Hoping you're one of a very short list of people who aren't pissed at me right now.
Heard about Alicent. I'm sorry, John.
If you need anything - I've got an awful lot of free time on my hands I'm thinking about filling with shifts at the Hex Club. Come on by, drinks on me.
Well, that's not quite right. When Alicent disappears, he starts to feel everything. Everything, suddenly, is too much. Too much noise that isn't her heartbeat, isn't her laugh. Too much pressure on the center of his chest, like a great weight or a fist squeezing his heart until he feels like he's going to choke. It had been like this, each time she'd asked him to look for another missing kid. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond. All of them gone. He thinks he'd settle for her bones.
There's a moment, when the wolf's head goes up in flames, that he feels something like pity, like sympathy, for the souls trapped inside. But it disappears along with Alicent in the trek back to the house.
When Hawk's text comes through, it takes reading it a few times over for it to stick. The words don't make sense in this configuration. The shape of sorry for your loss doesn't fit into his worldview. He thinks, ironically, of the same thing he'd thought when Ryan had turned Stormfront into charcoal. It's not fair.
He doesn't think about John. He doesn't think about the fact that he doesn't drink. ]
[ When the sound picks up, pacing footsteps are audible, layered over by Homelander's uneven breath — by tears that feel so stupid and so pathetic and so useless when the fractured voices in his head say of course she left you, you idiot, everyone leaves you, she never wanted you, never wanted a crybaby weakling like you, you pathetic fuck, you were never enough. ]
You know, when I— when I died the first time—
[ He pauses, that beat punctuating a turn on his heel as he continues to tread in a circle around his bare room. ]
—she told me ... she made me promise that I'd— she said it didn't matter to her that I died, just that I came back her. That I'd always come back.
[ His shaking breath dissolves into a laugh, bordering on manic (bordering on angry, almost). ]
It's— it's funny, right? Like she's— because I died and came back, again, but she went to sleep and now she's—
[ To Set, it is a gift to receive the sound of Homelander's vulnerability. It incites something within him — deep and strange and urgent. The feeling of being honored by someone powerful, given the space to hear him when he cannot bear the weight of his own anguish; the feeling of hunger, to be there to devour what blistering negativity pours from him, as if licking up the scraps of pain and anger and madness are the sustenance he craves; the feeling of need, low in his belly: to comfort, to cradle, to provide.
The last one, he tucks away as quickly as it rises. Pain loses its edge, the longer one drifts inside of it, and he does not want to miss out on experiencing it with Homelander. Of course he goes to Homelander, skipping out on responding over the phone in favor of being there. Physically, he has proven that he can take the brunt of any venting. Emotionally — well, emotionally, this is his best friend. Set would never call himself a good and proper friend, but he always seeks to be a present one.
When he arrives, he shuts the door behind him quietly. Lingering by it, though his fingers clearly twitch: wanting to make contact. ]
Now, she is gone. [ He finishes the thought for Homelander, brutal and honest as ever. ] And it is not funny at all.
[ Now that he's confronted with the actual sight of his friend's anguish, he doesn't quite know what to do. Embrace him? Speak with him? Allow him to use his fists and brilliant, burning eyes upon his body until he is spent and numb? ]
Being left behind by someone you love — it makes one remember the emptiness that even that love could not fill or fix. That darkness always comes back, a hundredfold. I am sorry she is gone, Homelander. I know you were happy, and I know I was happy for you.
( what if we look directly at the elephant in the room and then pretend it doesn't exist ... he won't mention alicent if you don't! but there might be something wally can do to ease that pain he's more than familiar with (the part where you don't get to say goodbye) — and it involves his favorite thing: science. )
cool thanks i just remembered you asked me if i could reverse engineer more and i need a project or i'll go stir crazy plus someones gotta make sure the lab equipment doesnt start collecting dust
[ Twin instincts hum to life. First, a sort of warmth, at having been brought into the circle. Second, uncertainty. What this means for Set, if he wants this, if, if, if. ]
At first, I thought there was little reason for her to visit the manor. But, it is apt — when things go my way, the world must intervene to rectify that.
He said "drinking milk is for kittens and perverts" which is obviously ridiculous, so I asked him how many bones he's broken in his life, and he said three. I've never broken any, so, case made.
( apropos of nothing but the christmas spirit, the season of nostalgia it ushers in with it, and the memories you associate with good things — john fits somewhere on that spectrum, like homemade cookies and warm milk on winter nights. something you remember as comforting, from a time long passed. moments of magic she can never travel back to. )
so what's the playbook for fake exes and christmas do i gotta buy you a gift? cuz if i bought everyone who's ever seen my tits something i'd be one broke bitch
He recognizes, for the most part, that those false memories are what they are — that some things are easier to forget or try to slot into their "real" lives (such as they are). Ani falls somewhere in the middle. Her edges are sharper than Greer's, and getting sent back to square one when the month ends is— well, she catches him looking, every once in a while, wearing an expression that doesn't require too much analysis to parse through when he's never been the type to maintain much of a poker face.
He'd liked her. A lot. More, in some concrete ways, than the concept of a "normal" life, period. So: ]
[ Christmas day, delivered shortly before noon: a framed night sky, painted by someone who is certainly not Roza. Blue-black wraps from corner to corner, littered with constellations, which move, having been enchanted, across an inky horizon. The organization of ordinary asterisms may be ambiguous, but these paint a clearer picture, congealing into figures enacting a Cosmic Hunt. A play in two acts portrays little rows of stars forming a hunting party, men pursuing a beast across heaven. Only at the precipice, its glowing bearish mouth open and roaring, it still evades them: its body bursts into a snowfall of a thousand gleaming astral pieces, assembling into Ursa Major. (The animal is the hero, you see. Not the human men.)
The portrayal is also responsive to touch, the painted sky wavering like water. For example, a thumb betwixt party and ostensible prey will form a barrier, stopping the men in their pursuit.
An associated note reads,
I wanted to give you somewhere else to go when you are tired of this place. Where better than the sky, right? This is one of our oldest stories. If you turn it around, there's a hole in the back. You can put something of yours in there. Something small. A memory you choose will grow there, too, with time. Choose something that makes you happy.
( tied to homelander's doorknob is a scroll of fine parchment, sealed closed with a bit of orange-dyed twine and several charms. the scroll, should he unfurl it, is a realistic portrait of himself as nami sees him — summery, brightly smiling, a splattered of freckles across his nose, and a wave of blonde hair messily decorating his forehead. there's no card, but the portrait is initialed NS. )
Edited (dont drink and tag) 2025-12-27 04:23 (UTC)
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