Summary: An attempt to explain why Edmund acts so bitchy (pardon the language). Featuring Edmund and Peter. Not slash. A songfic. 'Counting Stars' is performed by Sugarcult.

Pairing: None, as it's not a romance. Far from it.

Disclaimer: C.S.Lewis owns everything. Though I'd adopt the four Pevensies if I ever could.

Beta-reader: Mira (mis.mira)

Note: I was listening to Sugarcult a few months ago when the scene featuring Edmund just struck out of nowhere. The image refused to leave me alone, so I sat down to write a songfic out of it. grins It's slightly AU, I think, but, well, it's a songfic, so I have to match everything with the lyrics... grins

Dedication: This songfic is for all of you who read my other fic(s), especially 'Entangled'. I'm so sorry I leave it hanging on chapter 17. I've written some few latter chapters, but since I haven't been able to contact Mira, I still don't know who'll beta it. Is anyone willing to step into her shoes? But whatever happens, here's one that I want all of you to enjoy.

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- Counting Stars -

Hey…I wanna crawl out of my skin

Apologize for all of my sins

All the things I should have said to you

Edmund twitched involuntarily as he lay in bed.

His head felt heavy. His eyes were stinging, and the fact that the night air felt so humid didn't help either. He was drenched in his own sweat, and as he turned sideways to look at his older brother, all he felt like doing – all he should have been doing – was scream.

The bed was empty; there were signs that it had been occupied recently, and the cover had been thrown back, but there was no sign of Peter.

He knew his brother was downstairs now, as Edmund could hear the familiar but muffled voices outside the bedroom. Peter would have been woken earlier by their mother's failed attempts to conceal her sobs, like she had been doing every night for two months, ever since their father had been sent to the battlefield. It had grown into an appalling norm.

Edmund wiped the prickles of sweat off his forehead. He could picture Peter hugging their mother now, trying to comfort her and telling her to go back to sleep.

Every time Edmund woke up in the middle of the night, plagued by nightmares concerning their father, Peter would not be there in their shared bedroom. Every time Edmund felt the knot in his stomach tighten as his mind wandered in the darkness, he found Peter soothing their mother, already guiding her back into her bedroom.

Every time Edmund wanted to share his worries with everyone in the house, Peter would be there before him, playing substitute for their father.

And it had angered him.

It had engulfed him so fast, and all he could remember about the evening, as he lay there on his bed, was the sound of the words that escaped his mouth and still stung his ears until this hour of the sweltering night.

The 'flames' that he had thrown at Peter.

"What are you doing?" Edmund recalled his words few hours ago. "Who do you think you are?"

And though it wasn't very loud at all, it was, nevertheless, full of spite. He implied no accusation, but he was sure that his original message was well transmitted, judging by the look on his older brother's face as he stormed out of the room.

To say that Peter was surprised was an understatement, and though that evening Edmund did not care to sneak further glances to see the blood drain from his brother's face, he knew that he had struck a nerve there.

A major one.

That evening, Edmund thought that was precisely what he wanted. That evening, he wanted nothing but for Peter to stop acting like Father because he was so lousy at it. But, that evening, he hadn't woken up the middle of the night on his own again. He hadn't been left in the dark all over again with hours to soak in every single detail of the events.

And now he had.

Boy, how he wished he could punch whoever it was who came up with the saying 'Regrets will haunt you later' as hard as he could.

Hey… I can't make it go away

Over and over in my brain again

All the things I should have said to you

Edmund twitched on his bed once again.

It was useless; the look of hurt on Peter's face still pestered him. He hadn't thought much about it during the day, because, well, during the day he had other things to think about. Father, for instance.

He had speculated about what Father could be – should be? – doing (writing a really long letter to them, or sitting with the other fathers in his squad, exchanging stories about their families with longing looks on their faces?) and where he was exactly (at the battlefield or at the camp, waiting to be sent?), among other things.

He forced himself to wonder whether he would see Father again every time the look on Peter's face flashed across his mind, because if he didn't, he was sure that he would attempt to smack himself against the wall.

Edmund sat up in his bed. His head was still aching.

He wished he could just punch himself to make everything feel okay again. He wished Peter had been right there in his bed that evening, because then he was almost sure he would feel better. He would still be angry, surely, but at least in a better state of mind. He wished Peter had 'flamed' him back, perhaps slapped him hard a few times, because then he could hate him as much as he liked. He wished Peter had not just stood there: looking hurt and making him feel like the enemy.

He wished he could deny himself being so.

But every time he twitched in his bed, Edmund could not shake off the realization. He was still the bad guy, the antagonist, and he was still full of hatred, but it wasn't directed only at Peter anymore.

It was also directed at himself.

Counting stars, wishing I was okay

Crashing down was my biggest mistake

I never ever meant to hurt you

I only did what I have to

Counting stars again

Edmund threw down his blanket.

Perhaps it would be better if he went outside to the balcony. Surely the night air would clear his head, if not make him feel better.

And so he took his place, leaning on the doorsill. The cold wind of the night bathed him, but Edmund didn't shift even a bit.

He held his gaze upwards, trying to find the flickers of the stars. He liked to do this a lot; whenever he couldn't sleep or whenever he felt like doing it, because, well, he liked the stars. They always made him cheerful, no matter how small.

And, boy, how he knew he needed much solace that particular night.

But to Edmund's disappointment, there were no flickers; the sky was as blank as it could be. And it was then he sensed the chilliness of the wind.

But still, he didn't budge.

Of course, he thought, remembering what the radio had said. The stars were actually there, heaps of them spread over the night sky, but it was the track of war that concealed them.

He could not help but wonder whether war would take everything that mattered to him, eventually? First it was Father, and now the stars?

Edmund found his hands had crossed themselves across his chest, trying to block the wind, but still, he would not move.

He could not understand, truthfully, why Peter would want to take the place of Father. Why he even thought that he could replace him.

Why everyone seemed to just take it for granted.

He missed Father; that he knew. But he also knew that having Peter around helped him not to miss his father so bad, because, well, (And Edmund didn't say this just out of the fact that Peter was indeed the oldest son, or because he could see his father's smile on his older brother's face every time), but-

He didn't want to not miss Father. He wanted to always miss him-

Because always missing him meant he wouldn't forget, something he was so afraid of.

He had already sensed the memory of his hair being messed by Father fading slowly to the back of his mind. He couldn't recall how exactly it felt to him anymore, even though it had been – was – one of his favorite things.

So, yes, he was afraid. But never in a million years would he confess to it.

Crack.

Edmund turned, seeing the shadow of someone move. Apparently Peter had slipped back to their room.

"What are you doing out there, Ed?" Peter asked patiently, but to Edmund it sounded like an intrusion of his privacy.

"Mind your own business," Edmund snapped, a second later wondering if he had gone too far.

The shadow of Peter didn't move at first, and Edmund started to think that maybe his older brother would lose his temper now. But then he shifted, and without another word disappeared under his blanket.

For a moment there was no movement in the room.

Edmund hesitated.

Was what he doing was wrong? He just wanted nobody forgetting Father.

He could see Peter curled up. He was waiting for Edmund to tuck himself in, it seemed.

But why did it all feel so wrong?

Edmund finally went in, closing the door to the balcony, and then drawing his blanket to slip underneath.

Then he remembered Father.

Hey, I'll take this day by day by day

Under the covers I'm okay I guess

Life's too short and I feel small

-fin-