A vowless way, the first of many waves.

[enigmaestro]

WHO: EDWARD NYGMA and KATURIAN KATURIAN.
WHERE: It's almost like Eddie doesn't leave his house now.
WHEN: Backdated to Thursday May 3rd, midday.
WARNINGS: None.
SUMMARY: Eddie is moping and vulnerable in the light of Eridan's death, and Katurian gets his manipulation on.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, then quickpara. It looks speedier in italics.



He had cut work early. Much earlier than the day previous, and much much earlier than the day before that. Mumbling excuses to Mitchell, avoiding any direct eye contact, he grabbed his communicator and stormed from the building. Quick feet condemned the floor beneath him. Any attempts to pacify, any pitying looks worsened his state, his hatred.

He had gone to lunch and returned to a note on his desk.

MEMO:
I hope he died crying.

No name attached, no context, but the meaning was so painfully obvious. Of course some natives felt insecure about Eridan. Many questioned his familial relation to Edward, others projected what the Skrull impersonating the boy had done to their city. Others still just flat out pinned Eridan as a scapegoat for Import woes, the shushed disgust and fear of all Imports streamlined onto this singular dead child. All were idiots, reasoned Eddie. All were scurrying cowards.

All would be fired.

An unrealistic promise, of course, but it wasn't as if Eddie didn't know who they were. And he kept them in his mind, his schemes jumping at their names. All in due time, he thought. The words were momentary balm.

He had cut work early and found himself in a pile of newspapers. Felicia was gone, her life beyond Edward denied him immediate access this day. A part of him was angry at that, too. She had tried nobly to distract him since Monday, he would later (begrudgingly) admit, she had tried to reach out to him. She attempted a variety of apt manners, unique yet characterized by Felicia's own philosophy.

But really, losing at video games to a woman a decade younger didn't soothe him in the same undoubtedly anticipated manner. He pushed away.

He had his crosswords, and his quiet.

Comments

[goryteller]

[Death, the dead, the dying. Mourning. Katurian didn't have a honing device for those sorts of things, but he felt comfortable in their presence. He loved to saturate himself with the feeling of it all, to fill himself up with the sorrow of lives interrupted.

He needed to find Edward.

That wasn't the only reason, though. In the nightstand of his secret apartment, Katurian found a note penned in his own hand explaining what had happened. Explaining that Edward was on his side now. That the past he knew had changed irreparably in his favor.

He wanted to see this. To experience this.

When Katurian rang Edward's doorbell, he brought with him a bottle of expensive vodka wrapped in a ribbon and a tape recorder in his pocket.]

[enigmaestro]

[He took his time to open it, halfway convinced that the press now dogged his front door. After a peephole check and a pause, he yanked open the door.]

Katurian.

[His surprise was palpable. He ushered in the younger man, peering around the door's threshold before shutting and locking. Edward was unusually pale, a symptom of the past days' stress. He looked Katurian over, noting the bottle with an arched brow.]

I presume this is a social call?

[goryteller]

[Edward let him in immediately. It was an overwhelming feeling, that ushering and acceptance into this man's home.

Edward's paleness was equally overwhelming.

He extended the vodka.]

Is that all right?

[enigmaestro]

[One glance at the make, the proof. He took it in hand.]

That should do. Did anyone see you come in? I've been waiting for the press to strike, they seem to find me everywhere else.

[He moves deeper into the brownstone, leading to the kitchen. Two short glasses are retrieved: shots.]

Take a seat.

[High rise, iron wrought chairs line the sleek, black kitchen island. Eddie mulled around his fridge for a lime to cut.]

I prefer seasoning even out of season.

[goryteller]

[Katurian is not the puppet master, right now. He is not the great narrator, the ever powerful editor. He is not writing.

So he obeys. He sits down.]

I spent the whole way over here checking back, again and again, to make sure no one was following me.

[He shifts on the chair, his feet brushing against the floor. He cranes to watch Edward rifle through the refrigerator. He watches his hands especially.]

I've arrived alone. Completely.

[enigmaestro]

Good. Very good. [Deft fingers took a lime, a cutting board and a knife. He peeled the outer green, before thinly slicing the interior.] So? As charming as the notion of a social call is, I know that can't be the only reason you're here.

[His hands shake, momentarily. Emotion bubbling. He pauses, waiting for them to still.]

Have you talked to yourself yet?

[goryteller]

[He manages a laugh at that, a quiet sound to acknowledge the absurdity of the question. Have you talked to yourself yet? But there isn't an speck of mirth in his eyes. Looking at those trembling hands, all Katurian can think about is whether Edward responded that way to his death.

He already knows the answer.]

I received a letter, actually. But essentially, yes. I have. I've talked to myself.

[He swings his feet, a gentle pendulum, then stops.]

Do you know what you're telling them? The press.

[enigmaestro]

[His movements froze at that, and he looked down at the counter. His thumb rubbed over the hilt of the kitchen knife. Fingers clenched it, pushing the blade at the vodka bottle, savagely peeling away the foil top design.]

Yes.

[He unscrewed the cap, topping with a pop. And he swigged.]

I always do.

[Liquor sprayed from harsh lips, his voice hoarse.]

[goryteller]

[This is new territory.

Katurian understands this immediately, his eyes widening as Edward kicks back the vodka. This is more than mourning. This is Edward bending, breaking, snapping. He is witness to this, this horrifying, glorious shift.

He wraps that wonder around his words.]

Can I hear it?

[enigmaestro]

[He stared at Katurian, hard. Part of him realized his audience was interested in more than just the words, more than just the surface smiles. Edward's hesitation ends when his eyes drop, and he resumes crafting their two initial drinks.]

Eridan has had a difficult time, adapting culturally. He's from a world where violence and oppression is the social norm. I have done my best to suitably integrate him but -- but as with all Imports, we are not isolated systems. We must work in tandem with native law and native society, in order to strengthen our inclusion of community. Eridan was just an uncertain, confused boy who had slaughtered and was brutally murdered because of it. If anything, this is an example of why we cannot take justice into individual hands.

[A significant glance at Katurian, at that.]

Mitchell will speak on the additional allegations.

[He handed Katurian a shot. Vodka, with a twist of lime juice freshly bled.]

[goryteller]

[Katurian's own hands tremble around the vodka. He takes the shot, Edward's words ringing in his ears. The dizziness is almost overwhelming at first. ]

That's a good speech. That has quite a few sound bites, that speech.

[And then he grows stronger.]

He didn't deserve it. That sort of justice. I'd never argue that he deserved it.

[enigmaestro]

Wouldn't you? What if he hadn't been a child? [Eddie took his shot, hard, and his hand flew to the bottle.]

But it doesn't matter. He's already died, it doesn't matter what should have been done.

[A look, aimed at Katurian but not seeing him.]

You seem surprised.

[goryteller]

[He cringes at the words, the accusations. The look in Edward's eyes. He slides his empty shot glass away from him, a silent gesture for Edward to refill it.]

I've never seen you like this.

[enigmaestro]

You haven't? [Of course Katurian hadn't, that went without the performance of asking. But Eddie flung back another shot regardless, his hand wiping his lips.] Is it a sight to behold?

[goryteller]

[He taps his fingers along his own empty shot glass.]

Is this the first time, Edward? The first time someone who mattered was taken from you?

[enigmaestro]

[A beat follows. He shoots a dirty look.]

What sort of question is that?

[goryteller]

[He shrinks in his seat, but he doesn't drop his eyes.]

You know that it happens to me all the time.

[enigmaestro]

You and I are rather different people, Katurian. [He caps off another shot, burning through it the following moment. For a man of slender weight for slightly above average height, he's showing no side effects.]

[goryteller]

[Katurian notices this. He wonders if he's just having difficulties dividing the symptoms of mourning from the symptoms of alcohol.]

But it's something I understand. More than anything else, I understand, Edward.

[enigmaestro]

Oh? And what does that mean to me, then? [How will that help me, is the translation. He sneers briefly, before slicing up another wedge of lime.]

[goryteller]

It means that I'm here for you. And because you're a great man-- because I know you're a great man, you're going to be stronger for it. In the end. I'm sure of it.

[He slides his shot glass forward once more.]

Hit me.

[enigmaestro]

[His squint is suspicious -- at first. Then his expression eases and he does as Katurian commands, he pours another shot. Eddie is quiet during the while, an indication that something is deeply, deeply wrong.

He's quiet and exhausted.]