#edimax

When there’s literally NOTHING online so you have to make all the ship content yourself shaking my head 💔💔

EDIMAXXXXXX SAVE ME EDIMAX

Edison Carter is starting to make dinner, chopping up vegetables for a salad, when Max butts in the television, one that Edison covered with a blanket.

"What you dooooing?"

Edison groans, "Boundaries, Max."

"Mmmhmm". He zaps to the television set in the kitchen, catching Carter by surprise.

"That doesn't mean 'get closer'. But since you're here, and won't butt out unless I tell you, Theora's coming over."

"Ohhh! You finally asked her or d-d-did she ask you, Ed?"

"Funny."

The video-phone rings. Theora is still at the network with Murray, she can't make it. Edison is bummed, but he knows that's just the nature of the beast; they plan to reschedule.

Damn. He'd bought steak for her too, a real fine cut. And the salad's nearly done. Edison had been sipping on a whisky, part to calm his nerves and part to get in the mood to entertain; he didn't feel like taking off, and inviting anyone else over just felt wrong. But there was someone.

"Hey, Max."

"Hmmm?"

"Theora can't make it. I know you can't eat, but I'd appreciate your company. Just this one time?"

Max's face lit up, "R-r-really? I can play the piano, really set the mood, just let me get into my Sunday best ap-ap-apparel!"

Edison shook his head. "Don't make it weird." A beat, "How can you play the piano? Wait, no, don't answer that, I don't want to know."

He scrapped his salad into the bowl, taking another swig of his drink. If he's buckled into spending the evening with Max, he might as well enjoy some of it; the alcohol was already starting to do its job.

Edson pulled the television set from his counter over to the table. Almost like pulling a chair out for a date, for Theora. Edison couldn't not smile at the obvious parallel, the obscenity of the situation. It was plainly awkward. Max was eerily quiet. He was just watching Edison eat his salad.

"What? Did I offend you?"

A hic from the computer generated copy. "N-No, I just, I forgot what that t-t-tastes like. I haven't eaten since..."

The accident. Max's creation. The words neither man liked to acknowledge or say out loud.

Edison never considered if the computer generated copy still felt hunger, or lust, or tiredness, or the complex laundry list of emotions that plagued the average human.

"Oh," Edison took a bite. "I can try to describe it to you?"

Max seemed to pull back, surprised. Then, excitedly he stammered out, "C-c-c-can you?"

Edison took another drink- almost out- almost time for a refill.

"I'll try. Hmm." He poked the fork at the half eaten bowl, moving through the parts of the salad. "Lettuce is like, crisp, watery, fresh? Tomatoes are more earthy. Onions are snaps of sharpness, bitter." He shrugged, continuing, "Croutons are just small pieces of toasted bread, hard, but flavorful. Radish is bitter."

"And the to-to-tofu?"

Edison laughed, Max seemed genuinely curious. "When cooked right, it can melt in your mouth like a good cut of steak. When done wrong, it tastes like a piece of rubber, same gritty texture."

"Sounds de-de-delightful."

"It is." Edison sighed, placing his plate in the sink. "Mind if I put on some music? I can hear you hum sometimes at the Network." Edison thought it was endearing... and wondered if Max had kept his singing voice in the transfer. Or would his stutter get in the way? Only one way to find out.

Before Max could answer, Edison walked over to his record collection and pulled out an album, placing it ever-so-delicately on the player. A scratch when the needle hit vinyl, then the smooth, steady, music poured out like creamer in black coffee. Electric Light Orchestra, Out of the Blue. Edison loved this album, and he had a soft spot for experimental music. His favorite track was a little bit further down the list; enough time to refresh his whiskey and clean up the kitchen.

No snappy whips, no sarcastic remarks, no outbursts from Max. Edison assumed he zapped out to another channel, but Max was just listening to the music in silence and concentration, head tilted like a curious animal. This album sounded so familiar.

Then, the first beat of Steppin' Out. Ah. That's it! The song that had been rolling around Max's head for months. He couldn't help humming it out loud, now.

Edison rubbed his hands dry on the hand towel, singing the lyrics. Why didn't this feel weird? Edison never sang in front of anyone. Even with the alcohol, liquid courage, pulsating through his body, he didn't intend to sing. But hearing Max hum this tune made Edison feel less weird about it. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he got. So Edison didn't think about it; he just sung. From the television screen, Max reciprocated, his voice smooth, and the pair sang the chorus in harmony.

"Don't know where I'm going

Gonna see the world

Gonna be somebody

Don't know where I'm going

I'm just steppin' out

I'm steppin' out

I'm steppin' out..."

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