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Pride was one of the early sides, but he was not a core one.
He formed when Thomas was young, distinguished from the others only with his two shining gold eyes.
He wasn’t a core Side by any means, but he had an attitude that spoke otherwise. He was, after all, Pride. Arrogant by nature. He saw all the other Sides as below him, and any evidence or claim to the contrary only angered him.
He was there to whisper how they didn’t need others, how Thomas didn’t need others. They didn’t need friends or teachers or help of any kind. They were strong and smart and old enough. Their art was the best. They could read perfectly fine. They were superior. Thomas should come first always.
He was frequently ignored or overpowered. His ideals never align with any of the other Sides, least of all the most influential, core ones.
Despite all his belief in his own strength, he was still a minor Side. Sides like Reason or Morality spoke over him, drowning out his whispers. Thomas made friends and listened to teachers and didn’t listen to Pride. He learned humility and selflessness and guilt. Learned how to ignore that little voice in his head that said that everyone was below him and instead, to his frustration, started putting people above him.
And so Pride wasn’t needed, wasn’t necessary, and certainly wasn’t wanted. The confidence he had was also carried by either Creativity and the agendas he pushed directly opposed the stronger Sides, the ones that Thomas listened to more, valued more, wanted more.
Pride realized this one day after stalking into his room and slamming the door shut so hard the mirrors that practically covered his room rattled. The only places that did not show his reflection were the small spaces in between, filled with awards and other signs of accomplishment that Thomas had received throughout his life.
He sits down on the couch holding his favorite handheld mirror that’s so big for his small hands that he has to use both of them. He likes it because it says both of his name, both Pride and Janus. The latter of which he’s never told another; he is Pride, and that is a title he holds with such feeling. The name Janus speaks to something different, something he’s not sure he likes.
This is when he realizes. Staring at himself, at his shining gold eyes, when the knowledge that he’s entirely powerless and useless and friendless hits him sharply.
He realizes and watches as tears drip down onto the mirror. Frustration immediately swells in him - he shouldn’t cry, can’t cry, he’s a big boy and big boys don’t cry - but that only seems to further his tears.
He has no place in Thomas's mind. Thomas still is prideful to some degree, but it’s enough for the egos of Creativity. It’s not enough to warrant a full Side for the emotion, not when Thomas denies him as much as he does.
His existence is worse than detrimental - it’s absolutely meaningless. Even if he had a negative effect there’d still be something. Something to prove he exists, that he’s powerful. As it is, it’s just like he’s screaming into a void and all the noise he makes is sucked into the world around him.
Is he even making a sound in the first place? There’s no one around to tell him.
And that’s when it starts.
His eyes start acting up, tearing up or getting far too dry at sporadic moments. The left side of his face becomes itchy and red enough that he has to practically plaster make-up over it. Thomas doesn’t know how to use makeup though so even if he can conjure it he can’t use it. It looks awful unless he dedicates hours to it, causing him to minimize his time outside of the room. He can’t look anything less than a best, can’t give them another reason to ignore him-
He hopes it passes soon.
(It doesn’t.)
The next thing is his speaking. He finds himself catching on words more often, unable to speak as smoothly and fluidly as before. His throat keeps closing up while he’s mid-sentence, which is medically concerning and - more importantly - embarrassing. He starts fumbling and tripping on words because something in his mind is yelling that they’re coming out all wrong.
(He doesn’t notice that nothing happens when his suggestions are smaller, when they’re more of self-care and more necessary lies. That his mind quiets and his throat doesn’t close and everything is okay.)
The whole time, other symptoms appear. He becomes shaky more often, tired easier, feverish to varying degrees. His left eye worsens to the point where his vision seriously suffers. His depth perception is screwy and he frequently finds himself stumbling or knocking things over or something else to the sort.
The worst thing, though, is the clarity that comes.
He’s too arrogant to stay locked up in his room completely, so his suffering is on display. It doesn’t help that all his symptoms seem to be exacerbated tenfold when he’s outside of the sanctuary his room provides. Pain fills his every movement, every breath.
It’s awful. He chokes up in front of Reason and falls in front of Dark Creativity and has to endure Morality’s pressing concern. He hates it so much but he can’t be in his room full time. He’s fine and it’s not because he can’t stand to be alone in a room full of mirrors when he’s like this.
There are other Sides, too. Sides whose names and titles will be lost to time. He has enemies in some and something that’s almost an alliance among others (because Pride doesn’t have friends. Doesn’t need them).
As his symptoms worsen, he becomes more aware. He can tell lies far easier. He soon realizes that he only has enemies - that they lie when they say they want to work with him, or listen to him, or even see him. That they’re lying when they say they like him.
And that, that’s what really breaks him. The realization that he’s not just not on top, but also that he’s on the very bottom.
That’s when Pride shatters.
His body feels like a supernova - a star collapsing in on itself in one final blaze of glory before only blackness remains. He scrapes himself together enough to sink into the ground and reappear in his room.
It’s enough to give him a moment of strength, of control.
He uses that moment to punch the nearest mirror. He misses the first one, the blow instead going to the air as he loses his balance and stumbles. The second strike hits, and it hurts but he does not care. The blood flowing over his knuckles is minor compared to the throbbing pain in his entire being .
That’s the last clear memory he has.
That’s the last memory Pride has at all.
A Side without a title picks himself up off the floor of his room.
The floor around him is littered with broken glass and he winces as he accidentally jostles a piece of glass embedded in his hand. Both of them are covered in harsh red lines. They’ll scar.
(Of course, that wouldn’t matter to Pride. He’d just change his form and remove any evidence the wounds were there.)
(This Side is not Pride.)
He manages to stand unsteadily after a few moments and carefully leans his body against a dresser. He feels sore and his head is throbbing. His vision is unsettlingly clear.
He looks around the room at the destruction. The mirrors weren’t the only thing to suffer - all the awards and artworks that were scattered on the walls are torn up similarly among the broken glass. There’s a broken chair lying across the room from him, looking as if it was thrown violently against the wall.
There’s no door. No way out.
The Side cannot find it within himself to care.
He hobbles over to the bed, nearly falling a few times before he collapses onto the comforter. He’s expecting momentarily relief, but instead is only met with more pain on the side of his face that hits the pillow. He flinches back immediately assuming that there was more glass he had not seen.
That is not the case.
He reaches up with a careful hand, gently brushing against his face with bloodied fingertips. The skin there feels tender, rough, and far too strange.
He adjusts his position slightly and looks around the room. None of the mirrors left on the walls have large enough glass shards for him to see his face, but he spots a golden handheld mirror on his night table. He carefully picks it up with two small hands.
(The mirror has two names on it: Pride and Janus.)
(He is only the latter now.)
The glass there is untouched, and it is in his smooth reflection that he sees his face.
It’s not skin he was feeling - it was scales. Dark and ugly and taking up half of his face.
It’s not just his skin he was feeling - his left eye’s pupil has narrowed into a slit. His right eye is completely normal, more normal than it’s ever been. The gold is completely gone, leaving behind a simple brown.
But his left eye? The gold there taunts him. Mocks him.
He drops the mirror, curls in on himself, and cries.
There’s no way to tell how long he spends in his room, broken and crying and alone, before he picks himself back together. When he does, his door is back.
The glass in his hands isn’t a problem - he’s a Side, and any injuries they get can be brushed aside well enough.
The scars fade, like all things do.
The scales do not leave. He hates the scales. They’re awful looking and itchy and always cold.
He hates how it’s so clear what his new function is when you see them. How obvious it is that he’s a snake in every sense of the word.
Because that’s what he is now - a snake. He’s a snake. A dirty liar.
He’s Deceit now and he knows it and he hates it.
No Side knocks on his door. Whenever he hears voices outside of it he freezes in place, but no one ever tries to enter.
It’s both a blessing and a curse.
He pieces himself together alone. Learns to tolerate himself in solitude, because liking is too much for right now.
It’s hard. It’s hard to go from loving yourself completely and fully to the point of delusion and then to suddenly break and shatter and reform into something you hate. It’s awful and painful and he feels like Icarus who flew too close to the sun.
(At least Icarus didn’t have to deal with the fallout. He’s stuck here, grounded after having his wings torn and his body thrown to the sea.)
When he leaves, he’s something new. Not new in the sense that he’s no longer Deceit, but he no longer hates himself. No longer has to suppress a flinch every time he sees his mirror because it makes him think of shattered glass and bloody hands and a Side that died unloved. No longer feels sick at his reflection, at the sight of his scales or his single golden eye.
When he leaves, he’s something new. Something not entirely focused on protecting himself and only himself.
When he leaves, he’s self-preservation as well as a liar, because how could he not be? He now knows. He knows that no one should have to be alone. No one should have to shatter and die and reform without anyone else there.
He knows the dangers of lying to and deluding yourself firsthand. Knows the dangers of having only enemies around you. Knows the dangers of being on the bottom of the food chain.
He leaves his room after swearing to himself that Thomas will never know these dangers, and if he does then he will not face them alone and unprepared.
(He also promises to himself, quieter, that he will not let any Side slip by in solitude.)
The Duke is the first friend Deceit makes.
It’s odd, and not something he would have ever predicted. Pride had not gotten along with him in the slightest - had not gotten along with either Creativity, to be honest - due to his foul and open nature. The words he said were vile and unrefined and his outfit was putrid.
Deceit, on the other hand, finds himself drawn to the Side.
And how could he not? This is a Side that is always open, always honest. Unafraid of his nature as the darker part of Creativity. The one that does not reject or cover up parts of himself for others.
This Side is always honest.
This Side is also always alone.
The Duke is no fool, unlike what the other Sides think. They see him and hear him and watch him and they believe him to be a simpleton, someone who doesn’t know anything useful and just spews out random things every sentence.
Deceit isn’t like the other Sides. He knows that the Duke is one of the oldest Sides, half of Creativity that no one (at least, as far as Deceit knows) had ever seen whole. He knows that the Duke and the Prince were the first Sides to be named.
So he moves up to the Duke one day, where the Side is tossing marbles and other small game pieces up in the air to toss them into his mouth. He misses frequently, and when he does he just stomps on it. He watches for a while.
He thinks, deep down, he should be horrified. He should hate the Duke still because the Duke is the opposite of self-preservation. He is not calm, cool safety that is granted by confidence and lies. He is like fire; an impulsive nature that burns so hot that it’ll burn you if you let it go unchecked.
But instead, he’s strangely fascinated by the Side who does not lie to himself. There’s an air around him, one of openness and blatant honesty. Deceit has passed by several Sides since he left his room for the first time. None of them had anything even remotely like this.
So he watches, and the Duke sees eventually. They talk.
Deceit learns that his name is Remus. Remus does not learn his name, and doesn’t seem to care.
Deceit spends the rest of the day with Remus.
No one else will acknowledge it, but he knows Remus is not going anywhere. He may be dark and twisted and destructive, but at the end of the day, he’s still Creativity.
Remus is fire. If given the chance he will burn Thomas down.
Deceit tells himself that is why he is drawn to the Side, because a fire left unchecked in the woods is that much more likely to create a large, violent wildfire. He is lying to himself. A lie of omission.
He’s fulfilling his first vow by staying by Remus, but also the second, quieter but no less important promise he made to himself.
Deceit sees many Sides throughout the years.
He watches and observes the ones that transition smoothly, flitting from one personality type to another similar one with ease. These are the easy ones.
He watches the ones that shatter. These are the ones that are more common.
Because, that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Kids are born with so much potential, and then as they grow up there’s a type of ordered chaos to try and form the semblance of a proper personality from that potential.
He watches Sides shatter. He stays by their bedsides and lies to them that everything will be okay. He listens and learns and stays, and then when it’s all over and he has to leave he does, because he cannot get caught in the past.
He is more than just deception. He is also the part that has to walk alone, that has to speak of selfishness and self-preservation and other things that Thomas has seen as bad and dark and immoral, because if no one does then they will all shatter.
He is not a “good” side, but he doesn’t care. He does not care about how he is perceived, unlike how Pride was. He does not exist to be liked. He’s a Side, a part of Thomas that’s necessary to protect him. To hide the truths he’s not ready for and to push for selfishness because Thomas needs it more than he realizes.
Thomas can see him as a villain all he likes, but Deceit will get him to just take care of himself.
Sometimes his approach is harsher, but in his defense, the Sides had needed to know about the link between Caution and Anxiety for far too long. Caution was not Pride, he was not someone who deserved to fade away into obscurity. He was someone who had been loved, someone who had been mourned.
Remus had also deserved his chance in the spotlight for quite some time. He’s been pushed aside for too long. He’s one of the oldest parts of Thomas, and he’s not going to go anywhere if they all pretend he doesn’t exist. He’s not completely destructive, either, like some believe. He’s Creativity, just in a different form. A form more against societal norms, sure, but really he could go on and on about all the ways society is wrong and flawed so he doesn’t really put much care into that.
He is still a peculiarity. Although some Sides differ from Thomas more than others, he is by far the one that looks the most different. Even without his scales, his gold eye in itself is not only a relic of a long-gone Side, but also a curiosity.
When Pride existed, the difference between him and the others was more minor, but still more than most other Sides had at the time. It was before the Duke had his mustache and before Anxiety was even around, so eyeshadow wasn’t exactly a thing among them.
He wonders now if his eyes (and now eye) was indicative of something not quite right, if it was a warning whispering that all that glitters is not gold.
The name Janus also makes more sense to him now. He is beginnings and endings, transitions, a link between the past and the future. Between truth and deception.
It all makes so much sense sometimes that he wonders if he was always destined to be like this.