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HOMELANDER

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[ 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—

[ He stops short. ]

Fuck—

[ And the voice message ends. ]

[ 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.

[ He paces until Set appears. As soon as the door to his room open, he comes to a full stop, freezing in place like he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to. (Like he expects to be scolded for such a display of vulnerability.) His eyes dart everywhere except upon Set, the chorus of voices in his head hissing no, no, no, I wasn't empty, not with her, I wasn't, I'm not empty, I can't be empty again. His brow pinches, the corners of his mouth twitching in tandem. His eyes are wet, red-rimmed, yet he seems reluctant to be seen crying, as if the remove of a phone call were somehow acceptable where this kind of presence is not.

He can bear pain. Searing heat, pummeling fists, any sort of violence. But heartbreak — it hurts too much, fills up so much of his body that he feels like he's about to burst. There has to be somewhere for this agony to go. She is gone, Set says, and Homelander shakes his head, nearly flinching away from the words. Part of him wishes to lash out, to ask if Set wanted her to go, but the god's own words brook that kind of pettiness.

I am sorry she is gone. I was happy for you.

His eyes glisten as he blinks, his head ducking to hide the fresh tears that streak down his face. ]

I didn't get to say goodbye.

[ It had been a shock when she'd fallen asleep, even more so when she'd simply— ]

She didn't want to go. [ To the deaths of her children. To a kingdom eager to bleed her dry. ] I can't— I can't protect her if she's—

[ His breath shatters into a gulp, marking the end of the thought but hardly the end of his misery. ]

I would never doubt the relationship you shared with her.

[ He cannot say the same of Alicent, but he did not know her as well as Homelander. It is best to say nothing, in that sense. To cross the room with his own head held high, unwavering as he reaches for Homelander's hands and takes them firmly into his own. The tears in his eyes are a vulnerability they both hesitate to share, because how readily they could cause one another irreparable harm — by laughing inappropriately, by making an ill-timed joke at the other's expense. Even as friends, the sheer destruction they could cause lingers like a hunched, hunting beast on their backs.

He pushes a thumb over a tear trail. Ah, it is a matter of protecting her. She must have returned to a difficult life — judging by her manner, her insightful mastery of the social realm, it was not going to be a life she could easily surmount. What can he do for him? Soothing is not his forte. His domains oversee war and violence, madness itself, disorder external and internal. Fixing this would be against his duties.

Unless. ]

— what, if you could say goodbye? It would not be everything you want, but it could be something of it.

[ He can only offer, in the end. This could help his friend, or worsen everything. ]

[ It's a precious, unusual thing, to be touched like this. Homelander doesn't flinch as Set brushes the track of his tears away, but his gaze wavers — like he's preparing to be hurt, expects dismissal rather than empathy or even coddling. The moment hangs — then breaks. The offer meets first with shock, a look of surprise, before dissolving into a mess of more sweltering feeling: a brittle laugh as he shakes his head, looking down at his hands (useless, empty, weak). ]

No, it's—

[ But no isn't where he wants to start. What he's thinking of — what he wants to give to Set, who offers him tenderness where it would never be easier to tear him apart — isn't a rejection. Rather: ]

Thanks, [ offered on a shaky sigh, his gaze flickering back up with something like guilt (regret, maybe) in the blue light of his eyes. He'd tried that, once, with Stillwell. A body that looked like her, that told him what he wanted to hear. Maybe he's just older, now. Maybe the depth of his feelings for Set run too deep to want him to change into someone else entirely, even for a purpose like this. ]

It's— [ It's okay. No, that's not quite right. ] You don't have to do that, for me. It's enough for— that you listened to me. [ His brow furrows again, instinct threatening to drag him away from any tender feeling. ]

I just ... miss her. You know? I wanna see her, and I can't. I wanna talk to her, but she's not—

[ He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't want to, when it all aches and stings. Instead, he tips forward, bit by bit, until his forehead rests against the crest of Set's shoulder. It's all he can ask for, all he needs. ]

It is within my power, and you are my friend.

[ There is an intense, burning power in the way he wields that word: friend. A rarity in and of itself, for a god to name anyone as sworn and true a companion as a "friend", even a "best friend". The last one he had was his own sister, Isis, and they had shared everything together — first loves, heartbreak, plans and dreams, arguments and forgiveness, secrets and acts to honor one another. Until, in his pain and grief and madness, he'd thrown everything back in her face and chased her into the depths of depravity, just to hurt her for abandoning him, ignoring him because she wanted her husband's love more than anything. If he can treat Homelander better than he did her, maybe

one day

she will forgive him, and he can forgive her. Maybe, they can be family again. ]

I know how you feel. Do not think you need to hide anything from me. Be at your worst, okay? You will always have my support.

[ It's the best he can offer. Recalling Nephthys. Recalling their broken, mangled marriage bond. How badly he wants to see her and speak with her and go home to her. He knows, truly. So, as Homelander comes to rest against him, he silently runs his hands along the muscles of his back, his shoulders, and wraps them around his shoulders. Nails light along the tidy hairs at the nape of his neck, as he encourages Homelander to let go. Let loose. Succumb to the madness within him, without fear. ]

[ That's the cruel thing, isn't it? Maybe. Maybe is too immaterial, too uncertain, for beasts made to exist in the binary of victory and loss. Maybe he'll see her again. Maybe she'll remember him. Hope, already fraying and dissipating even as he tries to hang onto it.

The moment Set's hands find him, the dam breaks. Homelander weeps, years falling away from his trembling shoulders until only the boy is left, lonely and desperate, trapped in a sterile cage. The difference, here, is that he isn't completely alone. There's someone here to listen, someone here to hold him as he allows himself to feel the full scope of his loss. He's always wanted this, hasn't he? A true friend?

You will always have my support. How many other people could say that, for him?

So he sobs until he goes hoarse, until he's too tired to move. His worst: not his urge toward violence or his view of those he considers lesser, but this terrible, crippling weakness. Set accepts it all. ]

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