Work Text:
Blackbody radiation is a phenomena that occurs at the center of a flame – the phenomena is characteristic in exceedingly high temperatures. It's visible as a dark space at the center of the flame.
For fire, its color more or less indicates how hot it is: red flames burn the coolest while blue flames burn the hottest.
Edgar Valden's eyes are reminiscent of this; bright blue flames that threaten to devour with a pitch black core. They're alight with hatred while managing to glare at him cold as ice.
"Fuck you." Edgar chokes out, his fingers winding around Luca's chain and pulling them close together. It feels like there's smoke between them. A pyre with Edgar's snot and tears as the kerosene.
Luca is just the extra kindling.
"You – You're nothing. You're just an empty husk of Luca Balsa, someone who stole his face.
"I'll never love you, and you'll never be him. I'm disgusted to have ever thought of myself on a similar level to you."
It stung. It stung in his broken, barely beating heart. Luca knows Edgar's words ring true, and he can't help but feel guilty. Should he feel guilty? For grinding the love and trust of another into the dirt under his shoe, even though he doesn't remember doing it? For continuing to haunt them, remind them of a past they can never get back, even if it was the fault of a past he doesn't know?
"There has to be some way to make it up." Luca's words are barely audible, but it's clear Edgar catches them, because he can almost feel the way Edgar's hackles raise. Caught off guard and stumbling with the way Edgar's grip tightens on his chain, the artist bodily pushes Luca into the wall. It hurts more emotionally than it does physically.
"Not unless you can bring him back." Edgar sneers. "Can you do that, O great genius inventor 'Luca Balsa'? I bet inventing was just one more thing you forgot about."
Luca knows. He knows deep down that the spiked walls Edgar builds are just for self-defense, and his feelings are (according to Luca's prior calculations) approximately 25% less lethal than they end up coming out.
But, Luca thinks, he's right.
While he hasn't lost his passion for inventing, he has lost much of his skill. His memory is worse, so he needs to reference his notes for formulas constantly. His motor skills are worse, so it takes him twice as long to connect wires and tighten bolts. His legs are worse, so he needs to take more breaks and wobbles when he stands.
Edgar is right.
He's not 'Luca Balsa'. He's some washed up poser wearing his face.
But there is something, deep inside of him, that screams "I want to help Edgar!"
Even though he doesn't remember him?
Even though Edgar thinks he's a worthless piece of trash?
Maybe this is what love is. He doesn't remember how that feels either.
Edgar is still close enough for flint to strike against steel, and he doesn't have time to react before the prisoner is guiding Edgar's hands up to his bandaged neck, letting them rest there as he slots their lips together.
He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, he just needs to get this burning ache in his chest to go away. For a moment, he thinks Edgar leans into it, but it's shattered as he feels hands tighten around his neck and slam his head into the plaster wall.
He wishes it hurt more.
"You're sick." Edgar seethes. His hands don't exactly tighten more than they have, but he can feel the dig of Edgar's nails. Edgar punctuates his sentence by slamming his head against the wall again. "I fucking hate you. Have you been listening to a word I've said, or is the memory loss that bad?"
He grins, airy like he might pass out. "You can do whatever you need to do, Edgar. Anything you need to make it better."
Edgar's glare shifts from lit kerosene to the bitter remains of coal after a fire. He lets go, and the prisoner unceremoniously drops to the floor, entire body shaking. There's crescent-shaped indents all over his neck that are tinged red. The back of his head feels wet and sticky, like he was cracked open. He can barely find the strength to reach behind him and pat the back of his head, and he finds it comes back stained with blood.
The painter looms over him. "And yet, you just managed to make it worse and prove it.
"You'll never be Luca Balsa."