#zarla

The room is so painfully neutral; beige walls, posters of smiling people on the walls with phone numbers and motivational phrases. Somewhere in the corner on the side table was an air humidifier, it steamed out with a lavender scent, which Scriabin immedately hated. Lavender is supposed to be calming, soothing, which made it manipulative. It's insulting, and ironic given what they do here, he thought.

The chairs were too soft, a plushness he did not sink into, but instead he perched. arms crossed, impatient. In front of him, a low table holds magazines about mindfulness and the effects of seasonal depression and one he couldn't help but scoff at out loud. "Ten Ways To Reconnect With Yourself"

Scriabin rolled his eyes, and tried to focus on something else. It was deafeningly quiet, except the faint, almost unnoticable sounds of the building. The ticking of clock, he felt every tick. The hum of the florescent lights, the way the air shifted when someone down the hall opens a door. He's aware, too aware. He missed when the awareness was diffused, when sensation was filterd through Edgar. When everything was a little duller.

Edgar never noticed half of what Scriabin noticed.

He shifts slightly in the chair, the fabric of the trench coat scrapes against his neck.

Too textured. He resented the texture.

He resents the chair.

He resents the fact that he's here at all.

He resented the waiting. Waiting, like someone who requires permission. His jaw tightens. It was Jake's idea, any of this. He encouraged therapy for Edgar, which Scriabin couldn't protest to, after all that they've been through. Jake seemed to believe in it, at least. Yet something about Edgar getting therapy made him uneasy. He couldn't pin just what.

"You know," Jake said gently, "maybe you should talk to her too."

Too, as if he were comparable. As if he were a byproduct needing maintenance. As if he needed pity.

I do not need therapy.

Edgar does, Edgar spirals, panics, and collapses into himself like wet paper.

Scriabin does not. He analyzes, stabilizes. If anything, he should be consulted professionally. The idea of himself needing "help" was almost laughable. He wasn't something that needed fixing, he fixed things.

Gancing at the closed office door, he realizes it's been forty-three minutes.

Edgar is in there right now, probably crying. Or apologizing. Or unraveling in that embarrassingly transparent way he always does when someone looks at him too closely.

And Scriabin isn't there. He isn't inside his thoughts, He cannot intervene. Can't correct. Can't tighten the narrative when Edgar makes it sloppy.

He hates that. He hates that he doesn't know what's being said.

What if the therapist is misinterpreting him? What is Edgar is painting as monstrous? What if-

It doesn't matter.

He doesn't care what Edgar says about him, Edgar knows nothing about Scriabin, he thought.

Edgar is weak, sentimental, and second-guesses everything he does. Even when they'd be arguing, he was so pliable.

God, the arguments.

There was a strange intimacy in them, no one knew Edgar's rythms so precisely. Scriabin knew exactly what insecurities to press, what words would land. They tortured each other, relentlessly.

But at least it was predictable. Connected. Structured. Now there's just a silence where all his strings to pull used to be. It's unbearable.

He shifts again in the chair. Too soft, too exposed. He's aware of how he must look, alone, waiting, his arms cross a little tighter. He straightens his posture slightly. He hated to look like he was waiting for someone else.

He's not waiting. Hes evaluating.

He's observing.

He's-

The office door opens. His head lifts instantly, too fast. He hates that he moved that quickly.

Edgar steps out, eyes a little red. His face was softer somehow. Changed. The therapist says something quietly to him at the door, Scriabin can't hear it.

He wants to. He hates that he wants to. Edgar glances towards him, their eyes met. For a split second, something passes between them.

Edgar looked away first, down to the floor. Scriabin stands, holding his stance smoothly, to seem unbothered.

"Finished unraveling?" he asks uninterested.

Edgar flinches slightly. Scriabin felt the flinch like an echo in his chest, and tried to ignore it.

As they walked toward the exit together, Jake's voice echoes again in his head.

"Maybe you should talk to her too."

Scriabin almost scoffs aloud. Therapy implies defect, implies instability.

He is not defective, he is refined.

As they step outside, Scriabin looked at Edgar. He was scratching at the back of his hand again, a nervous tick of his. Yet, the crease between his brows when he was nervous wasn't present. Edgar's eyes were staring at the pavement in front of him, as he stopped walking.

Scriabin wanted to know so badly what he was thinking about. Not being able to read Edgar anymore was infuriating. He felt it again the gnawing absence, the hollow where the constant proximity used to be.

He missed being necessary. He missed being inside.

And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.

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The room was unchanged, he didn't even think the magazines on the table had moved. This time, Jake is beside him, leaned toward Scriabin. Edgar was on the other side of Scriabin, staring at the magazines on the table. His eyes briefly looked of distaste, before he sighed and closed them.

Scriabin liked when he could accurately guess Edgar from out here. Even someone as dull as Edgar knows how stupid the title of the magazine on top was.

Jake gave Scriabin that look. That gentle, unbearable look. "You know dude... you don't have to."

He almost laughs. "I'm aware."

Which is precisely why he will. He stands now, trning away from them, and walked toward the office door. Each step feeling heavier now that it's chosen.

What could I possibly stand to gain from this-

He interrupted his own thoughts by giving the door one firm knock. He didn't wait for an answer.

He didn't wait for permission.

He opened the door, the therapist seated exactly as before. She was maybe in her mid 30s, and had short, pin straight, dirty-blonde hair cut shoulder-length, and small rectangular glasses that framed her face. She wore a neutral toned, form fitting cardigan, and black slacks that went just a little bit past her ankles. The outfit was complete with beige flats.

She looked at the file in her hands, and looked toward the door at Scriabin. Unhurried, observant.

Scriabin stepped inside and shut the door with a deliberate quiet, no slamming. No theatrics. He refused to be perceived as anything he didn't want to be.

At first, he considered standing, defiantly. However, he realized his absent-minded pacing he got from Edgar might give himself away. He sat down in front of the therapist, without being invited. He crossed his arms again. The room felt strangely cold.

She looked at him.

"I assume he briefed you extensively."

"He spoke about himself," a pause. "And about you."

"I'm sure it was flattering." Scriabin's voice dripped with irritation. He didn't mean to expoe himself so obviously.

"It was complicated."

Scriabin exhales sharply through his nose.

"That's generous."

Sience. The therapist waits. He hates the waiting. He fills it.

"This is unnecessary."

"Why."

"Because I am functioning." Scriabin gestured toward his chest.

"Define functioning."

"I am stable, I am nothing like Edgar."

"You were visibly agitated in the waiting room."

His spine stiffens, and his eyes narrow.

"You observed me."

"Yes."

"How long."

"Long enough."

The irritation spikes fast.

"That's invasive."

"It's my office."

"It's a waiting room."

"It's still part of the environment."

Scriabin leaned forward slightly. "You enjoy this."

"Enjoy what?"

"Provocation."

"I don't need to provoke you."

His jaw tightens. That's the worst part, she didn't need to provoke him, it happens automatically.

"You're uncomfortable being seperate," the therapist says calmly.

"No."

"You keep glancing at the door."

His eyes flick there involuntarily. He hated that.

"I am aware of my surroundings."

"You're aware you can't hear him anymore."

The words hit harder spoken out loud. He keeps his expression flat. It was strange, hearing a licensed professional talk about their situation as if it didn't sound crazy to anyone but him and Edgar.

"What do you know about us?" The irritation in Scriabin's voice returned, this time with a hint of betrayal. He didn't know where it came from. "You have no idea what I am, or what I can do."

The therapist stays quiet for a moment, and then speaks just as calmly as before. "Are you adjusting to independence?"

"Yes." Scriabin lied.

The air was still in this room, it was completely silent, not even the ticking of a clock. The silence rung in his ears.

"It feels inefficient." Scriabin continued, the silence driving him mad.

"In what way."

"I can't intervene." Scriabin was staring at his hands. The hands that looked remarkably identical to Edgar's.

"In his choices?"

He looked back up. "In his thinking."

Her voice lowers slightly. "You miss access."

Scriabin doesn't answer. Because yes, but admitting feels like kneeling.

"It's irritating," he says instead.

"How."

"He's in there" he subtlely gestured toward the door, "dissecting himself poorly. He packs precision. He misrepresents events. He overemphasizes emotion."

Scriabin paused. Nobody knew Edgar better than Scriabin did. They couldn't know him better than he did. Nobody could. Only he could read Edgar.

"And that bothers you."

"Yes." Scriabin replied, his tone mocking.

"Because you want control."

"Because I want accuracy."

"Are those different?"

Scriabin opens his mouth to speak, then stops.

"I am not a control issue," he says tightly.

"I didn't way you were."

"You implied it."

"No, I'm asking."

Silence again.

His hands are clasped too tightly now, Knuckles faintly pale. He releases them deliberately. Slowly. Measured.

"You think I resent him."

"I think you do."

"Well I do."

Immediate. Unapologetic.

"He is careless. He lets feelings dictate action. He overthinks and underacts, and when he does act it's something that puts his life in danger. He told you about the serial killer, right?" Scriabin's expression shifted slightly toward an incredulous smirk.

"And you punish him for that."

He was surprised when she didn't react. How had he gone to her with that information and she hadn't called the police. Truly, why did no one care about Johnny's horrid existence in Edgar's life.

"I correct him." Scriabin finally continued.

"You berate him."

Scriabin's gaze sharpens. "He told you that."

"Yes."

"And how did that make you feel?" he asks, tone edged with challenge.

"Concerned."

"Why."

"Because people who berate others usually feel something more complicated underneath."

He lets out a humorless laugh. "Spare me."

"You're more sensitive than he is."

His eyes flash. "That's incorrect."

"You react faster, stronger."

"I am responsive."

"You're reactive."

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder.

"I do not react blindly."

"You lashed out at him in the parkinglot."

His breath catches. "How do you-"

"He told me."

Of course he did. Of course Edgar wouldnarrate him like some storm to be managed.

"II raised my voice," Scriabin says sharply. "That's not lashing out."

"You told him he would ruin this too."

Silence.

Her tone remains the same. "You were afraid he would."

He feels it then, that spike in his chest. That hot, electric surge. Not rage, not entirely.

Fear.

He hates that word.

"I was not afraid." he says quietly.

"What was it then?"

He looked toward the door again, and stayed quiet. He hated how weak he felt. He wanted nothing more than to show her what lashing out really was. He was not some small broken thing that needed to be repaired.

After a moment, the therapist speaks again. "What are you thinking about?"

Scriabin looked back at her, and sighed angrily. "Im thinking you're overpaid."

"Maybe." She paused for a moment, and closed the fie in her lap. that caught Scriabin off guard.

"It sounds like you're scared of losing him."

The reaction is immediate and sharp.

"I am not scared of losing him." His jaw clenched.

"Then why are you here."

Silence. That's the question he doesn't have a clean answer for. He didn't come to be fixed. He didn't come to confess.

Edgar's face when Scriabin finally aggreed to this flashed through his head. He looked almost relieved, almost hopeful. Edgar so desperately wants a normal that neither of them can possibly have. Edgar want's this picture perfect relationship that can't exist.

At least, that's what Scriabin thought. He hated not knowing Edgar's true intentions anymore.

Breaking the silence, the therapst spoke in that soft tone that irritated him, "I think you are here, because you want to be."

He sat up instanty. "Ha! As if anybody WANTS to subject themselves to this pointless analysis, I am not your project to fix, your framework of how people think doesn't apply to me. Something you would know if you had any idea what I am, but you don't. You went to school for years to sit here and shrink those who come before you; those who are too pathetic to think for themselves. If anyone needs studied, its people like you." Scriabin was seething. This was stupid. All of it. He can't believe he ever agreed tot his.

She didn't pounce. She didn't overinterpret. She just nodded. With little change in her expression, she clasped the closed file in her hands, and looked at Scriabin as if somehow he was transparent.

He didn't like feeling transparent. He didn't like feeling vulnerable. He didn't like being cornered.

"You resent Edgar," she begins, "but you were formed around him. Losing access feels like losing shape. You feel alone."

"I never said that-"

"You don't have to."

"There it is again, that assumption of interiority. You think because you observe surface reaction, you've mapped depth." Scriabin's voice dripped with contempt.

"I don't think I've mapped you," she replies calmly. "I think you're reacting."

"I am responding."

"You're escalating."

Scriabin stood up angrily. "I am not escalating."

"You're speaking faster."

"I always speak quickly."

"You stood."

Scriabin crossed his arms again. "Your attempts to manufacture dysregulation are so transparent, and you think Im the manipulative one.

"I never said you were manipulative."

Scriabin stayed quiet for a moment.

God dammit.

"Do you think you're manipulative, Scriabin?" she asked, hearing his name snapped him back to the present.

He didn't know why he said that.

"I'm not falling into your traps, How do you get paid to attack people like this?" Scriabin asked angrily, sitting back down, adjusting his mirrored glasses.

"I'm not attacking you. I asked you a question. Vulnerability isnt a weakness, Scriabin. For the last half hour, you've been vulnerable. And yet here you are, sitting before me, unharmed."

Scriabin stared at her, perched on the edge of the seat. He was so frusturated that he couldn't control how this went, and storming out is what everyone expects him to do. He's stronger than that. Than everyone.

"Why do you manipulate Edgar?"

Why is everything about Edgar?!

"You're very committed to the narrative that I'm dependent on him, I have a life outside of Edgar you know."

He hated how small he felt.

"I'm committed to the idea that you formed in relationship."

"I formed by fucked up circumstances that you wouldn't even understand! Apparently, the great and mighty bastard in the sky sent me down to completely destroy him. You know NOTHING. Not of him, and certainly not of me. I formed by pure circumstance, got it?" He was suddenly very warm. All of this anger was difficult to control, how could anybody even begin to understand him?

"Circumstance that involved him."

His irritation sharpens into something hotter.

"You're collapsing variables to make it cleaner."

"I'm simplifying because you complicate when something is close to true."

Scriabin felt his lips part, as his jaw dropped slighty. That landed hard. His voice raises a fraction, "You're not nearly as clever as you think you are."

"I don't need to be clever."

"Then what are you."

"Present."

The simplification of it is almost offensive. He leans forward abruptly, trying not to stand, or he may start swinging.

"Do you have any idea what it was like?" he demands. "To have your only existence be inside another person? To know their deepest feelings, to see and hear their quietest thoughts?" He glared at her through his mirrored lenses. Her face remained still.

"To exist inside someone who is so passively suicidal he pretends he has some sort of relationship with a murderer because of how desperate he is for connection?!"

The words are coming faster now. He doesn't stop them.

"I was trapped in that cell of a human, for every mistep, every shameful monologue, I had to refine him otherwise it would've drowned us. I tried to protect him, I DID protect him-" Scriabin grasped at his head with both hands.

"I-" "I tried to save us. He didn't listen. He never does." Scriabin pushed his arms back down, crossing them back in the position he's had most of the session. Unconsciously creating a physical barrier so he felt less exposed.

The therapist listens. No interruption.

"That wasn't attachment," he continues sharply. "That was containment."

"You were containing him."

"Yes."

"And yourself."

His eyes flash. "I did not need containment."

"You feel more than he does."

"I process more."

"You experience more."

"That's not a flaw."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then stop framing it as fragility."

"I'm not."

Scriabin noticed he was breathing faster, and forced himself to breathe slower, he didn't want to fuel her any further.

"You're overwhelmed." She spoke calmly. It ignighted him once again.

"You experience intensity and you don't have the buffer of his mind anymore to stop it."

"I do not require a buffer."

"Then why does seperation destabilize you?"

His composure fractures further. "It does not."

"You miss the constant proximity."

"I miss structure." Scriabin lied.

"You miss him."

The reaction is immediate and visceral.

"No."

Sharp, and cutting. Too fast.

"You resent him," the therapist continues evenly, "But resentment is not the opposite of attachment."

"Don't-"

"Hatred binds."

"Stop."

"You defined yourself against him."

"I said stop." Scriabin's voice is louder now. Not shouting, but vibrating. She does not flinch.

"If you are not in opposition to him," she asked gently, "who are you?"

The question slices straight through. Every breath felt so heavy. His skin suddenly felt so unbelieveably tight.

"I am myself."

"What does that mean."

"It means I am not contigent."

"Then describe yourselfwithout referencing him."

Silence. He then opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Everything you are is to spite Edgar some how, so tell me, without refrencing him, who are you?"

His jaw clenches. "I am precise. I am controlled."

"Compared to who."

His irritation flares again. "I am superior."

"To who."

The pattern is obvious. He hates that it's obvious.

His voice drops lower, "You're enjoying this."

"No."

"You are dismantling distinctions on purpose."

"I'm removing the contrast you rely on."

The words hit like a strike. He felt the heat rise in his chest, sharp and volatile.

"You think I don't exist independantly."

"I think you don't know how yet."

Knife after knife, and he couldn't dodge them. That landed deeper than any insult has. He stood abruptly, the couch he was seated on almost tipping from the swiftness.

"I am not an unfinished identity." Scriabin speaks, his tone low, and his voice tight. "I am not a coping mechanism that gained delusions of personhood."

"I didn't say delusions."

"You implied it."

"No," she said, folding her hands on top of the file in her lap. "I'm saying you became more than your function. But you're still clinging to the function because it's the only shape you recognize."

His heartbeat was loud in his ears. "How condescending."

"It's an observation."

"I do not cling."

"You attach when something threatens your shape."

"I attack when someone is wrong."

"And what if I'm not?"

He feels it again, that awful sensation. Too many emoions building in his chest at once. Anger, exposure, fear, denial, and beneath all of it... grief.

He hated that one most of all.

"I am not grieving him," Scriabin says through his teeth.

"I didn't say you were."

"You're implying it."

"I'm asking what happens if he doesn't need you the way he used to."

That's it. That's the nerve. His voice cracks sharp and sudden.

"HE WILL ALWAYS NEED ME."

Silence. The admission hangs there, raw.

The therapist doesn't move. "Why."

Because without being needed I-

Because Edgar is nothing without me-

"Because I..." he began, refusing to finish. For the only word that he could finish that sentence with...

I become optional.

And optional feels dangerously close to nonexistent. He exhales sharply, and hates that it shakes.

"I am not optional. Not after all of this." Scriabin's voice evened out, carrying a darkness to it.

Her voice remains soft, as it has all session. Not pitying, not patronizing, just steady.

"Then let's find out who you are when you're chosen, not required."

That hit harder than anything else.

Chosen. Not required.

The irritation falters. Just for a moment. He looks less like something sharp and superior, and more like something that doesn't know how to exist without being necessary, or part of something else.

He doesn't sit back down, but he doesn't leave either.

He stared at her, for the first time without disdain.

Chosen. He hangs on that word. Edgar didn't choose him... Edgar never chose any of this.

But Edgar didn't send him away either.

The therapist doesn't comment on the breathing, and lets him sit with it for a moment before quietly breaking the silence.

"We have four minutes left."

The normalcy of that sentence almost offends him.

"You're not going to finish that thought?" he asks sharply.

"About being chosen?"

"Yes."

"No."

The answer is calm and unapologetic. His irritation spikes again.

"You're witholding."

"I'm containing."

"That's semantics."

"No, it's pacing."

Scriabin stared at her.

'You destabilize and then retreat." Scriabin scoffed angrily.

"I don't retreat," she continues. "I don't flood."

He doesn't respond. She's right. If she kept pushing, he might fracture further.

And Scriabin doesn't fracture.

"I am not unfinished." he says, quieter now, missing the anger he meant to include in his tone.

"I didn't say you were."

"You implied I don't exist without him."

"I said you haven't defined yourself outside of opposition."

His jaw clenches, and he mutters, "That's different."

"Yes."

She glances at her watch again. "Before we end," she continues, "I want to clarify something."

Scriabin crosses his arms again, still standing. Guarded.

"You feel destabilied because your function changed, not because you're disappearing."

Scriabin didn't answer, but he listens.

"You adapted once before," she spoke gently, her expression still flat. "You can adapt again."

"I'm not adapting to weakness."

"You wouldn't be."

A pause hangs in the air.

"You'd be adapting to autonomy.

The word lands strangly with Scriabin. Autonomy. Not control, not necessity, not superiority...

Autonomy. It unsettled him. Because autonomy meant a choice-

He has to choose who he is.

Not just react at who Edgar is.

The therapist stood slowly, clasping the file in her hands, and she met his eyes.

No rush.

"We'll stop here."

That irritated him more than anything else. "You're dismissing me."

"I'm ending on stability."

"I am stable."

"You're activated."

His eyes narrow with frusturation. "You keep labeling me."

"I'm observing you, Scriabin."

"I am not some dysregulated patient."

"No," she says evenly. "You're someone in transition."

The word lodges under his skin. He hated how accurate it felt. He doesn't move toward the door. Not yet.

"Next session," she spoke softly," I'd like you to describe yourself without refrencing him at all."

His stomach drops slightly. He masks it immediately.

"That's reductive."

"It's difficult."

"That doesn't make it useful."

"We'll see."

The silence stretches. He could argue, dissect the exercise, dismantle it before it even begins...

But something about the challenge hooks him.

"I don't need this," he say's one last time.

"I know."

"You do?" he asks, irritation flickering in the question.

"You came anyway."

He hated that it was true. Finally, he managed to find the movement in his legs to walk toward the door. Pausing with his hand on the handle, he quietly spoke, "You're wrong about one thing."

"Which is?"

"I am not afraid of disappearing."

She doesn't argue.

"Alright."

The lack of pushback unsettles him more than disagreement would have.

He finally opens the door

There, in the waiting room down the hallway, he saw Edgar and Jake. They were talking. Scriabin stared for a moment.

Chosen.

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