Eat dinner quietly. Say thank you. Take care of the dishes. Go up to his room and sit motionless enough to fade into the background. Minimize the impact of his life on others until he disappeared from it completely. It was the least he could do.

It wasn't an unhappy memory. It wasn't. It was a normal memory, remarkable only in it's unremarkability, quiet and empty in every way. Why was he reliving it now? There was no point. Just sitting on his bed, hands in his lap, lights off before the full dark of twilight swallowed the sky, looking at nothing, feeling less.

He started when Scriabin entered their room.

"What was that about?" He strode in, barefoot and with his hair as wild as ever, pinned back only where the yarn was tied into it, an annoyed edge to his tone before his eyes settled on Edgar, tucked away as he was. Scriabin always spoke, moved, entered each room loudly enough for both of them, and probably half because Edgar refused to. He looked up at him blankly, more with his head than his eyes.

"What was what about?"

"Don't try and dodge this one, come on. I know you're always pretending you don't exist, but that's..." Edgar could feel the implied out there and tilted his head minutely in acknowledgement without words. Scriabin continued, "This is weird. You're being weird. What's going on." He settled into a stance in front of Edgar's bed, facing him with his arms crossed and looking much more like he was sulking than commanding him to give him an answer. Edgar almost smiled at the display, but couldn't manage it through the blanket of fuzzy nothingness around him.

"Mm." He shrugged once, the motion feeling the most appropriate. He didn't really feel like talking, not that it would probably matter. He just wanted to be left alone, let his mind steep in the pale grey mist that had settled around this memory. Scriabin was not having it.

"Scooch over," he demanded, no concession even in the childish way he spoke. Edgar felt his brows tick a little in confusion and Scriabin sighed and climbed onto his bed, and Edgar automatically made room for him. They both sat with their backs against the wall, side by side. Scriabin re-crossed his arms with a huff as soon as he was settled and pinned Edgar with a glare. Edgar looked at him as well, keeping his head forward but his eyes on the small figure. "What's with you?"

"Nothing."

"Stop it. Actually answer me, don't just say what first comes to mind." Edgar sighed, letting his head bump back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"It's nothing, honest. It's normal."

"This is not normal, Edgar." Something struck him there, and his chest tightened for a moment. "You're supposed to at least pretend you're happy, you're not even trying this time, what's going on." Continuing to phrase it not as a question, commanding, expecting an answer. Nothing, nothing, nothing getting through.

"It's just a regular memory this time. It's fine." He paused, feeling along the edges of his emotions, and a tiny itch had broken through. He grabbed onto it. "Or are you just upset that we have to go through something boring instead of something you can make a mess of?" Scriabin stiffened.

"I don't make a mess of things! I make things interesting for a change!" Edgar opened his eyes just to roll them.

"So you are upset that it's only a regular memory this time. Poor you." Scriabin bristled and uncrossed his arms, gripping Edgar's bedding in two small fists.

"You want a mess?" he started darkly. "If you want another fight, I'm sure I could put aside my concern for your wellbeing for a few minutes." Edgar scoffed and Scriabin continued to radiate anger.

"I'm sure you're very concerned." As sarcastic as he could lay on, which was more than he expected. Leave it to Scriabin to somehow make his mood worse.

"As a matter of fact, I am concerned, and as usual, I choose to waste it on you of all people. Ugh, I hate when I somehow manage to forget that you're always, always like this." He let go of the sheets long enough to tangle his fingers into his hair, pulling lightly in irritation. "I don't know why I bother, you're so consistently a lost cause." Now the itch was clearly piercing through, a stab of annoyance following along with it.

"Why not just leave me alone then?" He had turned to look at him fully now, his eyebrows drawn down and his voice louder than he intended. "Go put your attention and problem-solving skills and concern into someone who matters!" And something cold and dark and deeply empty shot through him as he said the last word, and Scriabin was staring at him now, edged with surprise and something he couldn't quite identify.

"Edgar..."

"Nevermind, shut up, it's stupid. I'm fine." He started to get up but felt a hand grab his sleeve. He looked back and Scriabin had his head down, his other hand folded back into the sheets. His thumb was smoothing over the material, and his eyebrows were knit together, his mouth in a hard line. He looked like he wanted to say something and took in a breath more than once before he finally spoke.

"I'm..." He huffed, frustrated. "I asked what was wrong with you." The inflection wasn't where Edgar had expected it, emphasized on you instead of wrong. He pulled his sleeve from Scriabin's grip, and he let him, his hand falling back to the bed. Scriabin curled his knees up to his chest. "That's why I asked. Stupid." It was enough for Edgar to release the tension in his brow at least, and he sighed again and sat with one leg over the edge of the bed, across from Scriabin, looking at him. "Is that what you're being weird about?" He had drawn his arms up over his knees, his voice now muffled against them. "Even here, you want to be invisible?"

Edgar kept his eyes level as he pushed the words around in his head, both Scriabin's and his own before he said them, trying to put off making them real, but he couldn't avoid them any more than he could undo what had put them there. His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke. "Aren't I?"

Scriabin shook, pushing his face further into his arms until only his hair was visible. When he spoke, it was with much more anger than Edgar expected.

"You shouldn't be when you're here. When I'm here."

Edgar looked down at his sheets, considering what he'd said. He brushed his hand over the fabric, and it was softer than it should've been.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine, Edgar." Scriabin was curled so tight that Edgar wasn't sure if his shaking was from anger or tension at holding himself so.

"It's..." better, more than he'd ever had before, more than he expected, more than he deserved. "It is fine, because you saw me." Scriabin's breath caught in his throat. He lifted his head, just enough that Edgar could tell he was looking at him, and he looked back. All he could see was his own expression in the reflective lenses. "Right?"

"Edgar..." Even as small as his voice was, it was filled so deeply with sorrow, it hurt all the way through him. It compelled Edgar to move forward, pushing back onto the bed and blocking Scriabin's glasses from view as he pulled him to his chest. He unfurled just enough to cling to his arms, and he still shook, and Edgar held him.

"You're here, and you saw me, and that's enough." He pet his hair, and felt the edges of his glasses dig into his chest as he moved closer. It was easy to pretend if he told himself it was, so it was. Just one other person, Scriabin curled tighter and he hiccuped as quietly as he could manage, even one other people seeing him made it okay, he told himself. Scriabin made it okay, because he saw him.

Even two of a kind, as inseparable as they were, were enough. To see and to hold the other, if the entire world faded away into nothing, was enough for them. They had each other, always, if nothing else, and that had to be enough.