#january2nd

Amelia scoffed at his answer. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you conveniently forget that you left without saying a word to me and haven’t answered my owls in days?” She snapped.

Edgar wasn't so sure if 'conveniently' was the right term, but yes, it had very much slipped his mind. Or at least: "I didn't think you needed me to tell you I was going back to London." 

He was also about to point out that it was Caradoc's birthday on the 31st, which was with whom most of his New Years Eves were spent, but the truth was, this too had slipped his mind until this very moment. And Amelia was filled with anger. Like electricity it charged the room, made it all the way over into Edgar's blood, slid in cold shivers down his back, making him roll his shoulders without noticing as though wanting to shake it off. So that static feeling did come from her… 

He knew her like that, yes, but that didn't make it a familiar sight, and almost an unseen one when directed against himself. So he didn't want to explain and further an argument. Deflection and appeasing would have to suffice. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It was a busy time." He undid his coat as well and took a step into the room -- and saw the chaos that was his apartment. Speechless, he grew pale.

Amelia rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She was tense, but still sitting on the couch for the moment, feeling as if she could only be calm if she stayed sitting. She snorted again and shook her head at him. “According to Caradoc, you didn’t show up to see him either,” she pointed out, watching as Edgar took a step further into the room. It was as she saw his reaction that she continued, “its clear to see who was more important in this whole situation, at least.”

Edgar's gaze barely flickered from the mess to Amelia, her words hardly reaching him. "What happened here?" Had someone broken into his place? Why had his wards not gone off? Had someone been injured? Why was Amelia here and not-... This time his gaze did fasten on her, and her words did unfold with meaning in his mind. "Where's Fabian, Amelia?"

The feeling of anger, of being upset, of feeling second best, boiled in Amelia’s chest even worse as Edgar spoke, asking about of all things, Fabian. She stood then, shoulders back and chin up, trying to make herself a little taller, more equal to her twin. “I’m fine, thanks,” she retorted at him, “in case you were wondering. And he’s gone. As he should be.” She crossed her arms again, giving her twin a dark look.

There were reasons why Edgar's apartment was heavily woven into so many wards, reasons caused my images in his head which now all resurfaced, resurfaced suddenly and vividly. Fear settled into his muscles, bones, and even deeper still. He felt sick, the hand that held his coat tightened, a fist pushing against his stomach. Growing paler still, all but Amelia's face faded away. "What happened?"

Amelia took a step closer to Edgar, pursing her lips and watching him for a moment. “That arse,” she snarled out, “thought it was funny that you hadn’t spoke to me. That it was my fault. And thought it’d be funny to not tell me where you’d gone, when I asked.” She paused, then let out a bitter laugh as she continued, “he also decided that I’m a bitch.”

That was a lot. That was brusque. That was ... almost too much. Edgar raised his free hand, as though Amelia's words were something palpable they could stop. Stop, or at least halt for a moment. Everything was still growing darker and darker, and his fist pushing against his stomach made him feel dizzy, out of breath. "Wait," he said, "wait, what-..." He forced his gaze back to the mess of broken chaos on the ground, then back to Amelia, pointing at it, shakily. "You fought?"

Looking exasperated when Edgar raised his hand, Amelia moved her hands to her hips. “Yes,” she snapped at him, “he called me a bitch. He acted like I don’t matter to you. So, I knocked him on his arse, like he deserved.”

It was, admittedly, horrifying to hear such a thing. To imagine that Fabian could say something like that to the one person who meant more to Edgar than anyone else. But compared to the images that had taken over his thoughts, it was almost a relief. A snap of air filled Edgar’s chest. Clasping it, he sank down on the chair that stood between kitchen and living room, feeling as though his knees would give in if he didn't. Vision came back, like light pounding against his temples. "You came home, Fabian was here, and you fought?" he asked after a moment when he could grasp clear thoughts again, trying to make sure he was piecing it together properly. "He-, He insulted you? And you-..." His brows knitted together tightly as he searched in Amelia's face for something, anything, that told him she was exaggerating. Joking. Lying. "And you..?"

Amelia raised an eyebrow, watching as her twin held his chest and sank down on the chair. She stood, still, and took another step towards him, hands still on her hips. She narrowed her eyes, not understanding what Edgar wasn’t getting about this, and almost feeling the urge to shove him. “Yes. I came here looking for you, worried because you weren’t answering me,” she huffed out, “he said you must have gotten bored with me. Make it all out to be my fault. He called me a bitch, said that people were probably calling me that behind my back too. So,” and with that she made a motion to the broken pieces across the room, “I used a knockback jinx to knock him on his ass like he deserved. He crashed into that. Then I told him what he needed to hear and he left, like he should have.”

Elbows piercing into his legs, Edgar sat leaned forward on his chair, looking up at his sister as she appeared as though wanting to tower over him. The hand he had over his heart moved to his mouth, the other hung loose as he listened. Listened attentively. Listened with horror. Part of him didn't want to believe it, wanted to say that this didn't sound like his beautiful Fabian at all. But the other part of him, the one that had always and would always belong to Amelia, made it impossible for him to think her a liar. He could imagine it well; Amelia snapping at someone trying to interfere with the twins' connection. It was anything but a rare occurrence. What he couldn't imagine was why Fabian would do such a thing. Or ... well. He clenched his jaws. "Was he drunk?"

Amelia waited, watching to see Edgars reaction, and wondering what was going on in his head. Did he get what she was saying? Did he feel how outraged she was right now? It was his question that got her attention though, and she raised an eyebrow at that. “I didn’t smell any alcohol,” she stated simply, “Not that I got too close to him. If I’d have stepped any closer, he would have gotten a fist in the face instead of just the jinx.”

"But did he look drunk? Did he speak or-, or act-..." This was Edgar begging for a 'yes', despite dreading it all too much at the same time.

Amelia snorted, shaking her head at Edgars words; both for the fact that it sounded like her twin was begging for a yes, and to tell him that wasn’t the answer. “No,” she said, “he was grouchy and very much seemed reluctantly sober. Unless you’re telling me he’s a mean drunk. He wasn’t slurring or anything though.”

"Fuck." He knew what this meant. A truth so much uglier than the chaos of books it had caused in his apartment. Having previously held his head up to keep eye contact with Amelia, he now let it fall. The hand that had been over his mouth was in his hair now, but what was at first just fidgeting fingers quickly turned into the recent memory of a hand running through his hair just like this, and it was too happy of a memory for him to be able to allow it.

Happy memories. A safe apartment. Tequila. Books scattered on the ground. Something clicked within him.

He rose to his feet almost suddenly, swiftly, caught Amelia by the shoulders. "Are you okay? You said you were fine but are you-, are you okay?"

Amelia blinked as her twin swore, watching with annoyance as he let his head fall like that. She was about to move her hands from her hips to cross over her chest again, but then was surprised as Edgar stood and caught her by the shoulders. There was still a faint urge to shove at him, but it went away as Edgar asked if she was okay. “You left and ignored me. He said I was boring and it was my fault you ignored me. He called me a bitch. How do you think I am, Edgar?”

"And why would you believe him?" he asked back, just as swiftly as he had crossed the room to her. You know the truth, why does it matter what anyone else thinks? Don't you trust me? Are we no longer the Bones Twins? Is it so easy for someone to push himself between us even though we promised it would never happen again? Is it so easy for someone to make you doubt us? He said none of it. Just looked at her, his grip not tight but firm, as though wanting to contain her boiling annoyance, as though wanting to keep her close until she understood, as though wanting to make her feel that he was really there. "I didn't leave you, Amelia. And I didn't ignore you either. I left, for a while. I left and I forgot." A pause. "Forgot everything." Everything but...

Amelia stared back at her twin, narrowing her eyes at his question. She could feel all the words unsaid, through his firm grip on her shoulders, and she was trying to convey the hurt she felt in return. “Who said I believed the arse?” She snipped at him, “but him being such a jerk doesn’t mean that my feelings don’t exist, Edgar. Especially not when he was trying to make it work that way.” She couldn’t help but shove at him a little, annoyed and upset, but not enough to fully pull away from him. Just enough to try and get her point across. “Why?” She demanded then, “why did you leave and forget everything? Why not return my owls and worry me? And why was he here? Why him?”

Edgar let her shove him, but neither let go nor hardened the grasp on her shoulders. Just listened -- his ever-patient expression for once broken with pain, confusion and urgency. "He is. He is a jerk for saying that." Not 'if'. Edgar didn't doubt it. Couldn't doubt her. Perhaps there would've been a 'but'. But why are you mad at me, then? But he understood already that he had hurt Amelia first, and Fabian had just managed to push his finger into the wound. Knew there was no point arguing about the technicalities of pain. "I'm sorry I worried you," he therefore said, softly. "I didn't mean to. I-, Honestly I didn't think I would. I'm sorry." Only at the 'why', one of his hands let go of her shoulder, moved to her cheek and cupped it gently. "Because there's a war going on."

Amelia felt better when Edgar agreed that Fabian was a jerk, though only a tiny bit. However, she still couldn't help the huff that she let out when he said he was sorry, because although he clearly was sorry, it still hurt. She just needed him to understand that. "You took off without saying goodbye," She muttered, "You didn't even show up to Caradoc's. You didn't return my owls. How could that not be worrying?" It was his hand on her cheek that made her shoulders relax, leaning into the touch a little, though wrinkling her nose at his words. "That still doesn't explain why he got to be here and not me," She muttered, even though it sounded almost childish.

It felt like it was years ago. That moment Amelia spoke of. That moment when Edgar had looked into Rigby's eyes and decided he couldn't stay at the House of Bones any longer. And yet it still burnt, that sudden nausea that had taken over him then. A nausea almost as vivid as the one he had felt when he had seen the books on the ground just now. A nausea caused by the ever-same feeling of having lost control.

"Yeah, I-..." He gave it a shrug. Not to dismiss it. Just because he was at a loss of words. "I got inside my head. You know how I am when that happens." An explanation, not an excuse, but Amelia knew the difference. "The explanation is that you're a strong, capable, smart Witch, and he's ... ill." He brushed his thumb over her cheeks, a gesture as careful as his words. "This is not me breaking my promise. I didn't forget about you again. This is-... This is war, seeping into the cracks of our hearts, and all of us dealing with it differently. Caradoc locks it all away. Artem boxes his mind out. I've got you." A smile. It fell again so quickly. "And Fabian has become ill."

Amelia was quiet, watching her twin and understanding what he meant; she knew he got inside his head and what happened then, and there must be something going on. She let out a faint chuckle as he said she was a strong, capable, smart witch, because she felt the urge to say that she wasn’t without him. “I’m holding you to that,” she spoke then, “you promised me, Edgar Bones, and you are not going to break that promise. If you’ve got me, then let me be here for you. You know better.” She paused, and then it was like something clicked in her brain. “You asked if he was drunk,” it was more of a statement of figuring it out than a question, “he’s turned to alcohol.”

Edgar had never even considered that Amelia could one day not be there for him. What had led to their promise, though, this pact they had made to never ever let anyone get between them again, was equal parts his fault as hers. Yes, he'd been the one to disappear entirely in his obsession over keeping himself warm with his lovers' fires, but would he have ever opened his eyes to anyone else if Amelia herself had not led her own independent life? Back when such a thing was still possible... "You can't be there for everything, though," he therefore said, not in reprimand, not in irritation, but rather with a note of apology. "There's things I cannot let you get involved with." He had dragged her far too deep into this war already. And Amelia piecing the information together was proof of that. Caradoc had lost all emotions. Edgar couldn't sleep through a single night alone. And Fabian had turned to alcohol. All of these were illnesses in their own way, coping mechanisms describing a greater misery that hovered above all of them. Slowly sank into them with every new day that passed. What would happen to Amelia if she got more and more involved in this war? How would she cope? Would she? "A strong, capable Witch," he repeated, now more to himself, more as though wanting to reassure himself. It barely worked and so he let his forehead meet hers, slid the hand that had lingered on her shoulder around her waist, and pulled her in. In this gesture, in this tight embrace full of love and longing, he spoke again: "You have to leave now." There was hesitation, conflict between continuing and keeping her close. But the imagined scenarios from earlier on were still there, lingering, and so was the very real mess in the corner of his room. A breath. "Go back to Hastings until at least after Epiphany, and don't ever come back to this apartment."

Amelia could hear the note of apology in Edgars tone, but it didn’t mean that it hurt any less. They were twins! How could they not be there for everything for each other, especially at a time like this? They had spent far too long apart before! She sighed deeply then, because well, wasn’t she already helping? It wasn’t like she’d go fully involved with the order, but she was still there. He was repeating the words of her being strong and capable, and the urge to shove was back, as Amelia just let out a tiny huff. Still, his forehead against hers, his hand on her waist, pulling her in closer... it was calming. At least, calming until he spoke. She bristled at his words, feeling anger rising in her chest as he told her to leave, to go home and to not return to his apartment. He was banning her from his place? It made her tense and she took a deep breath, pulling away from him then. “Fine,” she stated evenly, “but if I owl you again, I expect an answer. Understood?”

Edgar had his eyes closed, and they remained closed when Amelia pulled away. His hands remained hovering in the hair for a moment, just where they had been, perhaps as though wanting to make sure to remember the way the touch had felt, then they curled into fist and fell to his side. He nodded, his head still bowed. "Of course," he said. "Of course I'll write you."

And then he heard her leave. Heard her open the door. Heard what he hoped wasn't hesitation on her part. Heard, because he couldn't bare looking. This wasn't a goodbye forever, of course, but it was a goodbye to an era. 1982 had begun, and things were changing. The war was growing more gruesome, less forgiving. Danger no longer just hung in the air, it had long sunk into everyone's veins. From here on in, the nights were just going to get darker and darker, no firework bright enough to bring relief. Or at least never long enough.

And it would be lonelier. This was what had him bristle. He opened his eyes and jerked his head to the door, hoping to still see her there but -- she was long gone. Feeling his hands tighten into a fist once more, he walked to the door. Locked it. Warded it. Waited. Locked it. Warded it. Locked it and warded it again, repeating this until his mind was satisfied -- or perhaps too exhausted to keep going -- and let him turn to the chaos on the ground.