Chapter Text
Dead insects filled the sink, maggots squirming around the plates that were left to rot in the sink for God knows how long. The dripping of a leaky faucet was the only sound filling the room.
The man sat stiffly at the rickety table, fingers curled around a ceramic mug, though he hadn’t touched his tea. Across from him sat Johnny—leaned forward slightly, staring.
"You're not drinking," Johnny noted, his voice soft, almost amused.
Edgar swallowed. He had been staring at the cracks in the table, trying to ignore the way Johnny’s wide eyes stayed fixed on him, how his pupils swallowed most of the irises. The teacup rattled in his hands. “Not thirsty,” he muttered.
"Oh? But I made it just for you."
A smile stretched across Johnny’s lips, thin and sharp like a razor blade. His fingers drummed against the table, quick and uneven, like impatient tapping against bone.
Edgar’s stomach coiled. Something in him whispered that he shouldn’t be here. That he should have never let Johnny inside, no matter how many times the man had shown up at his window, babbling about the universe, about blood and purpose and—
"You're scared of me," Johnny mused. "That’s good. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t."
Edgar forced himself to meet Johnny’s gaze. "You do kill people," he pointed out, voice steadier than he felt.
Johnny chuckled, a low, bubbling sound that didn’t quite match his expression. “ Details, details.” He waved a dismissive hand. "But let’s talk about you, Edgar.”
Edgae stiffened in his seat and Johnny, oh well— he noticed. His fingers curled under the table’s edge. “You don’t scream when you see me. You let me in. Why?” His voice was honeyed but edged with something sharper, something waiting to cut. "Do you like me?"
Edgar’s throat went dry.
"You do, don’t you?" Johnny's grin widened. His hands twitched—nails scratching lightly at the table. "I see the way you look at me, Edgar. Not with pity, not with disgust. Just fear. But not enough to run away from me"
Johnny moved fast. Before Edgar could react, the man was standing over him, too close, thin fingers wrapping around Edgar’s wrist. His grip was light, almost gentle—but there was pressure, a threat in the way he squeezed just slightly too tight.
"Let me prove something to you," Johnny whispered.
Edgar flinched as something cold touch under his neck, it was a blade, small but sharp, pressed just above his pulse. Not enough to cut, just enough to let him feel it. Johnny's other hand, still smeared with old, dried ink—no, that was blood —traced the side of Edgar’s face, an almost affectionate motion.
"You think you understand me," Johnny murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
The knife shifted. Not a slice, just a teasing glide across the skin. Edgar’s breath hitched, his heartbeat hammering against the blade.
"Does it scare you?" Johnny asked, tilting his head. "Or do you want this?"
Edgar wasn’t sure anymore. The logical part of his mind screamed at him to push Johnny away, to run, to lock the door and never let him back in. But another part—the part that had always been drawn to the things he shouldn’t be—stayed still.
Johnny laughed softly, pulling back just enough to meet Edgar’s gaze. His eyes were wild, but something flickered behind them—something twisted, something satisfied.
"An acquired taste," Johnny mused, flicking the knife shut and stepping back as if nothing had happened. "We'll work on it."
Edgar exhaled, shoulders sagging with a mix of relief and something else—something dangerously close to disappointment.
Johnny winked and strolled toward the window, humming a tune under his breath. He stopped just before stepping out, glancing back with that same razor-blade grin.
"See you soon, Edgar."
And then he was gone, leaving Edgar alone in the decaying kitchen, fingers still trembling against the untouched cup of tea.
He pressed the pulse on his neck—at the ghost of the blade’s touch—and wondered just how much further he was willing to let Johnny take him.
The cup hits the floor, the liquid spilling onto the floor boards. He was right to not consume whatever the drink was— as it bubbled, an icky substance.
He lets out a deep sigh and press his hands together.
His lips part.
"Dear Father, who art in Heaven; forgive me, for I have sinned."
Edgar woke with a violent choke, his body lurching upright as if dragged out of the dream by force. His throat burned—dry, scraped raw, as if he’d swallowed dust or smoke. The room around him was dark, his vision still clinging to the decaying kitchen, to the cold kiss of a blade.
Cold metal bit into his wrists, rattling loudly in the silence.
He realized he was laying on a filthy mattress pressed directly against the concrete floor, the fabric torn and stained with dark patches he didn’t want to look at too closely. Dust clung to his sweat-damp skin. His throat felt scraped raw, painfully dry, every breath like swallowing gravel.
Then he heard breathing.
Not his.
“Awake already?”
The voice slithered into the dark like a knife being drawn from cloth. Edgar froze, blood roaring in his ears. His eyes adjusted, painfully slow—until a shape resolved at the foot of the bed. Long limbs folded like a praying mantis. Shoulders hunched forward, spine curved, head tilted too far in that uncanny, birdlike way that made Edgar’s stomach knot.
Johnny.
Sitting there.
Watching him.
Edgar’s breath stuttered. “H—how—”
Johnny grinned, teeth flashing faintly in the moonlight slipping through the blinds. “Nice dream?” he asked, voice sugary-sweet, sing-song, like he was teasing a child.
Edgar tried to speak but only a cracked whisper left him—the dryness in his throat painful. Johnny shifted, leaning closer with an eager glint, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, like he was listening to a bedtime story.
“You muttered,” Johnny continued. “Tossed and turned. Clutched at your neck a little—” he mimicked the motion, fingertips brushing lightly over his own throat with unsettling gentleness. “Very dramatic.”
Edgar swallowed, but it scraped like sandpaper. “…Were you watching me the whole time?”
He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to ask how Johnny dragged him here.
“Mm-hmm,” Johnny hummed, unabashed. “You make strange noises when you sleep. Thought you were dying for a second.” He paused. The grin widened. “Kinda hoped you weren’t. Would’ve ruined our moment.”
Edgar dragged in a shaky breath, sweat cooling on his collarbone. The dream still clung to his skin—cold metal, a voice against his ear, the sharp edge of fear that felt too much like anticipation.
Johnny leaned forward, face now inches from Edgar’s. His pupils were blown wide in the dark, swallowing the color around them, making him look more creature than man.
“Tell me,” Johnny murmured, head tilting again, “did I hurt you in the dream?”
Edgar didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Johnny’s smile twitched “That’s good.”
Edgar’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs—but he didn’t move away.
Not yet.