Chapter Text
Ze gasps, fresh air filling his lungs for the first time in weeks as his head breaches the top of the waterfall. His eyes sting from the freezing water and the tears that prick at the corners and the silt that streams down the waterway into his mouth and under his eyelids. A strangled cough frees his lungs from dirty water, his numb arms flailing for anything to help himself get his footing.
You will always look over your shoulder to see if I am still present.
Fingers dig into grass. Dirt sinking under his fingernails, threatening to fall deep into the pit below. Ze gathers his strength and pulls, his muscles lit on fire with every movement until a knee makes it to the top, securing his safety.
Because I will indeed. Be present
Crawling is indignant, and Ze knows it, but yet he crawls. He drags his wet body from the hole until he can’t anymore, and he doesn’t know what’s more humiliating; the fact that he’s on his hands and knees, or the fact that he’s only made it just a few feet before he’s ready to collapse.
Right in front of his house. Regect and Moe and… and himself. Their house. The real versions of his friends. Not the fake clones that were in that fucking hole. Not the ones that were made to deceive him and make him feel at ease when he should have been…
He retches, vision blurry. His thoughts are racing a mile a minute, almost as fast as his heart beats through his ribcage.
Until we meet again.
If you even make it that far.
Ze’s sitting on his knees even though they’re bruised and scraped raw, and his back is hunched even though it’s sore and he could hear years of berating voices overlapping in his mind telling him to sit up straight. He sits like this for a long time despite the quick numbing of his feet under the weight of his haunches and the searing sensation of the dirt and gravel like daggers into the fresh wounds of his knees and calves.
His chest heaves heavy breaths, wheezing with the adrenaline of having just escaped what could have— no— what would have been certain death.
A single voice echoes louder than any other inside his skull. Louder than any berating words from commanders at boot camp that stick with him to this day, compelling him to scan his surroundings for danger even in his current mental state.
A voice that’s more unsympathetic than his fathers that forces Ze’s quivering hand to hover over his pistol with a practiced regimen, thumb having already cocked the hammer before his brain had registered it.
I doubt there’s anything waiting for you out there anymore.
Daemon. Those eyes make Ze’s stomach churn.
“Fuck you.” Ze spits, his voice hoarse. He slams a fist into the ground, his gun clattering against the grass below. Pushing himself up on his weak arms, Ze stands.
His feet bring him forward, step by step trudging closer to the doorway of the familiar home. His clothes drip rhythmically on stone as he reaches for the doorknob, pushing his way inside.
It's…
It’s exactly the same as he remembers.
Fucking obviously, Ze thinks.
Ze holsters his gun, against his better judgement. He peeks around a corner into the living room and his eyes scan side to side. A habit that sickens him, but one he can’t break. The furniture is in the same place it always was— couches, the overly expensive coffee table, the furnaces, carpets, windows…
The familiarity makes his skin crawl. It makes his face grow hot despite the constant shiver he had acquired from his sopping wet hoodie and sweatpants. Ze feels like at any moment, just with a blink of an eye, he’d be back in that suffocating bedrock room, starting all over again.
His fists clench at his sides. His knuckles turn white with the force he grips, and with a grunt, he slams a hand into the closest surface.
There's a crack, the sound of glass fracturing bringing Ze back to his senses for just a moment.
Ze’s fist retracts. The windowpane he hit splinters down the center, cutting his reflection in half. He lets out a dry chuckle, glancing at the thin trickle of blood the sharp glass draws from his knuckles.
He punches the window again. This time, it shatters completely, leaving a gaping hole right in the middle.
The second window breaks easier, and the next one even easier. Each glass pane Ze smashes gets the brunt of his emotions, the brute force of the confusion and the anger he’s got bubbling inside of him. Shards of glass stained red with blood scatter across the floor and furniture as Ze rampages.
“How?” He yells, both fists colliding into the large window at the back of the house. The glass cracks, and Ze’s hands scrape through the crystal blades with full force, sending him reeling backwards.
Ze holds himself still for a moment, taking a deep breath while the blood drips from his hands in a steady stream before he straightens back up.
“Fuck!” He half cries out, “How?! How is that even possible?”
His hands prove next to useless, Ze wincing at the pain the second he attempts to flex them back into anything other than loose fists. Instead, he kicks the coffee table, knocking it fully over.
“It was fake!” Ze yells again, and he doesn’t even know who he’s talking to— or if he’s even talking to anybody, or if it’s just so he doesn’t have to listen to the racing thoughts inside his head anymore. “Fake! All fake!”
He’s screaming now, his throat sore and his lungs burning. His hands throb and his feet are giving out slowly, and kicking everything in his path really isn’t helping. He doesn’t stop, though. Not until a chair that’s kicked against the wall bounces back at him, sending him stumbling back.
“Fake…” Ze mutters as he falls to his knees. “Fuck. It was all… fucking fake…”
Ze hisses in pain, cradling his hands close to his chest. Finally getting a good look at the damage he did to both himself and the house, he winces. His knuckles and heels of his palms are nearly shredded, little shards of glass wedged between deep cuts that ooze blood down his once bright clothes. The crimson drops follow his path of destruction across the house and lead to his spot on the floor where he rests, shaking.
The house isn’t in much better shape. Every fragile window is shattered, letting in a breeze that chills Ze to the bone. The couch is flipped in its back, and the coffee table is up against it. Chairs are strewn across the floor, carpets are ruffled up, and Ze even knocked down part of the railing leading up the stairs.
He curses to himself, voice catching in his throat as he sniffles.
Ze doesn’t have much time to wallow, though, before he hears movement outside through the broken windows. Footsteps approach, then a voice follows.
“What the fuck happened to our house?”
Ze straightens up. He scrambles to his feet and whips the pistol from his holster, gripping it with trembling hands. He aims towards the door with what little willpower he has left as it creaks open.
“What—”
It's… Regect.
Ze falters. So does the entity in front of him.
“Ze?”
The gun lowers just slightly, just enough for Ze to see Regect completely. He looks exactly like he always does; his invisible limbs, his invisible head, the golden collar and ankle bands. His dark fur, his long tail that seems to be swishing from side to side at the moment. The barely there outline of his mouth and eyes, widened in shock.
And behind him…
“Regect? Moe?” Ze finally speaks, his voice hoarse and weak.
Moe honks, pushing her way past Regect into the house. She stops when she sees Ze, her eyes widening. She looks him up and down and a hand comes to her mouth, her face showing just as much shock and worry as Regect’s.
No.
Ze swallows thickly and adjusts his grip on the gun.
No, I can’t make the same mistake twice.
Moe steps forward, just once, honking softly. “Ze, is it really—“
He raises the gun up again. She stops in her tracks.
Ze breaths shakily. “I’m not taking any chances this time.” He says with a broken voice.
Regect grabs Moe by the arm and pulls her back, earning a startled honk as he steps between the two. The entity gets close to him and Ze’s heart pounds in his chest, his grip on the pistol tightening.
“No. No, you’re not going to do this shit.” Regect barks, “Ze, put the gun down.”
“Fuck you.” Ze spits, backing up.
Regect follows with another step forward. “We’ve been looking for you, dude. For weeks.”
“I don’t fucking believe you.”
Ze watches Moe cower behind the door. His chest tightens and tears prick at his eyes, but he stays steadfast.
“Then don’t! You never do anyways, you fuckin’ asshole.” Regect throws his hands up. “But you have to put the gun down, Ze. Please.”
“How do I know you’re real?”
Regect tenses. His body weight shifts and his gaze softens, something that makes Ze nauseous. That look makes Ze feel like giving in and running into his friends arms, makes him feel like crying to them and letting them hold him.
He looks away. The tears are streaming now, and Ze hates himself for it. He hates that seeing Moe scared and Regect worried makes him upset. He hates that even though he can’t trust himself, he can’t help but trust them. He can’t help but trust his best friends.
“I-I don’t know.” Regect stutters, surprised at Ze’s question. “You can ask me anything, dude. Anything. I’ll prove it. We can prove it.”
Moe approaches apprehensively from where she stood behind the entity, honking in agreement.
Ze’s breathing is ragged as flashes of the past days fill his head, infiltrating every corner of his mind.
He sees the three of them gathered around their computer, teaching Moe how to play World of Warcraft. He sees the way Regect nor Moe give him a second glance when there’s a knock at the door, staying locked on the screen.
Ze sees the formidable staircase up to the top of the coal factory, and the way each step seemed to be a little too perfect to be real. He sees the Tree of Dreams, and the bright flash of the three heads showing him the “secrets of the universe”. Whatever secrets they were, it’s all a blur now.
He sees the last day he was… down under. Well, technically it was just a little while ago, really. With his gun pointed at Regect just like it is now. He catches flashes of Regect “trying” to cheer him up all day— the guy waving his hands around, the diamond, the…
“What’s my favorite movie?” Ze blurts out, coming to his senses quickly.
“Wh- seriously? That’s what you’re asking?” Regect chuckles dryly, clearly taken aback. “Uh, obviously it’s A Bronx Tale. We watch it, like, at least five times a week because of you, you screen-hog.”
A thick silence fills the house.
Ze thinks he could die right then and there. From happiness? Exhaustion? From simply finally knowing he was home and safe? Maybe all of it.
“Holy shit.” Ze whispers, barely audible as his outstretched arms lower, letting the gun clatter to the floor. “It really is you. You guys are real.”
“Ze…” Moe honks softly, moving closer to him with outstretched arms and grabbing carefully at his wrists. She turns his palms upright, then upside down, examining his injuries. “Oh my god, Ze, what happened?”
“You look like shit, dude.” Regect comments and Moe quickly hits him in the side with her horn, a muffled sound emitting from it.
“You don’t wanna know.” Ze answers, recoiling in on himself. “It’s… it’s uh…” he trails off, biting at his lower lip to hide the quiver that starts.
Every instinct, every foundational life lesson that had been drilled into Ze’s brain since he was just a child screamed at him to suck it up and press on. He held his pride close to his chest and wore it like a badge of honor— and the tears that stream down his face now while his friends’ eyes bore holes into his soul might just be one of the worst things that could happen to him.
But…
There’s something in their eyes that's different.
There isn’t a scrutiny that his father had. A cold indifferent gaze that turned mocking and insulting, belittling at any display of affection or emotion. There wasn’t the familiar sternness of his commanders, or the grim apathy of his teammates.
There was… concern. Real, genuine, concern. Ze could see it even through the blurriness of the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. There was care. There was sincerity.
There was love.
“I-I… you guys were looking for me?” Ze doubles back on the conversation from earlier. “How… How long was I…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t think he can.
“Fifteen days.” Regect replies. A gold tinted tear trickles down the side of his invisible face.
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.” Regect reaches out now, taking Ze’s hands from Moe. “Shit, man, you fucked yourself up bad.”
His claws are sharp, but they’re gentle against his torn up skin.
“I’m sorry.” Ze sputters through tears, “I-I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey— hey, stop that.” Regect says sternly. Moe honks as well, grabbing at Ze’s bicep to ground him. “Stop apologizing.”
“But I—“
The entity places a finger over Ze’s mouth, effectively shushing him.
“Shh. Not a word.” He says. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back, and you probably fuckin’ have, dude. We’re gonna get you cleaned and patched up and then we can worry about everything else. Alright, buddy?”
Ze’s mouth gapes. He glances around at the destruction he left in the living room, then back at his friends.
“You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.” Regect reassures Ze, his words so gentle they turn Ze’s legs to jelly. He wobbles, and Moe is quick to catch the man before he falls.
He leans on her shoulder for support, his face buried in the soft ruffles of her shirt’s collar, drenching her costume in tears and sticky blood and the residual dampness of his clothes. Moe doesn’t seem to mind, though, and Ze makes a mental note to thank her when he’s in his right mind again.
With ease, Moe sweeps an arm under Ze’s legs and lifts him off the ground in one swift move. Ze feels helpless in her grasp and it’s embarrassing, but the safety that washes over him when his eyes meet hers for just a second calms his worried mind. She gives Regect a small nod, communicating something unspoken before she moves slowly and carefully towards the staircase.
Regect hums in response. “Right. Moe can get you bandaged up ‘n find some clean clothes.” He follows just a few steps up before stopping. “I’ll… meet you guys up there in a few.”
Ze mumbles some sort of agreement against the fabric of Moe’s shirt.
The last thing he sees as the pair ascend to the second story is Regect— standing on the second step, the last step with the broken railing that Ze had kicked down. His hands fidget with the gold collar on his neck, and the concern splayed across what was parts of his face were visible make Ze’s stomach churn.
Ze wants to ask the entity to come with them, wants to grab his invisible arm and drag him upstairs. He doesn’t want to bear being away from him again. The real him.
But all Ze can manage is burying his face further into Moe’s neck.
Regect couldn’t even begin to explain the way his chest caved in when he saw Ze standing in the living room.
It wasn’t just seeing the man after weeks of endless searching— days spent scouting that ended with Moe and Regect returning home with the setting sun, only for Regect to sneak back out as soon as Moe fell asleep. Nor was it the fact that he had spent nights screaming into the void, both literally and figuratively, at a certain creature that neither Moe nor Ze knew about, practically praying for Ze to be brought back safe. Groveling on hands and knees to a malevolent beast asking that if it had Ze in its maw, to just please, please take him instead. Prayers that fell on silent ears.
Well, maybe it was some of that.
Mostly, it was the state that Ze was in when they finally found him.
Ze was… completely disheveled. Regect had never seen him so clearly shaken. His eyes were glossy and wide, trained down the barrel of his gun with precision that only comes from years of experience— experience that Regect knows the man has, but never needs to use unless the situation is dire.
The bandanda headband he usually dons is nowhere to be found, hair caked to his scalp and forehead with sweat and slowly drying water that seems to soak his whole body.
His cheeks stained with dirt and small traces of blood lead Regect’s gaze down to the rest of his form. The hoodie that was once a bright white was dingy and fraying, streaked with blood that trickles down Ze’s hands and onto the faded sleeves.
Sweatpants ripped like jeans exposed his torn up knees. The fingers curling around the trigger wore shards of glass like jewelry, the rhythmic dripping of blood and water onto the floor making Regect feel sick.
Regect didn’t know what had happened over the past fifteen days that Ze was missing. He wishes with everything in his being that he did, but the only person that knows is Ze.
Regect watches Moe carry the man up the set of stairs in the middle of their living room carefully, slowly, like Ze is something fragile that could break at any moment. And he is— he is something fragile, both now and forever, and Regect hates himself for not thinking that sooner. He hates himself for not holding onto his friends tighter.
He knows the horrible shit that’s out there in this world and what it can do to people, the Eyes— Daemon, whatever. The tricks it can play, the mind games, the… pure evil, inconsiderate fucking—
He hates himself for not holding onto Ze tighter. He hates that this might be his fault.
Hell, it probably is.
Regect sniffles, letting himself turn away only once he finally heard a door click shut upstairs. He sighs heavily as he turns to the living room and surveys the damage, the sheer chaos of it all hitting him finally.
With a furrowed brow and a grunt, the entity sits on the bottom step. His head rests in his palms, unable to bear the crushing weight bearing down on his shoulders.
Hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but the pressure he puts against his face forces them away, leaving him to breathe hollowly into the silence as his fur grows more and more damp.