-Quick note: Watch You Breathe random idea DO IT-
Hahahaha, this is quickly becoming the textfile equivalent of an Elephant Graveyard. So many random scenes just randomely being put down in here without a real home. They aren't fics, or don't have enough substance ta stand as a fic by themselves, but I just hafta write em down. Little orphaned scenes of writing. Do other people do this? Am I just some kinda freak fer just figuring this out NOW?
Anyway, a bit darker, a bit more messed up, courtesy of a song that inspired a fluffy pic and sounds cute, but could have dark undertones. I swear ta god, I can twist any song lyric in the entire world ta my own ends.
Short and quick, not necessarily sweet. Let's go. Stabbing Westward - Breathe You In.

He knew this wouldn't last. Edgar knew that he was lucky this time, he was lucky that he was in the correct position for it, for the sun to come through his window just so and fall across his eyes. Just his, just enough warmth and light to wake him. Just enough to give him those few minutes, those precious few moments before Johnny would wake up, and that would be the end of that.
Johnny was in his arms, asleep. Unusual would be an understatement. The events leading up to what had happened were still quite clear to Edgar, something that he now found something of a detriment.
Johnny's thin arms wrapped around his chest, the sensation of him breathing across his skin, the warmth of another human being, and Edgar felt nothing.
He could barely sort out his thoughts to try and think of why this had happened, why their clothes were on the floor, why this had all happened. He could barely devote any time to why because the sheer fact that he still felt nothing still set alarms off in his head.
Nothing. Just...nothing. An emptiness inside. No real change, no real lasting effect of any kind.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way, he knew it. He knew it, he had seen it and heard and read it and once he had experienced it before, with his old girlfriend in high school who eventually left him for, irony with a two-by-four, being too emotionally distant.
It was the most intimate act between two people, two consenting people, and Edgar had consented and now there was a possibility why far worse then any Scriabin could have come up with.
Even the thought that he was madly in love with the psychopath wasn't as frightening, as deeply horrific, as the thought that Edgar had agreed to this to see if it would make him feel something.
Pure selfishness, and what?
Did it mean something that what he was really afraid of was moral decay?
Why didn't he feel anything?
During the sexual experience, Edgar felt something. That was cheating though, he couldn't exactly use that word. His body had responded and he did little to stop it, but there was no emotion attached to it. There was that vague fear that came with everything Johnny did, from just talking to him to having sex with him, that same vague fear. It should have been heightened or lessened or something, but no. It was just there, same as always. Nothing.
There should have been an afterglow, shouldn't there? There should have been something, some kind of bond. Some kind of emotion stirred by the experience. Something that the idea, that the picture of what they had done the night before, should have stirred. Something, anything. Proof of their love, of affection, of desperation, or something, anything.
Nothing.
There was this immense guilt, this sense of having failed somehow. He was sure Johnny felt something, sure of it. But then again, Johnny felt everything, regardless of how minor and trivial, and he was sure this experience was a rollercoaster of emotion for him. Pleasurable or not, Edgar would find out later. But did Johnny know, did he know that Edgar didn't feel anything? Did he even care if he didn't or not?
Did he do this, did he let this happen as an attempt to kickstart some kind of emotion, whether disgust or love or lust or anything, just something? Something more then the vague twinges of emotion he felt, the minor rises and falls that had no consequences and were easily forgotten.
Should have felt something. They had gone as far as anyone could go the previous night, they had shared the most intimate and revealing moment anyone could have, they exposed everything to one another, and Edgar almost didn't care. The action, the memory of the experience, was stored, filed away into the neat computer of his mind, and he couldn't find any emotion attached to it.
He looked down at the sleeping man in his arms, at his hands curled around Johnny's thin body, and tried to find how he felt.
It was easy to think that maybe he was just in denial about it, that maybe he just didn't want to reveal how he felt, and that was why he couldn't feel anything, anything more then suffocated emotions under mental blankets. But he was willing, his mind allowed it. He would have admitted it, right then and there, that he loved Johnny, if that was the emotion that would rise.
Nothing, nothing. He stared at Johnny like he was any other person on the street, a coworker, someone whose physical presence was always more important then any emotional attachment. Johnny was there, and that was all it stirred in him. Maybe that vague fear, maybe some kind of soft smile that spoke of attachment, but nothing. No overwhelming rush of affection, no feeling of love coming from every part of his body, nothing. Just that minor smile, that passing thought of "I like you" or maybe it was "I like this" and the fact he couldn't tell just made this worse.
This experience had to be as meaningful to him as it was to Johnny, he was sure. It should have been, by all rights. But just physical motion recorded, physical motion in his memory. The need for relief and the physical drive to do so, and the motions and everything and the peak and climax and then sleep, with no thought of how he felt through the whole thing. Sexual arousal wasn't emotion, he was intelligent enough to know that.
Emotion should be attached to it, but it wasn't. Arousal was taken care of, eased, fulfilled, and then forgotten.
Last night meant something to one of them. Edgar wished it was him.
He thought this would change things. Probably stupid for doing it, but he did. That vague affection, that smile had gotten him into this deep, gotten him into this permanently. Little he could do to get out of it now. He thought maybe, maybe physical contact, maybe sex would jar those emotions he had tried to kill loose. Maybe the sex would open some kind of barrier between them, would let them communicate, would let Edgar feel love as he had heard it described by so many others.
But it was just another night, another climax, another experience without emotional baggage. Without emotional tags.
Nothing had changed.
Well, nothing had changed for him.
That was going to get him killed.
And he dug deep, dug very deep, and found he didn't care. He felt nothing.
There was something wrong with him.