Archive of Our Own

“T'is a bloody awful map.”

Edgar loudly voices his disgust as he pores over every detail of the finely painted scroll laid out before him. Most of the fine details are muddled beneath the darkness of the oil paint. A radium coloured snake curves its way around the top corner of the map, almost glowing with vibrance. There are numerous trees scattered around, some having inclines built upon them and providing rather useful kiting areas. Most of these areas, however, are small and limited. 

"Big," the prisoner adds his opinion smartly. "Gives us an advantage."

"Not necessarily, not if we're being hunted by that cursed Wu Chang." Grumbling away to himself, Edgar sits back in his chair. 

To his right, Victor calmly watches his every move, Wick's jaws gently nibbling at the lace of his boots. He offers no opinion on the situation, like usual, but seems rather cheery regardless. In fact, it's scarce that the postman doesn't look cheery, filling Edgar with a sense of doubt towards the man's integrity. He must be being mocked, surely no other reason should exist for a man to be so pleased all the time. 

At the far end of the table; the gravekeeper can be seen falling asleep in his chair. He leans forward, clearly sinking further beneath the table with each passing second. Just as it seems he's about to slip onto the floor, he jolts awake, quickly pulling himself back up into his chair and glancing around nervously. He bites his dirt ridden nails, furthering Edgar's revulsion. 

At first he had thought Kreiss was a marvel to behold, a true pale freak of nature that stood out like no other. It quickly became apparent that he has a personality fit for a freak of nature too, the morals and aspirations of a seventy-year-old priest forced into the body of a young adult. He is withdrawn and antisocial, constantly seen muttering away to himself as he drags that dirty shovel around. Kreiss also lacks education, he's illiterate and seems to struggle finding the right keys to press on the cipher machines. 

Of course, traits of circumstance. Who is Edgar to judge someone so much poorer than him when they are both in the same situation? Fair is what he is. If Kreiss weren't such a vindictive and bitter man, Edgar's feelings would go unjustified. But due to the gravekeeper's poor reputation and frequent butting of heads, his distaste is, for once, rightful. 

"Balsa," the man mumbles. "Are you not ready yet?" 

"Hold ya horses,” the prisoner spits back, tugging his gloves on. 

He briefly takes a moment to fiddle with the fuse box on the table, sparks flying a little too close to his eyes as he presses two wires together. God knows what that man is doing; no doubt something foolish. Yet Edgar often finds himself feeling fondly towards him. Balsa has a past of aristocracy, the son of a renowned scientist. And just like Edgar, he has tumbled from the lap of luxury — more ineloquenty than himself, one might add. 

Balsa seats himself back in the chair with a sigh, crossing his arms across his chest. “A’ight, now or never I s’pose.”

Right then. Edgar gazes down to the table, where an unpolished wine glass sits just to his right upon the dirty tablecloth. A murky burgundy liquid swirls within it, like red wine that had been visibly tainted with mud. It looks unbearably unappetising. 

The butler at the end of the table clears his throat, a rude nudge encouraging him to hurry. He was very aware of the fact the drink is a necessary part of the manor's customs, and refusal will result in the butler's assistance in getting the drink down. Balsa has already downed his drink, now sitting patiently as he leans on his elbow. As has the gravekeeper, presumably he has drank worse during communion. Grantz, the postman, visibly shakes as he brings the rim of the glass to his lips, quickly tipping it back as he scrunches up his face. 

Mimicking the other boy, Edgar presses his tongue to the floor of his mouth, tipping his head back to get the foul liquid into himself as fast as possible. A bitter taste stings his throat, somehow still managing to coat his tongue and flood his senses with the revolting taste of iron. He doesn't know if the drink is closer to blood or wine, but he isn't willing to pop the question. Perhaps a catholic like Kreiss cannot tell the difference.

The table shakes as something thuds against it, the man in question quickly succumbing to his desperately needed sleep. Balsa laughs rapturously whilst Grantz stares with wide eyes, still grinning from ear to ear. It is almost creepy how he manages to wear that smile even whilst his hands shake in his lap.

Balsa too seems to be on his way out, his head inching ever closer to the table. “‘ey Valden,” he mumbles, “don’t muck around with my transmission you bucket-headed cretin.”

Edgar goes to insult him back, but his tongue is dead weight in his mouth. The world spins around him, the floor slipping further and further away. Stars dazzle his vision, gradually consuming him whole as he loses consciousness.

The light of the fire stings Edgar's eyes. 

And he blinks, it becomes increasingly apparent that his entire body is wracked with different aches and pains. His bones left feeling slightly displaced by the hard ground, his muscles aching as though he'd been sitting in front of a canvas for hours. The flames crackle loudly, the bonfire blazing away a mere few metres from where he lay. Its warmth is comforting, yet a threat. If he doesn't get on with it, he mayn't be able to. 

Edgar pushes himself up from the ground, dragging his heavy legs up underneath himself. He curses softly, brushing the dirt off his cape with a flick of his wrist; they could at the very least place them somewhere comfortable, but the manor rarely grants them any niceties — let alone luxuries. With this grumble, he picks up his canvas, palette, and brush from the ground. 

"I've located a cipher," A voice crackles from Edgar's waist as he begins to run, searching for the neon light. 

A device hangs attached to Edgar's hip, an ongoing invention known as the two-way radio. It is something Balsa has been developing, an antennaed object that worked similar to a telephone yet required no additional receiver to direct your voice, allowing you to send your message to everybody on the map with one on their person. It was a rather heavy device that took a while for Edgar to become accustomed to, but now lugging the thing around is like second nature. He presses in the button, bringing his mouth to the receiver as he reminds the others to "Focus on decoding."

He finds a cipher beneath a tree he had been eyeing off prior, a mangled thing with a small platform built upon it. A lake of radium green liquid brushes up beside the tree, creating a haunting glow against the old wooden planks. Edgar props his blank canvas against the machine, beginning to press away at the noisy keys as he decodes the Morse printed before him. The metal hinges creak, creating a dreadful noise as they begin to turn, churning out code as it is processed. 

A crow flies overhead, it's heavy wings swooshing loudly in the air. The boards above him creak and groan. There's a sense of dread building in his chest, grabbing hold of his heart, creeping up his neck and jaw. His fingers still on the keys, listening for any hint of a hunter approaching; what hunter could be approaching. 

His instincts rush him at once, overwhelming him with a sense of fear and panic. Edgar takes off from the cipher, narrowly avoiding the hulking shadow that falls from the sky. It hits the ground with a tremendous force, it's massive body slamming into the shallow riverbed. Green sludge and mud is splashed into the air, spraying in all directions and coating the underside of the tree branches.

Immediately a burning sensation grips Edgar's side and left arm, painful enough to assume he had mistakenly walked into a fireplace. A scream of horror rips itself from his throat as he desperately scrubs at his sleeve, only to result in his palms burning as well. The green muck seeps into his shirt, melting the fabric and causing his skin to sizzle with the wretched stench of flesh. He gags, not sure if overwhelmed by the pain or the smell. Likely both. 

There's little time to worry about such a thing. A reptilian figure rises from the riverbank, its hunched shoulders and long spines dripping with the acidic liquid. There's a flick of its snake-like tongue and the beast laughs, unperturbed by the landing. Edgar watches closely as Luchino preens, running a clawed hand over his braids as if worried they could have possibly been tussled — they were, of course, pristine. 

Something stirs within Edgar as he takes in the sight of the reptilian straightening himself up, machete in hand and moonlight shining off his blue scales. It's a feeling he knows well by now, one that grips his heart with a sudden and innate desire, distracting him from the pain flaring through his torso. 

Luchino's golden eyes peer at him, he can't help but smile back. The painter scrambles to pick up his canvas, a twisted little grin on his face as passion flourishes through his cheeks. His mind races almost as fast as his hand, desperate to recreate the image he had just seen prior with each rushed brush stroke. A loud clunk echoes through the grounds as the first cipher is completed, barely registering to Edgar as he remains focused on his work. 

The sound of Luchino's heavy steps echo behind him. He steals a glance backwards, noticing the lizard crouching down before he bounds into the air. Edgar changes his tactics, turning around and leaning his hip against a wooden window frame. He hikes a leg over, swinging his hips with "hup" as he gets himself over it. Luchino crashes down on the ground nearby, missing him entirely. 

A final finishing touch, and Edgar's painting is complete. The brushwork is rushed, the piece messy and imperfect, yet it does a remarkable job of capturing the hunter's saurian body and essence of predation. He breathes a sigh of relief, the desperate need to exert his inspiration now eased, making way for more unpleasant things to invade his mind. The pain is as though a labourer were attempting to brand his hip — as though he were some sort of bovine.

He reaches behind his back, retrieving his easel with his right hand. Luchino's feet thunder loudly against the dirt, inching ever closer as the hunter hisses in irritation. With a flick of his wrist, the easel unfolds in a fluid motion before being stood on the ground. Edgar props his still-wet canvas upon it, pausing for a mere moment to admire his work before taking off in a sprint. 

The hunter's attention is immediately seized, drawing Luchino towards the easel. He gazes at the canvas, eyes fixed firmly on the artwork before him, trapping him in a daze and giving the painter ample time to widen the gap between them. Edgar averts his eyes as the lizard snaps out of it, promptly stabbing his machete through the canvas in a fit of rage. 

'twas not his best work, regardless. 

He vaults another window frame as the tightness in his chest begins to ease. There's a loud clunk in the distance, followed by the fading of a light; music to his ears that wrings a sigh of relief from his lungs. He seems to have lost the reptilian, having either headed towards the completed cipher or simply given up chase. It does not matter to Edgar at this point, for there are more pressing issues. 

As soon as he is positive that he is safe, Edgar wrenches off his shirt and cape, viciously tearing open the buttons and slipping off his suspenders. His undergarment follows, thrown to the ground. He cannot help but wince as his wound is exposed to the prickly summer air. The skin that has been touched by the acid was a bright red, burned and peeling. It licks around his torso, the majority splattered over the curve of his hip but there are still spots up his arm. He swears that he can see flesh, but hates to think such a thought. 

With nothing to clean such a wound and no drugs to help ease the pain, Edgar grits his teeth harshly. Instead he tears his shirt, ripping away the hole drenched with glowing liquid. He removes the left sleeve also, leaving him with a garment that would just barely cover his breasts and the right side of his body. His undergarment is also torn, but having sustained less damage, is only reduced to a cropped piece that exposes the belly. 

He puts his undergarment back on, followed by his cape to cover his shoulders. Rather than worn, the shirt is carefully wrapped around the largest of his burns, protecting it from any further muck and covering his stomach. It looks ridiculous, he must admit, and does little to help with the throbbing pain shooting through his flesh — but it shall suffice for the time being. 

"The hunter is near us," a worn voice crackles over the two-way, startling Edgar. "He has stricken both the postman and I."

Both of them already? Alas, there is little he can do for them other than decode. There's a loud crackle of electricity as Balsa's connection is broken, presumably having previously been connected to Kreiss' cipher. 

Edgar looks around, eyeing the nearest set of neon lights before heading towards them. He leans his weight onto the machine, beginning to read over the Morse printed before him as he taps away at the keys a little bit slower than he had earlier. Something sparks— and suddenly the electrical box at the foot of the cipher lights up, his Morse seemingly being decoded before his very eyes. 

He looks up, seeing a cipher shake in the near distance toward the direction he had awoken. It seems the prisoner has picked up the cipher he had begun, no progress going to waste. Remembering Balsa's request at the start of the match, he fixates on decoding, muttering a curse as he falls into the rhythm of the beeping dashes and the dots. 

"The postman has been downed. With the Lord's protection, I am going in and attempting to rescue his soul." Kreiss speaks into his two-way, closer to the receiver than one would like— not that anyone ever asked him to cease the behaviour. 

Edgar rolls his eyes. "God shan't protect you from Luchino," he mutters. 

What he hears next is the scrape of a shovel, followed by the thud of what Edgar presumes to be the reptillian's massive body slamming against the ground. Kreiss shrieks, another thud is heard as well as a moan of pain. Presumably, his rescue attempt was an utter failure. 

There would be no point in trying to help Kreiss up when he is near the chair, and with his injury he is in no such state to rescue. Rather, he focuses on his decoding.

After a few minutes of complete silence, bar the sounds of the cipher keys, Edgar’s two-way crackles to life. “I have garnered the strength to pick myself up. I shan’t be attempting any further, as the reptilian hast not moved an inch.”

The gravekeeper is grumbling, a rather obnoxious trait of his Edgar has become accustomed to in their games. Despite being so fearful of the hunters, Kreiss does not seem to feel the same sentiment towards his fellow survivors; often even seeming as though he's looking down upon them. Edgar could tolerate the hatred of those around him, he should be a hypocrite not to, if it weren’t for his displays of cowardice and weakness. It makes him seem like a man in need of pity, like a pathetic old man. And he has little pity to offer.

He is suddenly distracted from his thoughts by the sound of an explosion, followed by the fizzing of rockets and a cry of terror. It seems Grantz is out of the game after Kreiss failed to rescue him. 

Glancing down, Edgar notices the paper printed with morse has few lines left to complete. He attempts to focus his attention on finishing up the cipher, when suddenly terror grips him once more. Edgar takes off from the cipher, only to hear a crash nearby as Luchino lands in the dirt. As he touches brush to canvas, the cipher pops — a small victory to combat the looming evil behind him.

Edgar furiously begins to paint, gritting his teeth all the while. The hunter’s claws scrape through the dirt behind him, a little too close for comfort, he needs to create some distance. He spies a broken window frame and heads towards it. There should be enough time for him to vault the window and complete his painting before Luchino can strike him.

“I’m patchin’ up Kreiss,” Balsa’s voice isn’t enough to distract him. “Keep it up!”

No wonder that cipher has yet to be completed, but Edgar has no time to worry about such things. A dainty hand is placed on the window frame and he prepares to hoist his weight over, when suddenly he hears an all too dreadful sound. A soft crack reverberates through his skull as the back of Luchino’s machete makes contact with his forehead. Edgar screams in agony, falling to the floor as he clutches the still-wet canvas tightly.

“You’re carrying blink!” he curses as a clawed hand grips his arm. “You miserable bastard, how came you to take such a cruel trait?!”

The hunter growls. “Don’t ask foolish questions, Valden.”

He’s lifted into the air, before being cradled in Luchino’s arms. The rough scales scrape at his skin as he struggles to free himself, ignoring the pounding of his head and burning in his side. It is in vain, however, as the reptilian quickly finds a chair, lifting the bar before roughly forcing Edgar’s lithe body into it. He presses a clawed hand to his chest, securing him in place as he brings down the safety bar.

Luchino's forked tongue flicks as he tastes the air before turning away from Edgar. He remains close, no more than a few metres from the chair. The man groans, his head spinning as he stares into the distance, trying to guess if that damned gravekeeper intended to rescue him. 

"Fear not, Edgar Valden," A voice crackles from his two-way, only adding to his annoyance. "For I shall soon deliver you from death." 

"Death would be a more pleasant fate." Slurring, Edgar leans back into the chair. 

He hears Luchino chuckle, or perhaps hiss, one can't be too sure when it comes to him. At least someone is amused by his pain, and the inevitable failure that is currently tunnelling its way through the dirt to come turn his already terrible day into an utterly miserable one. 

In the distance a cipher is completed, the mechanical click alerting its location as their total number of completed ciphers is brought to four. There's still a chance to turn things around, as long as Balsa can quickly get the last cipher decoded. 

The hunter's head turns in its direction, the scales on his arms visibly raising. He assumes a position on his hands and feet before leaping into the air. Edgar curses, only to be pleasantly surprised when Luchino crashes down only a few steps away, flinging an unsuspecting Kreiss from the dirt. 

The hunter slashes at the air violently, managing to tear a gash into Kreiss' arm. He cries out in pain, a distraught look on his face as he ambles over to the chair before quickly raising the bar. Strong hands grip Edgar's hips, pulling him from the chair and causing him to yell out in surprise. 

"You blackguard! You dare touch me like that?!" The painter near shrieks, squirming out of Kreiss' hold. 

Luchino watches them, a vicious look in his eye as he licks the survivor's blood from his knife. For a moment, Edgar is so caught up in his hatred of Kreiss that the true threat went forgotten. 

"I-I-I'm sorry," Stammering, Kreiss turns away from the other boy. "I was not trying to do anything sinful, I swear on my mother's grave."

The feeling of the warm, dirt-ridden leather from Kreiss' gloves lingers on Edgar's skin; an unnecessary distraction. Kreiss senses his anger and turns tail, taking off in a different direction lest he fall victim to Edgar's sharp tongue. Luchino does not chase him, instead grinning as he fixates on the painter. 

He leaps after Edgar, landing a short distance behind him before rolling forward. Edgar wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, coming away stained a crimson red. He touches it again, confirming the blood staining the pads of his fingers and palm of his hand. It’s warm, stirs something nauseating in his chest. A sinking sensation grips him, reminding him of dark candle-lit nights in his study, a guiding hand on his shoulder; encouraging him, applauding him, lying to him.

His whole body comes alight, choking him with a smouldering smoke from his own rage. He cannot stop, yet his creativity has run dry. If he were to lay down and die it would surely ease his pain, at the cost of his pride.

Turning suddenly on his heel, the blade narrowly swings clear of Edgar’s head. Luchino hisses angrily as it grows increasingly apparent that Edgar is running out of time. Biting his lip, he glances down at the canvas in his hand— it shall have to do. He quickly flicks out the easel once again, forcing it into the hard ground. Once the canvas has been propped in place, he books it, headed towards the nearest kiting area he can see. 

He doesn't bother to check behind himself, aware that doing so could lose him precious seconds. Fortunately, Kreiss is nowhere to be seen, saving Edgar any further trouble. Empty handed, he limps towards a crumbling wall and places both hands on it before hauling himself over. His feet hit the ground running, lungs burning as he sprints away from the crunching sound of his easel splintering. 

In his state of disarray, he spots something from the corner of his eye: a spark of lightning. He shakes his head, blinking a few times hoping he must be seeing things. But it seems God has finally decided to claim vengeance for his earlier blasphemes. Rounding a corner, Edgar finds the prisoner tapping away at a cipher, fixated on his work and seemingly unaware of the approaching danger. 

"G'day Valden, I sure bloody 'ope you didn't bring a guest!" He calls out, not looking up from his work. 

"Shit, don't you worry now!" Frantic, Edgar does an immediate one-eighty, desperate not to alert Luchino of the priming cipher. "I'll get out of here—" 

The sound of Luchino's massive body hitting the dirt startles the both of them. He rises to his feet in front of Edgar, breathing heavily through his nostrils as he blocks him into the area. The hunter's gaze pierces through him, slitted eyes glancing toward the cipher beeping away. In one swift move he brings down his machete, stabbing it harshly into the shoulder of the terrified survivor. Something cracks beneath the metal and immediately Edgar can feel hot blood pour down his arm. His fingers tingle as he collapses to the floor. 

"God dammit!" Having not learned his lesson, Edgar once again uses the Lord's name in vain. He cradles his shoulder with his left hand, biting his tongue so as to not make an ass of himself. The taste of iron fills his mouth and he writhes, mud caking his clothes and face and he attempts to drag himself away. 

There's a gleam of satisfaction in Luchino's eyes. He laughs through his heavy sigh, tasting the air once again before turning himself around. Heading towards the cipher, he stomps on Balsa's fuse box, the metal and plastics crunching beneath his scaled foot. The electrical sensation making his hair stand on end dissipates, leaving only the adrenaline of the chase and the sounds of their breaths to stave off the silence. 

Luchino towers over Edgar's pathetic body, crouched in the dirt with tears streaming down his cheeks. His tail thumps against the ground, sweeping through the earth to scoop up the survivor before lifting him into his arms. Edgar doesn't struggle, soft wheezes and sobs escaping his trembling, bloodied lips. 

Once again he's forced onto a chair, not too far from the priming cipher, with the bar pressing tightly against his ribs. At this point it would be best for the two of them still standing to either find another cipher or to set up a connection and attempt to finish the one started. He's fine with this, after all, he gave some pretty decent kites. That is until Balsa peeks around the corner, a determined expression on his face. Edgar glares, reaching for the button on his two-way. 

"Leave me!" he croaks out. 

But the prisoner ignores his wishes, he runs in fast, catching the hunter's attention. Luchino crouches, preparing to leap into the air, when Balsa reaches towards him and smacks his forehead with a flat palm. His fingers spark as an electrical current seems to surge though his body, causing the reptilian to spasm and twitch. 

Removing his hand, Balsa makes a move for the chair. His boots pound against the dirt as he runs over, panting as he grabs hold of the safety bar. "You ain't the only stunner, yanno!" 

He begins to lift the bar, Edgar barely having reclaimed his breath as he prepares his escape. Before he can, however, Balsa freezes in place, not moving the bar any further. 

"Oi!" The painter yells, "What are you—?!" 

His gaze wanders down to the other man's gloved hands, stained with dirt and Kreiss' blood. Between them protrudes a thick, sharp object, poking through his worn prison shirt. The white stripes have already begun to turn a crimson red, quickly becoming soaked in the blood gushing from his abdomen. 

"Shit…" Whispers Balsa before giving a dry laugh. He chokes on it, blood and spittle spurting from his mouth and onto Edgar's cheeks. 

The blade is withdrawn, causing Balsa to crumble to his knees. He remains leant over the chair, his warm blood beginning to soak Edgar's lap as well. It'll probably look like he's gotten his monthlies, he worries. Balsa groans softly as Luchino grabs his limp body, slinging him over his shoulder as he takes the dying man away. 

"Oh Balsa you fool…" Sighing, Edgar relaxes in his chair. "Why should you attempt such a thing? You must be hysterical." 

He can barely see Balsa's chair from his own, but the dread in his heart tells him Luchino remains nearby. Weariness is beginning to settle into his bones and it won't be long until he meets the same fate as the postman. He can still feel the warm blood of the prisoner dripping down his pant leg, giving him a sense of unease. 

"God, hear my voice." His two-way suddenly crackles to life, a muffled voice whispering over it. "Lord, listen to my prayer."

Edgar doesn't have the strength to tell him to silence himself today. His whole body is burning, and yet strangely cold all at the same time. 

"Save me from my enemies and their evil ways. Help me to recognise their bad intentions." 

The blood has stopped pouring from his shoulder, leaving only an intense ache in its place. His side tingles and his head keeps spinning. 

"Protect me from devastating enemies' actions. Please don't allow evil to destroy and triumph over my life."

The corners of his vision are growing blurry, his head feels light.

"God, I can rely only on you this hard hour, and only you can save me."

He allows his eyes to fall closed. What bullshit, he thinks. 

"I believe and trust you, please listen to my prayer." Kreiss sobs, "Amen."

There is an explosion; deafeningly loud. Edgar feels the vertigo as the countdown reaches its end, aggressively launching him into the air. With his head and heart pounding in unison, he finally succumbs to the pain. 

There's a throbbing at the front of the head, radiating behind the eyes. It's a familiar sensation, one of the few wounds that remains after a rather awful match, and one that only continues to get worse. 

Edgar opens his eyes. He sees not the ceiling of his bedroom, but rather that of the infirmary. It was typical for him to wake up here, as one is brought to the infirmary if having not made it through the match. To his left, Grantz has already awoken. He sits quietly in a chair as Miss Dyer rifles through cabinets, as though seeking something. He stares at the floor, still smiling. Creepy. 

"Valden." The doctor speaks, her tone curt. 

"Dyer." Says Edgar, mimicking her tone. 

"As I am obliged to ask, do you bear any remaining injuries?" 

Unsure, Edgar sits himself up, still wearing the makeshift bandage he had made for himself during the match. He unties his shirt, exposing his bare torso. The burn that was there prior has alleviated, any major peeling and scarring having healed like magic. He still remains burned, the red marks now more resembling a scald than acid scarring. 

Dyer pauses her search, peering over her shoulder with her eyes fixed on the redness. "Sulphuric acid," She mumbles, somehow still able to tell. "They want nothing more than to make my job even more difficult than it already is."

She retrieves a bottle with dark glass and a rather dirty warning label on it. "They invite a gentleman who works with hot wax to the manor, now they've come to start using acid in their map designs. Each day I have to care for more invalids with increasingly severe wounds and a myriad of cures." 

"It's too much work for one woman to deal with on her own. Soon I'll start letting some do without care— starting with that wretched thief." Seemingly rambling to herself, Dyer brings the bottle over to Edgar's bedside. 

In the bed next to them Balsa stirs. Grantz seems to be the first to notice, as Wick lets out a small bark to alert him. Edgar looks over at the prisoner, only to whip his head back when Dyer slaps a cold cream onto his hip. He yelps in pain, biting his lip from the sensitivity as she rubs it in with her fingers. 

"Be quiet, you could be doing this yourself." She hisses, as though she had given him the opportunity to do so. 

Seeing no worth in arguing, Edgar turns his head to the side with a huff. Balsa seems to take amusement in this, giggling groggily as he sits himself up.

"Miss Dyer, you've no need to read 'im the riot act." He jeers.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Balsa? You are hardly one to talk!" Exclaims Dyer, who ceases her actions to place her sticky hands on her hips. "Just yesterday I made the mistake of confusing radio and radiography, and boy did Mr Luca Balsa here proceed to chew my ear off for a whole hour!" 

Balsa lights up with a toothy grin, seemingly proud of this. He takes a moment to sit himself up before beginning on his tirade. 

"Thinkin' the two of 'em are the same is a marvel of stupidity! Radiography is performed usin' beams of radiant energy to see through the flesh and reveal bone. Radio is what we use ta communicate in matches, created by generatin' electromagnetic waves that put out signals to be received by an antenna. That's 'ow yer messages reach the others."

"You wisenheimer, I sure won't forget it now that you've explained to me every functioning piece of the two-way telegram." Grumbling, Dyer looks away from him, "Not once did I ask! You men and your science nonsense, both fly right over my head!"

“Izzatso? Er, my apologies ma’am.” Mumbles Balsa, an expression on his face like that of a kicked dog. 

Huffing, Dyer looks down at Edgar’s burn. She seems satisfied with the coverage of medicine, but her eyes are wandering upwards. Her bottom lip juts out as she pouts, eyebrows furrowing. 

“It is an impertinence for you to come into my practice in torn undergarments. Your breasts are very nearly exposed!" 

“They are not!” Objects Edgar, looking down at his chest. He adjusts his cape and undershirt, “You do not see a trace of nipple.”

Instead of arguing with this, the doctor rolls her eyes. Her fingers secure the two pieces of fabric, before flicking them up into the air. “I do now.”

“You wretch!” He shouts, quickly rushing to cover his chest. “How dare you!”

Dyer wheezes, breaking into a howl of laughter that makes her whole body shake. Face flushing, Edgar turns to Balsa, who’s eyes remain fixed on him with a dopey smile. Grantz has turned his head away from him, pretending as though he hadn’t even noticed the scene taking place.

“O-Oh how you should have seen your face!” The doctor snorts, doubling over and gasping for air almost as if she’s in pain. “And Mr Balsa, oh I think I just made that poor boy’s whole day!”

“Pervert! Avert your gaze this instant!” Edgar hollers, his face growing hotter with each second.

“There’s 'ardly anythin’ to see, Valden.” Laughing dryly, Balsa swings his legs out of the bed. The springs creak, his feet reaching towards the concrete floor as he hauls himself out. “I mean, you’ve got it all covered.”

Grumbling, Edgar relents, tugging his torn undershirt back down to cover himself, just until he can return to his room to grab a change of clothes. He too pulls the covers off himself, ignoring Miss Dyer as she attempts to regain her breath. 

Using the bedpost to keep herself steady, Dyer hauls herself back up. She coughs a few times, struggling to speak through her tears. “I-Is that all? Balsa, don’t let me let you go without any treatment. I’ve played with Mr Valden here enough I think.”

“Thank ya kindly Miss but I don’t seem to 'ave any problems— ‘cept for the 'eadache. My stomach hurts a tad, too; kinda like I've been punched in the gut.”

Balsa lifts his shirt to reveal his gut, completely healed of any wounds despite the gash that he'd received during the game. It was truly unjust how the more fatal wounds healed perfectly, yet scrapes and burns tended to stick around for the following days. Well, one tends to feel pretty miserable after a particularly rough match; Edgar has been rendered an invalid and confined to his bed a few times himself. It's likely Balsa is exhausted, but he doesn't show it. 

"I still have pain relief, I shall fetch some for you." Dyer nods, heading back over to one of the numerous wooden cupboards lining the walls. 

With that, Balsa reaches around the side of the bed, fetching his boots. He pulls them on, then buckles his calipers into place. Edgar follows suit, grabbing his leather boots from the floor and pulling them on his feet. As he leans over to do up his laces, he winces, pain tearing through his side from the burn.

Before he can try again, his hands are taken hold by another. Glancing up, he finds himself eye to eye with the postman, who is kneeling at his feet. He smiles, taking the laces into his hands and pulling them taught.

Edgar avoids his gaze, sitting back on the bed as he mumbles out a "Thank you, you have no need to do that."

Grantz does it anyway, tying his shoes tightly for him. He loathes the reticence that comes with; the way the postman simply doesn't speak. It's a silence that has to be filled, lest the mind fill it with unpleasantries. 

"I should have rescued you," is all he manages to say. 

Those big eyes stare up at him again and Grantz shakes his head. He nods in the direction of Edgar's burn, expressing his understanding. His kindness is too much, it makes Edgar feel guilty despite no wrongdoing. 

Standing himself back up, the postman offers a hand. Edgar takes it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet. His head pounds from the rush of blood, but he does his best not to show it, he already feels pathetic enough. 

Dyer returns with a small bottle of Laudanum and a silver spoon. She hands the spoon to Balsa, who holds it as she measures out the dark liquid into it. He then brings the spoon to his lips, wincing as he swallows it down. She scolds him, "Do not act so childish!" 

He returns the spoon to her before rubbing the back of his head with a toothy grin. Balsa glances around the room, looking between Grantz, Valden, and even Wick. "Well, it's best we leave off. Thank ya for yer hard work, doctor" 

"Hmph, I hope to not see a match with any of you boys any time soon!" With a huff, Dyer turns away. "Gluttons for punishment, you lot!" 

With that, they offer her their thanks once again before shuffling out of the room. The second they step out, the door is harshly shut behind them, leaving the three men awkwardly standing in the hallway. 

"Well then," proclaiming loudly, Balsa puts his hands on his hips. "Let's say the three of us go 'ave a bath? I think we're all sorely in need of a good clean." 

Grantz furiously shakes his head no, before giving a quick bow of apology. Wick yaps —as though speaking for him — and the two of them take off in a trot towards the dormitories. Not once does Grantz look back, hands firmly clasping the leather strap of his bag. 

"He ain't look too 'appy. Cannae 'elp but wonder what all that doodah was." The prisoner comments, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes absent-mindedly. "Somewhere to be— You don't think he's got a date, do ya?" 

"I think a lot more than yourself, apparently." Edgar mumbles, gesturing for him to walk. "Don't you feel the slightest bit miffed after a match with no rescue?" 

Balsa begins to walk in the direction of the turkish baths, Edgar trailing along behind. "Not particularly, 'specially not if I give a real lame kite. Just the way things go sometimes," he shrugs. 

"Most can't stand it, particularly the women— I've noticed. Many a time have I had Dyer or Mesmer screaming down the two-way, telling us to come get them." Griping, Edgar recalls some of the matches he has had with the doctors. All typically ends well, but not without a few arguments. 

Balsa laughs, "Mhmm, I know that experience! I'm sure he'll move past it, it's not azzif there was much we could do." 

"Well, I know of one shitstick who was in fine form to rescue," is what Edgar would like to say, but holds his tongue. It is partially his own fault for not sharing his health status with the others aswell, fearful of appearing weak in front of his teammates. He knows this, yet feels little guilt over it— he wouldn't have to worry about such things if Kreiss had just done as he was meant to. 

They approach the door to the baths, Balsa pressing a hand hard against the wooden panels and pushing it open. The two of them are greeted by steam, the air thick with humidity that has escaped from the hot room. Fortunately for them, the dressing room is void of people. However, Edgar spies a set of black robes neatly folded and stacked upon one of the chairs, a wilted iris delicately placed on top. 

"Hadda feelin' we'd run into him 'ere." Balsa comments, removing that stupid collar from around his neck before placing it down on a nearby table. 

"Y'know, he refuses to bathe in the company of women." Stripping off his shirt, Balsa continues talking. "He prefers it segregated, somethin' about mixed baths bein' a 'sin.'"

It doesn't take long for Edgar to tire of beating around the bush. "If you're trying to say something, I'd prefer you spit it out." 

He kicks off his shoes, placing them beside a nearby dresser. He removes the battered beret from atop his head, placing it atop the wooden dresser. Along follow his ruined tops, which a butler will help to salvage at a later date.

The prisoner sighs in frustration, "Yannow what I'm sayin'! You've got a woman's body…" 

"I'm sure he's just waiting to share some choice words. Able to put aside his morals for a moment and allow his talk to run freely about sins and flivvers. Delivering divine punishment upon me with his inability to keep one's complaints to oneself!" 

Edgar mutters more curses directed at Kreiss as he peels off his bloodstained jeans and undies. The sensation is hideous and his skin is still sticky and red, crusted with mud and sweat. The other boy averts his eyes, seemingly uncomfortable with seeing his own blood still remaining after the match. 

"Yeah… he sure likes ta 'ave a grumble," says Balsa. "Just ignore 'im, he eventually stops talkin' when he realises not a soul ain't listenin'." 

Tossing the last of his clothes onto the growing stack, Edgar heads for the shampoo room. The tiles are cool beneath his feet, juxtaposed to the stinking hot air. He parts the curtain to the room, stepping inside. Along the east wall is a row of marble slab, upon that marble slab sits a tall man, his pale skin slick with water shimmering beneath the candlelight. 

Balsa trots into the room behind him, flashing a smile towards the hunched figure. "G'day mate!" 

"Leave me be." Kreiss huffs, refusing to turn his gaze in the direction of the two men who had just entered the baths. 

"Exactly Balsa, leave this gink be." Exasperates Edgar, who wastes no time grabbing himself a damp cloth from the basin. "He needs time to soak in his own misery."

"Pray don't say anything more. I've nothing to talk about with the likes of you." He mumbles away, scrubbing over the scars on his shoulder. 

A glare is cast towards Balsa, who merely shrugs and heads for the wash basin. He splashes the water onto his face and hair, before pulling the hair tie out from his ponytail. Edgar seats himself on the marble bench, a healthy distance from the gravekeeper. 

Gently, he touches the warm cloth to his skin, beginning to scrub at his bloodied legs. The red liquid is wiped away as he presses harder into the skin, almost desperate to remove the grim reminders of Balsa's death. He has handled blood many times in his life, but it has never been a pleasant experience. When he once relished the bloody calm after a storm; a freedom to create art that cannot be taken from him. Now it merely fills him with a bitterness and regret that cannot be satiated. 

The prisoner takes a seat between them, hair damply sticking to his neck. He too begins to wipe himself, humming softly as though to ease the awkward silence. Edgar can tell by the way Kreiss grips his knees that it's more of an annoyance. In fact, Kreiss hasn't touched himself since the two of them entered. Sat on the bench, he remains in a hunched position, glaring towards the floor only to briefly look over at them occasionally. 

Choosing to ignore his infantile behaviours, Edgar continues to scrub his body. He takes care going over the wound on his hip; the skin red and blotchy and bearing red blisters that are incredibly painful to the touch. It's similar to a burn left by the Artist's hot wax, or an explosion from the Guard's bombs. But it came from a liquid on the map, which perplexes him.

"I was lain in the dirt, in no such state to retrieve the poor postman." 

The silence is broken by Kreiss, who still remains hunched with his head to the floor. 

"You ought to have made some sort of attempt to rescue him," he says, voice dripping with animosity. "Oughtn't you?" 

"I wasn't exactly in tip-top shape myself," Edgar hisses. "If you hadn't made such an ass of yourself attempting to rescue him, I wouldn't have needed to come help!"

"Tell me Valden, would it have killed you to spare some kindness to a soul in need? To for once distract yourself from your own vanity and pride and save your fellow man for a change?!" 

Edgar scoffs. "What an awfully hypocritical accusation from the man who stood crouched over the dungeon, weeping prayers for the Lord to come rescue him!" 

The gravekeeper jumps to his feet, towering over Edgar's lithe body. The latter man makes no attempt to move, simply glaring up at Kreiss with deadly blue eyes. 

"Woah woah settle down you lot!" Interjects Balsa, rising from the bench to shield Edgar from Kreiss. "There ain't no point in arguin' 'bout it now. What's done is done."

Kreiss glares down at him, "This good-for-nothing sinner cost us-!" 

"Shut yer yap! Nobody cost us nothin', was just a bad game all round. No use pointin' fingers."

Grumbling, Kreiss seats himself again, somewhat dejected. A nod of appreciation is sent Balsa's way, to which he responds: "You ain't any better than 'im, yanno? All these cockfights the two of you get into— whatever happened to 'aving a poke and gettin' over it?" 

Both parties elect to ignore Balsa's comment, resuming their bathing in silence. As Balsa returns to his seat, Edgar brings himself over to the basin. Reaching behind his head, a simple tug at the end of his red bow makes it unravel, his brunette hair falling around his shoulders. He then brings his face to the basin, submerging his head as he splashes water into his hair. 

For a brief moment he considers holding his head under the water and never bringing it back up again, but realises that would be far too much of a waste. If he were to do such a thing to anybody, he would much rather it be Kreiss. So he resurfaces, softly gasping from the lack of air. He feels the man's eyes peering at him as he begins to rinse his bloodied washcloth in the water— he turns around to glare back at him. 

The first thing that catches his eye is not Kreiss' gaze, but rather Balsa's; directed straight to his chest. He grins, exposing his displaced canines as he stares at Edgar's nipples; pink and erect from the exposure. Exhausted by the male gaze, Edgar huffs and heads toward the hot room instead; he figures he's clean enough.

Parting the blanket blocking the hot room's entrance, he steps inside only to be immediately hit by the sweltering wave of heat. The air is thick with steam pouring from the stove, choking Edgar a little and making his head spin. Nevertheless, he stomps his way across the room, careful not to slip on the damp floor. His destination is another marble bench that runs along the north side of the room, covered with a thick white sheet for comfort. This he wastes no time laying himself upon it, propping his head up with a folded towel as he lay on his side, legs dangling toward the floor. 

He enjoys barely a moment of silence before Kreiss follows him into the room, his usual frown etched deeply into his face. Edgar avoids eye contact, sighing and closing his eyes as he allows the heat to permeate into his bones, relieving his tensions. There's a low grunt as Kreiss sits down at the other end of the bench, then footsteps as another person — presumably Balsa — enters the room. 

 "Shit, I'm worn-out," There's the creaking of one of the lounge chairs and a relieved sigh. "I think I could doze off 'ere and never wake up again." 

"You probably will, knowing you," mumbles Edgar. 

The prisoner laughs heartily, as if it's the funniest thing he's heard in a long while. It echoes around the room briefly, then they once again return to silence. Edgar relishes it, rubbing his thighs together with a pleased little sigh as his pain melts away and mind relaxes. His body grows damp with sweat, cleansing his pores of dirt and disease that had most definitely found a way in during the match. 

The post match baths are truly the best part of living at the manor. A wipe down, a sit in the hot room, then a more thorough soaping before heading back to their rooms to cool down. Mixing of the sexes is permitted, but the women typically prefer waiting their turn so as to avoid any gazing. Some shyer people also stick to traditional bathing in their rooms instead, likely what Grantz had chosen to do. 

That said, it's notable that Carl has never been seen in the baths. Not once. Edgar often catches wind of the more baudy conversations going on in the manor, some of the men going to the extent of comparing cock size and appearance amongst eachother. Carl's cock is unheard of, documented sightings always turning out to be fabricated rumours. Curiouser men have thrown away their pride and asked the photographer, aware of past fascinations. Joseph has condemned such talk, saying he holds the survivors in too low regard to ever seek intimacy. 

Either way, Carl's cock remains a mystery. Edgar held no desire to see it before, but he must admit that he too has fallen victim to the novelty. It feels something sacred, hidden beneath that hideous suit. It's likely that he's a virgin, too. Edgar desires nothing more than to draw out the lustful side of that shut-in, to feast his eyes on the elusive cock of Aesop Carl and—

"You shouldn't be here…" 

Opening his eyes, Edgar snaps out of his lewd daydream. He props himself up on one elbow, looking over the curve of his hip towards Kreiss. "I beg your pardon?" 

"You shouldn't be here." The gravekeeper mutters louder, "You don't belong here."

"Well, I'm not as fragile as you believe me to be, Kreiss." As he speaks, Edgar rolls onto his back, bringing his feet up onto the sheet. "If a little girl can survive in those matches, so can I." 

Kreiss' eyes dart directly between Edgar's knees, staring at his crotch before quickly looking away. "I mean that you do not belong in these baths. You should be awaiting your turn, alongside the fair sex."

"Hmph," huffs Edgar, "So you would rather Miss Dyer know that you believe me to belong in the women's bathtime, then?" 

"Do tell her, I fear not Miss Dyer." 

"'Ey," Balsa interjects in a groggy voice. "Weren't'cha saying just yesterday that her scolding made you feel a dolt?"

"'Do not go spreading slander among your people,'" Kreiss begins, eyes closed as though he is receiving the word of God through a telepathic telegram. "'Do not do anything that endangers your neighbours life.'"

"Alrighty." Mutters the prisoner, shifting as he rolls over and settles back into his chair.

Rising to his feet, Kreiss steps forward to tower over Edgar's body. "If you hold any respect for the Lord and his children, you will cease your adulterous ways of corruption," he grabs hold of Edgar's arm in a firm grip. "'But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.'"

"Hey, you bible-busting twat, let go of—!" Edgar tilts his head downwards, finding something protruding toward him at eye level. Kreiss' erection bobs before him, glossy with sweat and precum already dribbling from the tip. 

Somehow, someway, Kreiss was unaware of this, gasping and letting go of Edgar before trying to hide the monstrosity behind his hands. The sudden turn of events is so strange Edgar is forced to simply chuckle, swinging his legs around and standing up close to the man before him. 

"So that's why you're so upset, huh?" He taunts, forcing Kreiss to step backwards. "What was it that gave you a rod on, my behind? My bubs and womanly curves? Or was it the mere sight of a cunt that got you this excited?" 

Edgar places a hand over Kreiss'. "It's true, I bear the assets of the fairer sex, but not once have I lived as a woman. From birth it was decided I would live as a man to inherit my family name, the child-rearing left to my sisters. Can I truly be considered a woman by physicality alone? Would you consider a man with no limbs to not be man? An eunuch to be defective? Does the Lord not love all his children the same, or does he reserve such prejudices towards those he deems perfect?"

His hand finds its way to Kreiss' prick, gripping his shaft firmly. The sheer size of it shocks Edgar, as his middle finger just barely meets his thumb— he was most certainly more of a grower. It throbs heartily beneath his touch, encouraging Edgar as he pushes his hand forward, pulling back the prepuce and fully exposing the flushed head. 

Immediately, Kreiss grabs hold of his own shoulders as though hugging himself, his breath hitching as his hips drive forward. Semen spills from the tip of his cock as he spends, dripping down over Edgar's hand as he lowers his face in humiliation, allowing his ivory bangs to cover his face. 

"Wow," is the only word that manages to escape Edgar's mouth. 

"H-How improper of me, I-I cannot a-apologise enough." The man speaks in a rushed tone, bringing a hand to his mouth in abject horror. "I cannot apologise enough, please forgive me for acting so…" He trails off. 

"It's okay, I'm sure you haven't experienced such affections in— well, ever." Struggling to hide his disappointment, Edgar sighs. "It's only natural a man such as yourself would have not built up the same tolerance a man who regularly friggs himself would."

Looking up, the gravekeeper shakes his head profusely. "Oh goodness no, not even in my youth did I ever do such a thing."

"To be expected from a devout bible-basher…" Mutters Edgar scornfully. He removes his hand from Kreiss' prick, wiping his spunk off onto the sheet.

Seemingly mortified, Kreiss stands, staring down toward the floor. "T-Then if it is not adultery to lay with you…" He clears his throat, "What I would do, i-if you would please let me…"

The painter snorts, his bratty attitude growing with each word stumbling from Kreiss' mouth. Despite his excitement, his erection hasn't faltered whatsoever. It would be a lie to say that Edgar himself isn't aroused by the prospect of lending his body to Kreiss, his unique complexion and purity has always been a source of unusual desire for him. No matter how useless he is, withdrawn, improper, nutty, a zealot; he is the definite opposite of those elites Edgar had grown up around. 

The thought of bringing a man as hideous as Andrew Kreiss home to his family, introducing him as a homosexual lover with not a dime to his name. He's positive the evening would end with blood. 

"Begging me like that— it would be cruel to deny you," with a smirk, Edgar seats himself back down on the bench, crossing one leg over the other. "But make haste, lest someone else come to bathe. 

"Valden… I-" Kreiss coughs awkwardly, bringing his hands to his shoulders again. "I would like to have you o-on your knees."

This makes sense to Edgar, somehow. He knows most acts of prayer or worship are done on one's knees. "Alright then," he says as he un-crosses his legs and turns himself around, lowering his knees to the floor and leaning his arms onto the bench. 

Kreiss's warm fingers ghost over the curve of his ass, slowly dipping down to his pussy. He shivers in anticipation, feeling himself throb as they are dragged through the wetness of his slit. For a moment he almost cannot believe he's letting Kreiss put his cock in him, that he should be revolted by such a thing. But it seems revulsion is the one to blame for making his cunt gush the way it is doing so, the idea of whoring himself out for such a pathetic man— if only his teacher could see him now. 

His touch lingers momentarily before drifting to his ass, damp fingers encircling the entrance. Kreiss elegantly slips one in before Edgar can object, making the boy beneath him jerk violently.

"H-Hey!" Flustering, Edgar glares back over his shoulder. "Just where are you trying to put that thing?!" 

There's a perplexed expression on Kreiss' face. "Even if these activities are appropriate within the eyes of the Lord, it would bring great shame to me to make you bear child." 

Edgar opens his mouth to argue, but sees little value in doing such a thing. It's fine, he's not unfamiliar with such practices. The pleasure received anally is not as great as pleasure received through other means, but the thought of arguing with Kreiss when he is already so desperate makes his head spin. 

"I swear that I shall be gentle." 

Withdrawing his finger, Kreiss spits on his hand, then returns with a second. A low whine escapes the painter's throat as they curl inside him, pressing against his delicate walls. It's always such an usual sensation, but enough past experience helps Edgar open up easily. He wonders if such a thing makes him a common woman. Common man? Perhaps a common hermaphrodite.

He moans as Kreiss stretches him wide, squeezing his knees together so as the stave off the tightness building in his lower abdomen. Kreiss is thorough in working him open, so thorough that Edgar swears he can feel his own fluids starting to drip down his thighs. 

"Kreiss— are you takin' the dirt road?" 

The movements of his fingers still and Edgar too goes stiff with fear. There's a boisterous laugh from behind him, and Balsa seats himself beside Edgar's head. "What, didjya forget I was 'ere? And I thought I was meant to be the demented one!" 

The prisoner grins widely despite the two before him staring in utter horror of being caught— and embarrassment that they had forgotten the other's presence. 

"What, cat get your tongue? I ain't judgin' yannow, I've plugged an arse or two in the baths myself!" Immediately after saying this, Balsa seems to reconsider his words, "Or was I the one gettin' plugged? I guess it ain't really matter."

The things Balsa blows off as unimportant always baffle Edgar. No uncertain winds can shake that man. The mortification passes, tension easing and making way for the perplexity of the situation. 

"Well, what I'm askin' is— if you're not takin' the cunt, wouldya mind if I hop on in?" 

"I beg your pardon?" Edgar manages to speak, astonished by his words. 

Balsa's prick isn't standing quite like Kreiss', but seems to be perking up from the excitement. He laughs again, leaning closer and tucking a loose strand of Edgar's hair behind his ear. 

"What, should you prefer that I sit 'ere and watch the two of ya? I knew ya liked attention, Valden, but I admit I'm a little shocked you'd rather my eyes on you than my hands." 

Teeth worrying at his bottom lip, Edgar considers his deprived pussy, and his own virility. What it means for one person to take two cocks; surely such an act would cheapen his value. But there isn't much lower he can go than letting the gloomy gravekeeper get up in him. And he must admit, the idea of having two men going at him arouses him greatly. 

Feeling his face flush even more despite the heat, Edgar gives in. "I ought to throttle you for being so impertinent…"

"Well, waddaya say Andrew?" 

Kreiss withdraws his fingers from Edgar's ass, still not speaking a word. He leans over Edgar's body, pressing his chest against his back and reaching under his thighs. Before Edgar can ask just what the hell he's doing, he's lifted into the air— folded in half like a doll with his legs spread and pussy completely exposed to Balsa. Kreiss' hands shift under the sweaty backs of his knees. 

"I suppose extending charity to my neighbour is part of my obligations as a God fearing man." He mumbles, as if convincing himself it's okay. 

Rising to his feet, Balsa places his hand under Edgar's left thigh, swinging his foot over his shoulder and relieving some of the weight off Kreiss. He bares his fang with a smile, leaning in close to the other man. 

"Be honest, you wanna see Edgar taken down a peg too, don'tcha?" 

Kreiss doesn't agree nor disagree with the statement, murmuring something about "defilement" and bringing his hand down to his cock. He gives himself a stroke, before lining the head up to Edgar's ass. Drawing his hips forward, he pushes past the tight ring of muscle, drawing a small cry out of Edgar as he is lowered further onto his cock. 

"Good boy Andrew," whispers Balsa. "Get up in that wretch, take out your frustrations."

A loud groan escapes Edgar's lips as Kreiss pushes him open, his prick pressing snugly up against his sensitive walls. He's much bigger than his fingers were and the stretch takes Edgar's breath away. Kreiss rests his chin on his shoulder, huffing gently as he wastes no time beginning to thrust up into the other man. 

"What ever are you saying?" Panting, Edgar steadies himself by wrapping an arm around Kreiss' shoulder. "Don't poison him with strange ideas!" 

Taking his now standing prick into his free hand, Balsa presses up against the slick folds of Edgar's pussy. He ruts forward, grazing the head of his cock over the bundle of auburn pubes. Suddenly Edgar isn't so sure about his ability to fit two men inside himself, even if they were using different holes, Kreiss himself occupies a large amount of space and energy. It still hurts, he's still adjusting, his body is burning and every time he's lowered onto Kreiss' prick he feels as though he's splitting apart from the little pleasure and the desperation for more. 

The two of them are being overzealous! One person of his stature cannot be fucked like this so suddenly! He opens his mouth to express such a sentiment, but is silenced by Balsa's lips being pressed to his own, sending electrical shivers throughout his body. Edgar melts into submission, closing his eyes and relishing in the taste and sensations of the other man's tongue barely brushing against his own. 

Balsa's prick pushes up into him with ease, wringing a relieved moan from Edgar. For a brief moment, he finds himself thanking the Lord for not endowing him to the same severities as Kreiss, perhaps that is how the Lord punishes men of science. His averaged sized cock was doing more than enough filling him up, leaving him gasping as he's forced to break off the kiss. 

"I can feel you…" Whispers Kreiss, chest heaving as he adjusts himself. His next thrust pushes forward, squeezing the wall of Edgar's pussy between them and wringing a whorish moan from him. 

"Keep doin' that, he likes it." Laughing breathlessly, Balsa presses himself even closer, squishing Edgar between their sweaty bodies. "Let's see if we can break 'im even more than Luchino did." 

Balsa thrusts up into him roughly, beginning to create a rhythm between himself and Kreiss. The pain fades into pleasure, overwhelming and otherworldly. Edgar grips Balsa's shoulder tightly, desperate to not fall amongst their aggressive movements. Kreiss kisses his neck, Balsa squeezes his breast, his hair is pulled and his throat is bitten, he moans and cries as if being attacked. 

He whines, "Oh! The two of you will bring me ruin!" 

Leaning over Edgar's shoulder, Balsa nips at Kreiss' lip, before engaging him in an open mouthed kiss. It's messy and wet, more licks and moans than kisses. Watching the two of them so enthusiastically going at eachother whilst going at him arouses Edgar even further, leading him to wonder if he's going to ever be capable of enjoying monogamous sex again. 

Balsa's prick hits an especially pleasurable spot inside him, making Edgar cry out desperately. He continues to aim for that spot, the two men bouncing Edgar on their cocks whilst exchanging kisses with one another. Each time they part, Edgar can hear Kreiss mutter praises and "Oh Lord"s beneath his breath, before going right back at it. 

That tightness in his gut grows ever stronger, he knows he must be growing close to orgasm. The boys keep losing their rhythm, telling Edgar they likely feel the same way. The heat and pleasure makes him dizzy, he can feel himself drooling as he desperately grabs at their shoulders, begging for more. 

"Stuff me, stuff me! Oh please give me more!" He begs pathetically, leaning back to press his mouth against Kreiss'. "I need you, your pricks feel so good!" 

Balsa grunts, thrusting harshly into Edgar's pussy. He feels his balls hitting his taint, growing tighter with each violent jerk of his body. Balsa steadies himself by holding both of Edgar's knees, folding him as he abuses his delicate quim. Kreiss wraps his arms tightly around Edgar's chest, focusing all his strength into thrusting up into his ass.

Kissing Kreiss desperately and begging on one another's lips, Edgar quickly finds himself being pushed over by the stimulation. He cries out with a high pitched moan, his body quivering as his vision goes blurry and hearing muffled. All he can hear is his heart beating loudly and the rush of his blood as his body is overwhelmed by pleasure, making his pussy twitch and throb. Balsa is not far behind him, burying his head in Edgar's neck as thrusts deep into him, filling him with his seed. 

Static electricity courses through Edgar, shocking him and making him jolt in the two boy's hold. He gasps for air, still gripping both of them tightly as Kreiss fucks up into him, desperate to join the two in climax. A few long thrusts and he comes with a broken sigh, stuttering good graces as he buries his load deep inside Edgar's ass. 

Balsa uncunts, panting breathlessly as he helps Kreiss to lower Edgar back to the floor. He attempts to stand, only to have his legs wobble like a baby fawn and give out beneath him, leaving Edgar lying on the floor. A grin of ecstacy is plastered on his face and both men's fluids drip from his holes, making a mess of the bath floor. 

The gravekeeper kneels beside him anxiously looking over Edgar's face. Sweat drips from the tip of his nose. "W-We didn't… did we?" 

"Unfortunately, it seems not." Chuckles Balsa, joining the two of them on the floor by lying on his side. "P'haps we should try again?"