in on himself a little, preparing to be scolded or told that doesn't make sense.
And... the future things are all possibilities, that's why they scare me.
You're allowed to hate humans. And you're allowed to remember that you love some of them.
And of course they're possibilities. But anything can happen. It can also not happen. If you're going to prepare for one, shouldn't you prepare for the other?
He goes miserably silent at that, caught between connecting those emotional dots and refusing to because of Larson. Refusing to, because he was right about knowing things being a way to protect himself. He knew nothing, and he suffered, and so did everyone else.
Yes, because they do things that are worth hating. It's okay to get angry. It's okay to hate some things they do.
As long as it doesn't make you blind to the good things they do. Or blind to the wonderful things they do. Or stop you from loving humans that give you reasons to love them.
John can't address the other parts. But also. Edwin. That isn't how he meant it, kiddo.
He's not sure how to articulate it, but at least this time his silence is clearly a struggle to find the words, not an attempt to avoid answering.
...
All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And—sure enough!—I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold.
It's only a very small piece of the poem, but it's enough to describe the feelings, he hopes.
It is. Which is why John's going to gently point out-
He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
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It's the two of them watching Hogfather for Christmas.
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What kind of memories work?
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He reaches for Edwin, and if Edwin lets him, he'll pull him to touch the memory with him.
If it's hard, you can use some of mine.
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For better or worse, brother, you can't break me. Least of all when you don't want to. It's okay.
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There's no better present than a future.
He can feel it call to a piece of himself, he can feel the life in it, but he's--
He's afraid. He's afraid to make anything better, in case it gets worse again.
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The past happened. Being happy now won't change it.
There's no telling what's in the future, and being unhappy now won't automatically make it better. Or worse. Or anything.
All we have is right now to choose what makes us happy, to love one another.
Don't waste now.
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I'm... angry and scared and I don't... know how to be happy anyway. I don't know how to be happy when those things block everything else out.
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Why are you scared?
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None of it is 'now' things.
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He's afraid he'll take so long to graduate that the Admiral will let him disappear. He's afraid John will get tired of waiting, that Arthur will graduate, that Astarion will, that they'll both get their deals and then Arthur will leave and John will go too because it's Arthur. He's angry, so angry about his own ignorance, so angry that John would be glad he doesn't know things, so angry at humans, humanity and its seesaw of hypocrisy. He's angry that the only time he's ever felt strong is in a dream. He's scared that no one will ever look at him and see anything but a knock-off of John, that he'll find out the people who love him do so because of how like his brother he manages to be. He's scared of never measuring up in John's eyes and angry for wanting to so fucking much.
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For the future: if you had to prove without a shadow of a doubt that any of them would happen, show evidence... could you?
Or is it just a possibility?
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It's harder to admit it to John than it was to admit it to Hunter. He winds in on himself a little, preparing to be scolded or told that doesn't make sense.
And... the future things are all possibilities, that's why they scare me.
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And you're allowed to remember that you love some of them.
And of course they're possibilities.
But anything can happen. It can also not happen. If you're going to prepare for one, shouldn't you prepare for the other?
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Where would he even start???
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He should know. John knows, probably.
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All you can do is your best in the now. Just like conversations, like we talked about before.
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So he tries, clumsily, to redirect.
Is it really okay to hate humans?
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As long as it doesn't make you blind to the good things they do. Or blind to the wonderful things they do. Or stop you from loving humans that give you reasons to love them.
John can't address the other parts. But also. Edwin. That isn't how he meant it, kiddo.
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Just in conversations like the one with Richter. ...The pre-murder one.
He's silent again, struggling with the knot of feelings around there's no way to plan for all the bad things.
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There's no fight against that. Feeling that intensely... it's going to happen. There's nothing wrong with that.
What's wrong, though?
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...
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I'll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And—sure enough!—I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I 'most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold.
It's only a very small piece of the poem, but it's enough to describe the feelings, he hopes.
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He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
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