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Edgar's love language varied between the three of them.
With Luca, it was conversation. Mindless rambling that they each only half-listened to, absorbing enough to return fire for validation and little more. Within Luca, he found an equal - the only person who understood him when no one else did, back then. One of the few people he would happily listen to drone on and on without ever being bored. This made things a little colder outside of intellectual pursuits, not that Edgar rejected him entirely; he just became a little more finicky, waking up from the rosy dream of having an equal when he was hugged from behind or on the receiving end of messy kisses. He would wrestle his way out of Luca's grip, or give a resigned sigh and let the inventor do what he must to get his fill, and snuggle up later when exhaustion urged him into the warmth - not a moment before.
With Victor, it was far more physical. He'd hardly thought himself a touchy person in the past, but he didn't mind it so much coming from Victor, fighting less against him than he would Luca. Their balance was a delicate tug of war, one that Victor usually kept a solid lead on, letting it slip only to trick Edgar and grant himself some amusement - at least, in the artist's opinion. Where the postman lacked words, he expressed himself with acts; acts that had Edgar all but sobbing in bliss in the bedroom, squealing breathlessly on the floor, or simply flushing in silence at the waiting table as fingers intertwined and a warmer hand squeezed his own delicate one, a reassurance of "we're going to do fine" without the words ever leaving Victor's lips. And, regardless of his usual attitude, Edgar would always squeeze back as if to say "I know, I love you."
With Andrew, it was a mix of both, though Edgar led this dance with certainty. Andrew was a muse first, before anything had ever really sparked between them as people. Edgar's tough love contrasted all the softness and kindness Luca and Victor had treated the gravekeeper with, and it worked wonders for his confidence. And so, proud of the achievement and eager to improve further, they'd pressed on, opened up more, gotten more intimate - and, still, while Edgar was sure to maintain a firm hold on the dominant handle of this dynamic, he couldn't help the rush of appreciation he felt when Andrew spoke to his defense before the other two, or piped up alongside the artist in an argument with one of their fellows. In return, he would reward Andrew with some softer love, gladly relishing in the feeling of being protected and planting wordless kisses along his jawline during a snuggle.
This was the way it was. Love, in its rawest form. It was something he never would have understood, had life not weaved its way ever so curiously. He could marvel at the strange path all day, and find no relief in thinking about it. A younger him had come to the conclusion that love was a mystery, only to be understood by his sister and their childhood friend - and yet, here he was, with three of them to boot. How odd. How fantastic. How noteworthy.
… How goddamned hot under all these blankets and limbs, he mused, opening his eyes and shifting beneath the protective, sleeping cuddle he'd gotten tangled in.
Ah, well. There were cons to everything.