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beauty-and-passion · 5 months

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Two last words on the future of Sanders Sides

There is one last thing I wanted to talk about and I would like to do it in a separate post, so you can add your thoughts and we can talk about it here.

However, I also would like to avoid explaining the basics to children - i.e. why criticism is useful, that you can criticize something you love and that doesn’t mean you’re entitled, that constructive criticism is different from complaining, that criticism isn’t a personal attack on you/your loved ones and so on. I already explained these things in the past and I don’t want to repeat myself.

So if you’re old enough to understand all of this and accept to listen to some criticism, you’re welcome here. If you cannot bear it, just ignore this post. Don’t worry, I won’t get offended: we live in a free world, after all :)

So.

We all know Mr. Sanders is taking a lot of time, before releasing the season 2 finale. And we also know he’s doing other stuff, posting other videos, working on other projects and doing things in his real life too.

And that’s perfectly good. He’s free to do whatever he wants, both in his life and his work.

There is only one thing I am asking for regarding Sanders Sides, something I think he owes his followers too: transparency. Honesty. Not content, not to work on Sanders Sides only, not to follow my headcanon. Just pure, simple, free-of-charge honesty about the project that gave him most of the popularity he has today.

It took Thomas three years to finish three parts of a four-part finale: that’s the last official information we got about the SaSi main storyline. And we got it not because Thomas talked about the creative process behind the series, but because he threw this information first in a tweet talking about finishing part 3, then in a cryptic Instagram post about finishing the draft of part 1. Chronological order? Never heard of her, apparently.

But let’s put the organization problem on the side, because that’s not a novelty coming from Mr. Sanders. And let’s ignore the 200th red flag of him not wanting to talk about Sanders Sides' finale and throwing info around instead. Let’s focus just on the information that, as a writer, I find the most concerning.

If Mr. Sanders needed three years to write three videos, that means he needs one year to write one video. So he will probably need another year to write part 4. And then he has to film/edit everything and that means he will probably need another year - or more.

Therefore, in the best-case scenario, that means we will get the first part of the season 2 finale in 2025. And that’s the best-case scenario.

Okay, you may say, that doesn’t sound too bad. I mean, we waited three years, we can wait more.

Sure we can, we can wait forever if we want to. But there are two big problems: one regarding the finale itself, the other regarding the future of the series.

_________

1) The writing is taking too much time

From personal experience, I know that if writing something takes years, it’s not a good thing. And I’m talking about the specific writing part here, not the research or planning part: research/planning can take a very long time and that’s perfectly fine and normal, but the actual act of writing shouldn’t take this long. If that happens, then there’s something wrong. And usually, this shows in the final result, which is never worth the wait.

The thing is: the longer it takes to write something, the more time/memory problems will occur, i.e. inconsistencies, missed elements, personality swings etc. You know, like the ones we saw in the last Asides. And these problems become 10x bigger, without a clear outline to follow.

But hey, you may say, maybe everything is already planned! Maybe it’s taking this long, just because Thomas doesn’t have enough time to physically write!

Well, that opens another box of questions and (imho) bigger problems:

if he doesn’t have enough time, then why is he the only writer? Can’t he share his writing responsibilities with someone else?

if he’s not the only writer, then who is the other writer - or writers, if they exist? A competent expert or one of his friends? And if it’s one of his friends, then why can’t an influencer with his numbers hire an expert, who will be faster at writing, better than him and, most importantly, bias-free and not influenced by the fandom?

how does the writing process work in his team? Is there even a writing process or not?

how does his team actually work? What do they do? Is there at least one expert hired by Thomas or is the team made of just his friends?

seriously, why doesn’t he hire an expert? What did experts ever do to him? Is it so hard to find experts in the US?

And before any of you say “but he doesn’t have money”… please. Please. I saw people with way fewer numbers, followers and influence making better decisions. And they always start by hiring experts, whether they are managers, editors, cameramen or creative team members.

Also, he lives in the US, not on an island in the middle of nowhere. He can find experts if he wants to.

_________

2) The passage of time

In 2025, Mr. Sanders will be 36 years old. And if he needs even more time to release all four parts of the season 2 finale, he will easily reach 40 by the time the fourth part is out.

Age shouldn’t be a problem, everyone should be free to do anything whenever they want. But that doesn’t apply to Sanders Sides, because Sanders Sides isn’t animated: this series has real faces - Thomas’ face. And Thomas is getting too old for the roles he’s playing.

Sanders Sides’ main theme is knowing more about yourself. The theme is relatable for all ages, so the problem isn’t the theme per se. The problem is the type of characters, which cannot work for a man in his 40s.

One example: Virgil. He was still credible as an emo adolescent when he was 20 and he’s still more-or-less credible now that Thomas is 30. But will he still be credible, when Thomas is 40? Or will he look like a cringey grown-up playing the “I’m young!” part?

Sure, some men have that superpower of cutting their beard and looking immediately 10 years younger… but it cannot work forever. Thomas is growing up, he cannot revert the biological clock and look just like he was at 20.

And that’s perfectly fine, because everyone deserves to grow up, change and become more beautiful. But that also means getting too old to portray these characters and make them look credible.

So either Thomas ends the series before he reaches 40, or he shifts it into a much more mature direction, to keep up with his physical growth.

But doing that means a) losing his younger followers and b) switching from a more carefree approach to heavier episodes. And right now, I doubt this is the direction he wants to push his work to. He’s clearly more interested in small, low-effort videos and in pursuing carefree stuff like Roleslaying. And I completely understand why. Small videos don’t take a long time to make and he can talk about anything he wants, while Roleslaying has an already written story and Mr. Sanders doesn’t have to act it: he just listens to it and plays along with his friends. Also, Roleslaying has different, animated faces, so when Thomas is 40 or 50, Roman of Reston’s face will still be that of a 20yo guy. It’s much more convenient, compared to a series with a continuative plot he should keep up all by himself and heavy themes to discuss.

If I were him, I would close Sanders Sides' main storyline with the season 2 finale. Introduce Orange, wrap everything up the quickest/simplest way possible, solve all problems, the end: the series is done, you can move on/focus on the Asides.

If Thomas truly ends Sanders Sides' main storyline with the season 2 finale, I wouldn’t complain - and I highly doubt others will have much more to say. Sure, we can always complain about the abrupt end, the pitiful disorganization and the writing, but at least the main series will be over and no one will be left hanging around for eternity.

However, I don’t think Thomas will ever take this route either, because it would require enough self-awareness to realize he’s not able to handle this series and, most importantly, that he doesn’t love it as much as before. Oh, and let’s not forget that Sanders Sides is his golden goose and he clearly doesn’t want to give up the profit he makes from it.

That probably means he will never be transparent either. He will never sit down and make a video, to explain his feelings about this series. He will never clarify how the writing process works. He will never admit he doesn’t consider SaSi important anymore. He will never give proper answers. After all, he had multiple chances to do it and he never did. At this point, I doubt he will ever do it.

This is, deep down, the reason why I wanted to write my take on season 3. Because I know Mr. Sanders will never do anything of this. He will never talk about religion so openly, show something violent like a punch or normal like a kiss. I doubt he will ever address any mature topic at all. Or that he’ll be able to wrap up all the loose threads in a satisfying way, considering that, in the last Aside, he basically ditched them all.

So, I decided to write this. And by writing this, I proved myself a couple things:

That you can write something in less than 3 years. And no, that doesn’t prove I’m better than Thomas: it just proves I committed myself to this project until the end. And, in order to do that, I didn’t need to undergo 24-hour-long writing sessions either: I wrote a little bit every day, even just one single page. It was a daily effort, not a tour-de-force. And I focused on that project only, not on 20 at the time.

That you don’t need money to write. I didn’t spend one single cent to write FSS3. All I needed were a pen, some paper, a computer and willingness to commit. The computer might be a bit more expensive, but I can assure you the other things are all very cheap.

That an outline should always be the top priority. Sanders Sides has so many themes and loose threads, that closing them all without a proper plan would be insane. Heck, it was difficult for me even with an outline, just imagine without it!

But most importantly, I needed closure. After three years of nothing but empty promises, I wanted an ending. Or rather, a satisfying ending. An ending without loosened threads, an ending that wraps all these characters and gives them the growth they deserve.

And I know this probably wasn’t your perfect ending. You probably would change some things here and there - and that’s great, because you can do it. You can use FSS3 as a base from which you can start building your own ending. Now you know it’s possible to do it. Now you know you can do it, if you want.

So if you need closure, if you feel sad and angry or if you’re just full of ideas… do it. Write your own ending. Get your own closure. You deserve it.

While speaking of the canonical main series, I really REALLY hope to be proven wrong, but all Mr. Sanders is doing proves how much he doesn’t care about this series as before. He doesn’t even want to mention it anymore. Instead of acting like an adult, accepting his responsibilities and apologizing for taking this much time, he keeps showing the series under the rug and complaining every time someone lifts said rug and makes him watch what he left under it. And he does it in the most pathetic, childish, manipulative way possible.

That’s not what an adult does, let alone an adult who doesn’t feel guilty. And that proves he knows he’s not doing the right thing with SaSi. He knows he’s taking too much time and he's aware he doesn’t know how to handle the main series anymore.

So, instead of facing the truth, he ignores it, refers to the series only once in a while, uses it for jokes, flattens the plot and the characters’ personalities. Every anniversary, he talks about SaSi as if it’s something in the past. He doesn’t even mention it as part of his projects anymore. On the contrary: he started 2 whole new projects, instead of finishing the one most of his people want to see.

And that’s even more sad, considering how great the concept of SaSi is. This series has a ton of potential and wonderful characters. It can delve into deep, dark and mature discussions. It can explore relatable aspects of life and present themes people can discuss about. It’s perfect for a fandom.

But hey, if Mr. Sanders fell out of love and/or isn’t able to handle it, I do not blame him. Everyone can fall out of love with a project or not being able to handle it. No one is an expert on everything, after all.

The only thing I blame him for is the lack of transparency. It’s his inability to be open and honest with the public. It’s the lies and omissions, his hiding something and pretending it doesn’t exist anymore.

So, since Mr. Sanders seems unable to move on, I don’t want to get stuck waiting forever for him to grow up. I have other things I want to talk about, other stories I want to criticize and some I want to explore with you.

Starting from 2024, my blog won’t be just Sanders Sides-themed anymore. I will still follow this series and its fandom because I love them both (also, I might end up writing a new fiction in the future, because I love these characters too and want to give them a mature development), but I want to expand as well. I want to talk about a hilariously bad webcomic, a meaningful manga and explore a whole new series. And those are just the first three projects!

(And yes, I want to talk about the Book of Bill too, this summer. So... four projects)

If you’re a fan of Sanders Sides, don’t worry: I will still be around to talk about stuff, episodes and details of the series. And when the season 2 finale comes out, I will be there to analyze it and, if necessary, criticize it. Sure, it won’t be a full analysis nor a full critique, because I will need all four parts to do that, but I can give my two cents on each part. And I will do it even if I’m not invited, as always <3

If you do not care or do not want to follow me anymore, you're free to go. I do not want to keep you on a tight leash forever.

But if you're curious and still want to follow me, get ready: 2024 will be a busy year ;)

Thank you all for this beautiful year, thank you for your time, your appreciation and your nice words. I can't wait to meet you all in the next one.

Happy 2024

❤️

( Support me on Ko-fi )

_______________________________

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#sanders sides #ts criticism #just in case #that's not a goodbye that's a see you around #and a preview of the future plans #I want this blog to be bigger and wider #more themes!#more things!#that means reorganization too #but only from 2024 #now I'm going on holiday for a couple days #and celebrating my birthday

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vargaslovinghours · 11 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!)

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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.

#💟#Fanfiction #Blank Slate AU #Edgar #Scriabin #Todd #Shmee #He's technically in there but once again no speaking lines :P Yet anyway lol #It's fanfic time again! I fell into yet another writing fugue and finished Chapters 1 and 2 in like four days lol #If you'll notice tho ♪ Neither of those chapters are featured under the cut :3c Pls do read Ch. 1 at least to get caught up before diving in #This one took a bit longer but that'd be because it's Almost as big as both previous chapters combined lol #I'll update it to the chapter list in a few days! Y'all get a preview here :D It'll be the same there with slightly different formatting #Decided to try something new since tumblr doesn't normally allow underlines but it's very important to Scriabin's syntax #I promise they're all just links to the first chapter lol - you're welcome to check but I promise I didn't put a sneaky link anywhere lol #My one gripe is that it doesn't look as good on-blog :/ Fine on the dash! But I'm not willing to sacrifice the dark colouration on the links #Italics were chosen as the only light feature for a reason ♪#I mean at least it's not Bolded lol I'll take it #These were a lot of fun to write so far ahhh <3 I've been wanting to dig a little deeper for a long while now!#I mentioned this idea offhandedly in the tags of Incoming Outgoing but ahhh it's very rewarding to put to words :D #Fun Fun Fun

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