Chapter Text
Steven does not know who he is. It's a bit of an odd sentence, but a reasonable one nonetheless. He has two different sides of his family telling him who he is at once and yet neither are right. One calls him inhuman, a disgusting traitor to what makes someone a person, and the other calls him by a name that isn't his anymore and tells him he's just confused.
( a third calls him a name he doesn't know, a name he never should've known, from that shattered perception of the world that hides in the back of his mind, written in ones and zeros that make his head hurt if he thinks about it too hard. )
So, Steven has simply decided to cut them off. All of them. If he gets a call from them, no he doesn't. If they come to his and his boyfriend's door begging for their little girl to talk to them, no they don't. Simple as.
They live in a crappy little apartment around a half hour from Hurricane, Utah. In Hurricane, there's a place called Fredbears, and Steven needs to get a job there, and he needs to do it fast. He isn't quite sure why he knows that, but he thinks it's important. It's another thing written in ones and zeros, so he simply accepts it as fact.
Though, as he stares at himself in the mirror, he finds that he can't recognize his own face. He runs a hand through his hair– a bit greasy, but he can't be wasting shampoo, and he can go half a week and still look fine– and it feels… foreign. Staring himself in the eyes sparks something he doesn't know. If he looks hard enough, he thinks he can see gentle, shimmering gold near his pupils, which wasn't there just last night, or an odd red light shining off the mirror and following his eyes. ( the eyes are the windows to the soul, they say. or something along those lines )
Even just the acne that he idly scratches at before smacking his hands into the countertop, or the little start of stubble, or the unevenness of his eyelids, or the small details like that, feel somehow so strange to see in the mirror. ( it's supposed to be plastic. he's meant to look in the mirror through cameras in a dial and see scuffed red plastic, like that rotary phone that sits on the coffee table )
But he isn't, is he? No, no, that's insane. He's not supposed to–
He suddenly feels sick as his head spins and his stomach twists, burning red and gold taking over his vision as he holds himself up against the counter, swallowing down bile and coughing. Got it, don't question the not-memories, just ignore how his face isn't his. At least it's not trying to convince him he's a girl.
Taking deep, heavy breaths, he tries to calm himself down, opening his eyes and stumbling back, a hand shooting to his face and wiping away inky black tears. They're not a hallucination, horribly, terrifyingly real. He turns on the sink to splash water on his face, scrubbing at the black tears and watching the tinted water drain. Gods, what happened to him overnight? His head is full of things that never happened concealed with green code and his tears are black and his eyes glow for fucks sake.
But he can't cry, because he isn't sure if those odd tears will stain the sink, or even worse, his face. He can't have Jake noticing. absolutely not. For some reason, he'd woken at exactly 6am today, not a second before or after, so at least his boyfriend wasn't awake yet, because Steven really does not know how to explain anything to him.
Sighing, he cups a more water in his hands, taking a deep breath and trying to not get it directly under his nose before scrubbing at his face, ignoring the odd urge to stick a hand in his mouth out of… what, curiosity? He knows what teeth are, brain, shut it.
Tiredly, he walks out of the bathroom, deciding that he's just going to go join his boyfriend in bed and try to get back to sleep. Stretching, he carefully slips under the covers and buries his face in his pillow, not particularly complaining when he feels an arm lazily draped over his back, the other tiredly pulling themself closer and burying their face in his shoulder.
He sighs heavily, getting an annoyed mumble out of Jake and wrapping his arms around it as well, hugging it closer to his chest and trying to ignore the little whispery voice in the back of his mind, the odd part that feels so curious about this new feeling. His head tells him he hasn't had human contact in what must be decades, but his head is telling him a lot of odd things this morning.
Speaking of, maybe he can parse through a few. First off, his head is supposed to look like this, and he really shouldn't feel strange about it. Sure, his eyes aren't supposed to glow, and that gold shimmer is certainly new, not to mention the black tears, but he sure as hell isn't supposed to have a phone for a head.
( yes you are, yes you are, you have for– ) Shut it! What the fuck! He most certainly is not! Gods, he's too young to have gone insane, he doesn't need a voice in his head yet. Maybe trying to sort through the weird not-memories is a bad idea. It's just making him feel slightly sick and giving him a headache.
Oh, and apparently it woke Jake. He mutters something incomprehensible, slitting open his eyes before closing them again. Steven brushes his fingers through the man's black hair, dyed a faded purple at the ends. They've been meaning to re-dye it soon, and Jake had been thinking of maybe just brown.
“Th’fuck are you up for…” Jake mumbles, wrapping their arms around Stevens shoulders and burying their face in his neck.
( because it's in his code. )
“No idea, why weren't you?” He jokes lightly, getting an annoyed groan from the other, who finally blinks open its eyes in order to glare at him.
“y’re th’ worst…” He grumbles, mumbling something more that Steven can't quite hear and rolling over to sit up on the edge of the bed and sort through the stuff on his side of the table. Steven also stands up again, sighing heavily. Today is Saturday, so Jake is going to jump over to stay at his girlfriend's house for the week, which…
Which is actually perfect.
Her house is off in the direction of Fredbears, meaning Steven can drop them off and continue that way to see if they're hiring. Nodding to himself, he stretches and makes his way to the little ‘living room’, checking the note beside the phone and dialing Lily’s number.
It takes a moment, but she picks up, muttering a tired greeting, and Steven remembers most people wouldn't be up right now– he wouldn't be up right now if it weren't for the not-memories and the code.
“Morning, Lily! Uh, I'm going to drop off Jake at your place today, so don't worry about meeting up anywhere. I've got to head down your way anyways, have a place I want to see.” The person on the other end is silent for a moment, before sighing.
“Dont tell me you're headed to that Fredbears place too.” She mutters, and Steven laughs nervously, leaning back against the arm of the couch.
“Ah, what's so bad about it? I just want to check out what everyone's been talking about lately.” He lies, and she sighs heavily.
“Just be careful, I think. Place gives me chills. And the owner? That Henry Miller guy. Apparently now that his circus shut down he's moved onto shitty pizzarias.” Steven raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly and kicking his legs.
“Oh? Isn't there also that purple one? William Afton, was it?” He asks. (Dave Miller, they hate being called William, they've told you that)
“Yeah. Dunno what's up with the guy, from what I'd seen of him on my one visit? Weird guy. He's the one in the Springbonnie– speaking of, those animatronics? They can be worn like suits. I heard Afton actually almost had the insides close on him just recently because a kid spilled juice on his foot.” Every time she says him, he gets the odd, immediate urge to correct her. They don't use he/him, he knows that. He isn't sure why, but he does.
“Sounds like a place I want to check out!” He jokes, “Ah, well, either way, I'll drive Jake over your way in an hour or two, I'll buy you something on my way up instead of us all having breakfast together, if you have any preferences.” There's no answer for a moment, and he grins when he hears a reluctant muttering from the other end.
“Get me a loaf of bread from that really good bakery near your apartment. I'll see you in a couple hours, asshole.”
“See you in a bit, Lil.” He waves at nothing, hanging up the call with a quiet click and glancing around the room. Lots to do this morning, lots to do, he can wash his hair a day early– right now, actually– and he'll make himself a proper breakfast for once instead of just snacking over the day or getting something with Lily and Jake.
Nodding to himself, he scribbles down a quick note that he'll make breakfast in a bit, before rushing off back over to the bathroom to take a quick shower. He ignores the asymmetrical scars he didn't have before once he notices them despite how they cover his entire body, or the particularly bad one in a ring around the middle of his right bicep. It's unnerving, but if he doesn't acknowledge it, it's slightly more bearable.
Now that he's realized he has that scar, it seems like his body remembered something, and his arm from the ring down is almost completely numb. He frowns down at it once he's dried himself off, lightly pinching it and getting nothing from it but a little bit of pressure. Hitting it against the counter yields the same results, and he puts his other hand on his hip, tapping his foot against the ground with the numb arm extended in front of him.
Odd. And annoying. With a heavy sigh, he gets dressed again and goes to dig through his rather sad little collection of clothes, searching for singing at least halfway presentable. A deep red tie stands out to him, despite having not worn the thing since his graduation, and he experimentally ties it around the sweater he's got on. Once it's on he doesn't want to take it off, and it looks fine, he just would much rather not be wearing something he's slept in off he plans to get a job.
( they'll accept him either way. not many people want to work for the ex-ringleader and his little freak.)
Ah, well, he might as well look nice. He'll just wear the sweater over that one collared shirt he has with the nice material and some random black pants. Should be just fine, he gets the feeling the place is a bit sleazy and desperate.
He, personally, would hire himself. He's also a bit biased, but this outfit is cute as hell and he will proudly say that about himself. Adjusting his glasses, he also goes to dig through the little box on his bedside, pulling out a few rings and a necklace he really likes. Sure, he doesn't really like the way that he got any of his jewelry, or the memories associated, but it's also shiny and looks nice with his glasses.
“What’re you dressing up for? Got somewhere to be?” Jake teases, rather suddenly appearing behind him. Doing his best to ignore the heat that rises to his face, he turns around, idly messing with one of his rings.
“Gonna go look at a job after I drop you off at Lily's, just wanna make a good impression.” He mumbles. Jake makes a surprised noise before pulling Steven closer and adjusting his tie, momentarily pulling him in for a small kiss before backing off and smiling. He smiles back, leaning in for a quick side hug before turning to grab another few old items– mostly his old red handkerchief he wore often while working as a mechanic. He was really feeling a red and golden theme today.
“Do you think I look nice? My hair is still all damp and I'm in that weird stage of not quite not having a beard but also sure as hell not having one.” He rambles, running his hands through his hair to part it and fluff it up a bit so it'll be that nice texture when it dries. Jake laughs behind him, taking a good moment to answer.
“Of course you look good, love. Your hair will be dry by the time you get there and your stubble looks fine. Plus, all your jewelry and that tie really match your eyes, oddly enough.” Oh, huh, it kind of does, doesn't it? The gold certainly does help with the shimmer, and the tie is the same colour as his normal eyes. He smiles, standing a bit taller and fluffing his hair one last time with a nod to himself.
Now just to make breakfast, eat, it's been half an hour so as soon as his hair is dry and they're both done eating they can go out, should probably try and leave as early as possible to get to the bakery as soon as it opens. Fredbears opens at… (twelve.) at twelve, yes. So he'll have a bit of extra time most likely to check for any hitting posters and if he doesn't see any he can drive home.
He heads over to the kitchen, and Jake follows, both of them getting to work despite Steven having said he would make breakfast. It's one of his favourite parts of having Jake with him, having someone to make breakfast with– hell, even just making breakfast, considering he tends to skip it, so having someone to make it for is nice.
It feels like breakfast passes all too quickly, too caught up in his mind and in how strangely foreign eating feels. An odd, slightly unpleasant feeling, one that urged him to take larger bites than he typically would and savour not the taste but the feeling of it. Jake is nice enough not to ask, which Steven is endlessly thankful for, completely unsure if he'd be able to answer.
And yet he finds his hands empty far too fast. He would probably get sick if he ate anymore, his body just not used to it, but he still misses the feeling.
Sighing, he leans back into the couch, grumbling to himself and pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes, tiredly checking his mental clock. Probably around half an hour until they should head out, assuming his hair is dry by then. If not he can always roll down the windows to try and speed up the process and just hope that it's dry by the time he's done the 45 minute drive.
He just needs to wait. He can't stay still though, it feels wrong, he feels wrong. Everything in his body is far, far too still and far too cold and all too wrong.
Ignoring the look from his boyfriend, he stands up and begins to pace, messing with his tie and his hair and running his hands over the scars he didn't have yesterday that are hidden beneath his sleeves. His arm is numb, and he keeps grabbing at it to remind himself it's there, interlocking his fingers and tracing the too-straight scars.
He needs to be moving. He also needs to be out of here, the apartment suddenly feels too small, too cramped, there isn't space to move, he's too far from everything important and he needs to be there now or everything is going to go wrong and spiral out of his control and–
He feels a hand on his shoulder, snapping his head around to stare at Jake and finally realizing how quick his breath has become, or how his nails are digging into his numb arm, or the slightly scared look on his boyfriend's face and how seeing that makes his heart sink and his stomach twist. He's not– people aren't supposed to be scared of him, his own boyfriend isn't supposed to be scared of him, he– fuck, no, no, he can feel tears edging at his eyes, no, he can't, he can't.
He pulls himself away from Jake, seeing the other speak but not quite hearing it. He's so much better at containing this usually, why now? Why is it now that those carefully shelved jars have to fall from their spots and shatter, now that he can't afford to cry in front of Jake. He needs to get away, he needs to do many damn things at once, he needs to just– just– fuck, what does he need to do?
He locks the bathroom door. He can't remember walking in, but he knows that he needs to be alone. He needs to get control of himself, he's not fucking weak enough to lose himself like this. The black that drips down his cheeks would suggest otherwise, but that's just because he wasn't ready. He can gather himself, he can be fixed, he d oes n't ne e d to be sc r apped he can be fixed, please, please–
Fuck, what? What's he thinking? Scrapped? He isn't a machine to just be turned to scrap and have his parts reused. He scrubs at his eyes, letting his glasses fall to the floor and just trying to calm himself down despite the invasive want and want and need to get out, to apologize, to stay close to Jake but to get further away to not scare him again, to run, to stay still and finally just confront something, to hide out in this stupid room until he dies and then he won't have to deal with these disgusting conflicting thoughts and the horrible shaking that had suddenly made his emotions so unstable.
The door behind him starts to click, and he silently swears to himself, having forgotten Jake knows how to pick locks. Steven tries to slow his breathing, to wipe the inky black tears away, to look normal and not like whatever thing he became overnight. Why does he feel so disgusting? Why, why, for the love of gods, can he not just have a decent fucking week? Why–
The door opens.
Steven frantically covers his face with a towel, wrapping it around his hands as well and hoping none of the black got on his sleeves. He listens to the other kneel down in front of him, fuzzy words making their way to his ears and the quiet sound of something being put down. He realizes too late that Jake grabbed his arm, his numb arm, only noticing when he starts to pull it away from his face and he has to fight to pull it back.
“I… ..nno, L…. he isn.. ..pon..ng.” No, no, does– does he have the phone? Fuck, no, if Lilys on the other end she won't possibly let him drive to her, if anywhere. He said he would drive Jake to her, he can't just go back on that.
“St..en?” His hand is gently pulled away again, and he drags it back to his face, trying to ignore how his heart pauses when he even thinks of showing the mess he's become.
“...ld you c… ..er? Y…. .eah, tha.. you.” No, he can't let Lily see him like this, he can't, he's a fucking mess and probably hardly looks human if he pulls the towel away, with his weird glowing eyes and black tears and the scars that don't belong to him and he's spiralling and he can't do that because how is he supposed to control anything if he can't even control himself?
…The room is starting to feel too small again. There isn't enough space, there's too few ways to go, he can't move here, not really. He's trapped, the room is too damn small. He isn't moving enough because there isn't enough space to move. Another hand grabs him and he needs it off, needs it gone.
“S..ven, why are y..r hands stained..?” Fuck, did he–? He can't check, but just in case he moves his numb arm until he can feel it against his side, but he can't move it and he can't tell why and Jake probably grabbed it and this is so, so damn wrong.
“Let go. Please.” He manages to mutter, hating the way his voice feels wrong and how it tastes like static on the back of his tongue. He doesn't feel the other pull away, but he can move his hand again, and he immediately pulls it back to his face to readjust the cloth, keeping his eyes and cheeks covered. He needs to fix himself before he can let anyone see his face.
He still needs to go to Fredbears. He needs to go to Fredbears. He can't leave Dave alone– why? He doesn't even know Dave, his– their?– name is William, why…
Fuck, he's tired of asking why. Everything is so damn confusing and wrong and he isn't himself and this all happened overnight and maybe he should just stop thinking for a bit.
He hears the door shut. Had Jake tried to talk to him? Or had he just left? Steven can't tell, his mind feels fuzzy. But he needs to get cleaned up, he needs to silence the incessant whispering that he needs to be at Fredbears. He needs to do a lot of things, actually, but that one is the most important.
He stops asking why.
Slowly, he calms his still erratic breathing, pulling his hands away from his face and squinting while his eyes adjust to the light. Good hand grabs the edge of the counter, and the rest of him follows it up. He looks like a fucking mess, his eyes red and his face stained with now-dry tears. Water, he needs– he needs to wash his face. And his hands. His shirt is miraculously clean, though he can't find himself complaining about it. He grabs his glasses that Jake had apparently put on the counter, putting them on and getting a better look in the mirror.
…Gods, that isn't his face staring back at him. That isn't him. He doesn't look like that, not normally. He looks too proper, too messy, too… too inhuman.
But it has to be him. He's the one looking in the mirror, he can feel the dried black tears and the scar around half his neck and those have to be his eyes because it's not like most people have whatever mutation gave him red eyes.
But, really, looking in the mirror?
Steven does not know who he is.