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Scriabin burst into the room just as Edgar screamed.
He rushed to the couch, where, as suspected, the crazy psychopath known as Nny was standing over Edgar, a knife pointed at his chest. It was already dark out, and the only things Scriabin could see in the gloom were Nny's eyes and the gleam of the weapon he was holding.
"What the FUCK is going on?!" Scriabin shouted.
Then he paled.
Johnny twisted around to stare at him, wide eyes white and empty in the moonlight. "Ah, the little parasite." He smiled. "How are you, Scriabin? I heard having a body hasn't been easy." Just the way he said his name made Scriabin shudder.
"Sh-shut up." He growled. " 'm not a fucking parasite."
He pulled his hood up over his ears, trying to hide his embarassing fuzz which was his hair."True, not anymore." Nny contemplated, his eyes studying Scriabin intently, gaze not leaving his face for a moment. He was moving at a slow pace as if distracted, drawing the knife closer and closer to Edgar, who was panting for breath, eyes darting from Nny to Scriabin, Nny to Scriabin.
Johnny smiled serenely.
Then, in a sudden lunge, the maniac darted at Scriabin, knife in hand, screaming, calm facade broken.
"IT'S ALL Y-YOUR FAULT!! YOU RUINED EVERYTHING, YOU FUCKING PARASITE!! I COULD HAVE HAD A PERFECT RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU!!"
Scriabin couldn't move; panic stricken, he flinched, stumbing backwards, hands in front of him like a shield. A sudden piercing pain flooded him; his hands were a sickening red and streaming and it hurt, everything hurt, and he was falling..falling...
Through his closed eyes, he heard Edgar's cry of: "DON'T HURT HIM!", and Nny's rasping breath as he stood over Scriabin, probably ready to plunge the dagger into his chest at any moment.
But as he opened his eyes a crack, a shocking scene met his eyes. Edgar, the cowardly moron Edgar, was pinning Johnny to the floor with a look of intense fury. The latter still held his knife, and was pointing it a Edgar's chest, a lazy smile on his face.
"Edgar, you idiot!" Scriabin slurred. "Stop! What the hell are you doing?!"
His hands were much too red.
"D-Don't come near him." Edgar repeated shakily.
Nny's hand gripped the weapon's handle more tightly.
"E-Edgar..." Scriabin warned. "He has a--"
The knife dropped onto the floor with a clatter. "You're no fun like this, Edgar." Johnny said softly, looking dissapointed. "He got in our way. Why didn't you let me kill him?"
Scriabin's heart jolted at the way he said our.
"Leave, Nny." Edgar stood, side-eyeing Scriabin, who averted his eyes. "Please?"
The word was soft, gentle; Nny seemed to hesitate for a moment. Edgar repeated the plea: "Don't hurt him, Nny. Do it for me. " A sudden surge of anger coursed through Scriabin at this phrase.
Nny shook his head and grumbled something intelligible, then gave a deep remorseful sigh, stood up, picked up his knife, and moved towards the door. He turned back one last time with a wide-eyed, furious stare, mouth open like he wanted to say something but thought better of it, and finally slamming the door behind him, leaving an eerie silence.
Scriabin stared at Edgar through the swirling blackness of pain flooding him, and he stared back.
Neither of them moved for a second.
Then, Scriabin leapt to his feet and forced Edgar onto the couch. He shoved him hard in the chest, leaving a bloody handprint. The impact caused his hands and eyes to sting, and his vision went red.
"IDIOT!" He shouted. "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT?! HE'S A PSYCHOPATH, FOR GOD'S SAKE!! WHY DID YOU--YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE TO..."
His voice faltered. "I can--I don't---" Tears were streaming down his face, he could feel them now, hot and furious like the storm in his mind. Why was he the weak one?!
"He could have k--you could have DIED!! You BETTER be sorry, moron, 'CAUSE I'M FUCKIN' PISSED!!"
Edgar stared up at him, shocked.
"Scriabin-" He reached towards him.
"DON'T. J-just don't." Scriabin turned away to sit next to Edgar, anger still coursing through him.
He put his head in his arms.
After a moment of silence, he felt Edgar's hand on his shoulder.
"...You ok?"
Scriabin looked downcast, uncurling slightly from his defensive position. He said nothing but fumed silently, face still wet. "...Why am I the weak one?" He mumbled miserably after a while, leaning against Edgar's back.
Edgar didn't respond.
They sat in silence for what seemed like eternity, until finally Edgar took Scrabin's head into his lap. Scriabin obliged reluctantly, lying on his side. He stared off into space as Edgar twiddled with his fuzzy hair.
"How are your hands?" Edgar asked him quietly.
"Fine."
"..Are you ok?"
"I guess."
Then they were silent again, staring out into the moonlit night with quiet thoughtfulness.
There was nothing more to say.