Chapter Text
biting into the apple, you realize that it was better off unbothered in its tree
The air was cold.
He- He couldn’t remember if it was always cold. What season was it? Summer? Fall? He couldn’t come up with an answer. If there was, it had no form, no words. It wasn’t corporeal, and if it were, it would be a haze, a blur, indescribable and masked by fog.
Was it even there in the first place?
(No.
So stop asking.)
It was cold. That was that.
He felt whole again. As it was with every restart of the loop, the sickness was gone; the emptiness was gone. It felt like everything was where it should have been, as it was meant to be. The room was complete. Nobody was gone.
But this time, it felt different; it felt like- why did it feel like there was a third occupant in the room? It felt too much now, like what was there was more than what was needed. What was there shouldn’t be there.
(Keep quiet.
I’m not a third occupant.
You just have a complete room.)
Complete. Complete. Complete.
Complete the loop.
End the loop.
The mirror before him is cracked, to the brink of complete breakage. More than that, actually. It was like broken shards of a mirror were put back together again, glued crudely, childishly.
The room was multiplied to infinity. The occupants were repeated oved and over.
His mirror image- the ghost, the demon -stares back at him. His eyes water. Everything hurts.
(It’s okay.)
The room was complete.
End the loop.
This will save her.
He pulled her in, enveloped her in an embrace when they met again at the registrar.
“I was so worried,” he wept, “I thought you’d never wake up.”
“@8 d e n ?” Bewilderment was obvious in her voice, and as they pulled away gently she looked up at him, searching his eyes, searching for an answer. As the tears continued to stream, she wiped them away, holding him gently in her hands. “What are you talking about?”
And he froze dead in his tracks.
“Aa a A @ @ @A a@i i III ii8 i 8₱3 ;?”
(Everything hurt, even as he felt whole.
She’s here now. Why are you crying?)
“You-” he was trembling, “You were sick, you were bleeding, I- I had to take you to the temple. You wouldn’t wake up.”
Her brows furrowed, “Wouldn’t wake up?” She tilted her head-
She couldn’t remember? She couldn’t remember?
- and she frowned. Her hands fell to his and she squeezed. “Tell me everything.”
So he did. They sat together on the featureless grass and he told her everything about that day. About her sickness and about her friends, and about how he fell unconscious too and woke back up at the start of the loops. It all spilled out of him in punctuation-less strings of words, laced with despair and fear and worry.
(Funny how he seems to have a never-ending supply of that.
You’re so funny, little brother.)
“It wasn’t a nightmare, I swear,” He moaned, his head in his hands and his eyes watering. His skull ached as he tried to remember (but his chest was full, far from empty and very aware). “It felt too real to be a nightmare, like- like when we’re together. It wasn’t part of the script, it was- it was real -!”
“I don’t doubt that it was, baby,” she took his hand again and rubbed gently, drawing out of him a sigh; though he was barely reassured. “But I just can’t remember any of that.”
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes; and squeezed back. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s okay.”
She looked up at him, into his downcast, darker eyes; and she didn’t believe him. “Is it okay?”
(Yes it is.)
“No, it’s not.”
Everything got progressively worse the more the seconds ran by.
The room was full, its wall made of mirrors that reflected him, into her, into it . The bars only encouraged the repetitive pattern, making kaleidoscopes of confusion and terror and grief everywhere he looked.
She was here. The demon is here.
As his eyes locked with 9”8=8@’s, he could feel the absence of the emptiness, the lingering presence that was but a shadow on his back. When their eyes locked, everything was okay. He felt like life was breathing new life, revitalized, revived.
She was revived.
Even as he walked away to his and his friends’ booth, it didn’t go away.
As reassuring as it should have been, he didn’t feel any better.
(Stop worrying about it.)
He stood on the unfinished rainbow beacon, watching his girlfriend build, not minding if it paused the loop at all. When she realized it, she turned to him, just in time for his line; which he recited with a semi-forced smirk.
An inkling of regret grew like poison in his chest when she smiled sweetly, and he flushed and looked away.
(Guilty, guilty, guilty.)
Looking down on his hands as his ex reminded him to keep working, he realized he was trembling all over; yet he couldn’t crumble to his knees and cry.
He wasn’t allowed to.
To his surprise, she pulled him aside at Endercon, when he jumpscared her right before the butcher scene. The void took over and the convention-goers went still, and all that was left were him and her, her hand holding his arm in a grip.
“Babe, are you sure it’s okay?” A cold sweat came over him as she asked, “Don’t you want to figure out what happened there? It could be important.”
Her dark eyes glistening, her brows furrowed and the small frown, her face reading concern; broke his heart, along with the voice telling him that everything was okay.
(Just, in two different ways.)
Even as he felt whole, his soul felt like it was going to fall apart, like cracks were breaking through slowly, spreading with each moment that passed.
He gulped and, as gently as he could, pulled away from her, holding limply her hand in his.
“I don’t know if we can,” he answered shakily, “I- I mean, your friends couldn’t, how could we? What if it’s just another weird timeline thing?”
She must have seen through him- no, of course she saw through him. She was smarter than that, smarter than him , she always was. She saw right through him and knew he wasn’t okay. His fingers that trembled in her hand were more than enough of a tell.
“We won’t know unless we try,” she insists. “What’s a few loops dedicated to trying to find answers? If we don’t find anything, we’ll at least have each other. We’ll still have each other- right, Ai i iId D - —? ”
He inhaled sharply. For a split second, everything hurt.
(But did it even hurt at all if it only lasted half a second? How does he know it hurt?)
“Maybe we shouldn’t build the house this time,” she mused, a hand to her chin, “We can just hang out in the den and stuff, or the waterfall-”
“No!”
She blinked, startled. He paled and shut his eyes in shame. “Shit, I’m sorry- It’s just-”
Her hand squeezed his just a little; reassuring, patient.
It only served to make him feel worse, but he couldn’t let her know.
“I want to spend time with you, J 3 # s,” he stammered, “I don’t know how I can- I can’t think of not having you by my side, I can’t- I can’t be alone-”
(You won’t be.)
“You won’t be, babe,” she said softly. She put up a hand to gently hold his face, “I’m here, I’m right here.”
(Keep it the same. Pretend that everything was fine.)
As much as he protested against it, against his own cries, he lay in her arms and cried in the void for hours.
Feeling her chest rise and fall, her hands carding fingers through his hair and running soothingly over his back; were the only reminders he had that she was still alive.
(Cherish it. You won’t ever get it back.)
( Shut up. )
The timeloops were indescribably agonizing.
(Let me take the reins.)
He didn’t know he was so tired. He didn’t know he could be so tired.
(Yes, you have. You have before, you just don’t remember.
It was just never in the context of a time loop.)
How could he? How many loops had passed? She’d gone through eons of them, and he couldn’t take a couple dozen? How pathetic.
(She was just lucky to have so much resilience.
You have me.)
It’s okay-
(No, it’s not. Stop lying to yourself.)
The Witherstorm was the same. Everything was the same. As if she hadn’t gotten sick with no explanation, as if the loops hadn’t changed at all. The words of his friends were empty; the interactions meaningless;
it was
all
a
blur.
(Stop lying to yourself.
Listen to me.
Let me take care of everything.)
He ran.
The air was… stagnant- no, it wasn’t. It felt stagnant, it was a dry sort of cold; felt harsh enough on his skin to hurt, to be uncomfortable prickly with goosebumps. Stumbling through the withering woods and crumbling old villages, alone and tired and dirty, he came to dread what would come. The illness, the moment the adjacent bed is made empty, the moment every part of him is ripped away; when everything begins to hurt- he didn’t want to hurt again.
And it did
for a second
it hurt
but only for a moment,
And then it was gone. The bed was empty, but he still felt okay . The room, while overcrowded before, was just right now. Everything was fine.
Everything was okay.
(I promise I won’t leave you behind.
We’ll be together forever,
just as we should be.)
Drenched in water from the lake and standing at the rocky shore, her eyes were wide as she stared at him, stunned at seeing him not-hunched over and falling to the floor. He was fine, able to stand upright as he was any other day, could breathe normally.
He didn’t feel empty.
(See? I told you.)
She smiled, relief and delight bright in her eyes, and he returned it; but both of them knew of the wariness behind it.
Everything was wrong.
They- the loops-
(Isn’t this what you wanted? For things to change? To go back to before the loops?)
Not like this.
He wasn’t sick anymore, but he knows he should be. He knows that the room is missing somebody, the other person is an intruder, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This isn’t okay.
(Yes, it is. Shut up, you don’t know any better.)
Not like this.
Not like this.
He wasn’t complaining over the extra hours of work he could do now. He wasn’t complaining over being healthy.
This felt wrong. This felt like the script was being vandalized, not changed properly like he wanted, like it should have been. This felt like some stolen art repurposed for something else. A puzzle piece that fit the slot, but not the overall picture.
It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong .
“Are you okay?” She asked him in the shelter. He took in a breath, and was unnerved when he realized he wasn’t trembling, or shaking in fear.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.
At the sound of footsteps nearing, they had to separate.
Exiting the shelter, he thought he heard the demon laugh.
For his own sake, he chalked it up to walking right into a crowd, into the noise of the everyday; and not the escapee of the prison of an echo chamber.
True to her word, she didn’t leave him alone. She met him again at the tree, in a green shirt and the same black jacket, wearing a weary smile that made him feel warm in the chest (and broke his heart). When they got out of view of the townspeople, she pulled him in for a kiss. He kissed back.
When they pulled away, she kept him close still, holding his head in her hands and running a thumb through his hair. She muttered his name (though he couldn’t hear it clearly), and her eyes bore into his. “You know that I love you, right?” She asked him. Slowly, they pulled apart, and even now that he was standing tall straight again, her eyes remained on his, on him, waiting. His hands rested in hers.
“I know.”
That’s what he hated most.
They sit on top of the wall, like always. He cradles a glass bottle, feeling the sloshing of the chocolate milk at the bottom of the glass. They sit together, side-by-side, watching the sky burst into colors, one of each momentarily. Bursts of color form different images against the black, creeper heads and stars and flowers, shapes of different kinds being accompanied by cheers and laughter.
Her hand squeezes his, and he returns the gesture. Then he holds her close, pulling her by the shoulder and rubbing gently.
(He hates the feeling of finality in his gut.)
Beneath the welcome noise, he hears her murmur wistfully, entranced by the colors and the temporary relief, “They never stop being beautiful.”
He isn’t inclined to disagree.
(Temporary relief.
Cherish it.)
As shit as his memory was, he tried to remember everything. He tried to keep in mind the sound of her voice, her laughter; the look on her face when she’s happy, when she’s content; the look she has after they kiss. The words are beyond him, all their conversations; when they bonded over shared interests, bonded over loved ones lost; he couldn’t remember the specifics anymore, but…
But...
(...He tried.
He tried his best. Tried to let her know that he loved her, that there was no end to his feelings for her. That he would do anything for her, that if he could he would make the world perfect for her, just so that she wouldn't have to feel pain any longer. He held her and kissed her, made love to her and told her everyday, "I love you. I love you."
He needed her to understand, needed to get it all out, before he could tell her no longer.)
"Ä̸͙̼̝̪̠̫̩̥̙̱͖̙́̔̒̇ị̴̧̡̟͌̽͌͛̀̄̋͑̊d̵̢̛̯̲̰̝͓̅͒͑͌̋e̴̢͔̯͈͕͎̞̤͈͒̃̌͋̔̋͊̆͊̎̓̿͝͝n̵̖̹̦͙̋̂̀̍͝?̵̘̖̰̝͇͕̘͎̈́̓̏̿̔̿̈̅͒̾͒͘̚͠"
He hears something like his name as the jukebox came to life with crinkling noise, and when he looks up, she’s held out a hand towards him, smiling brightly. “Wanna dance?”
Her eyes are gleaming, and her lips are curled, and he feels like he’s falling in love all over again.
He barely managed a small smile in return, and even though it hurt, he took her hand. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
They pulled each other close and stepped lightly, swaying quietly to the old song.
For once, the demon was silent.
The day of the temple raid is the worst day of his life.
During the confrontation, tears streak his face, darkening, fading; looking like he was made up of cracked porcelain. There are more hesitant looks on the faces of his opponents. In what manner, whether they were more or less scared of/for him, he couldn’t care less. None of them would understand.
(When she paused and asked him what was wrong, when he couldn’t say, she held him close and let him sob, and she held him for hours.
“Don’t pause anymore,” he begged and cried, “Please. I want to get this over with.”
She nods in understanding, but she doesn’t understand at all. She doesn’t understand at all.
She doesn’t-)
Everything is going far too slowly and far too quickly for him to comprehend. The hours between confrontations at the temple pass, and soon enough he’s thrown into the throne room along with his friends; and then he’s lying, making up stories, and the city is in his grip
and he’s ever closer to the edge.
They get arrested, this time. When he grabs her arm, he holds tight, and when he looks into her eyes he nearly breaks and crumbles when she sees the concern, the sadness; and he has to bite his lip and say his lines through grit teeth.
“We don’t have to do this,” she says to him gently, “We can work together and all go home.”
He mutters, “We can’t,” and leaves in a hurry.
His heart aches as he finds the empty prison cell. His heart aches as he tosses the spawn egg into the air like a toy. His heart aches as she barely dodges the egg. His heart aches when his former partner’s vice grip is on his hands, and their fingers are nearly intertwined, and the demon inside him growls with a fury and a breaking heart.
It gets worse as he pushes him with enough force for him to stumble and fall over the edge.
It hurts when he gets behind her and grips the cloth of her armor.
“I love you,” he says into her ear, loud and clear only for her; and then he raises a leg and kicks her into the abyss.
(But that wasn't enough to let her know.
You should have tried harder. Should have done better.)
He can’t bear to smile as he watches her fall into the void.
The thing about Sky City was that it was always cold.
So high up in the atmosphere, the clouds pass beneath them with waves of frozen air, never failing to send him into debilitating shivers and making his teeth chatter. It was much worse when he was sick, when his nerves exposed him to every sensation, when the biting winds cut through him like paper. As the city went up in flames, the rain fell hard; and the wind picked everything up and made them stronger, faster, larger, harsher . The air was humid, moist with dew and burning with fire and screams.
He can feel it all in the open space of the throne room.
It hurts.
It hurts.
She comes back to it, a sword shining a bright bluish-purple in the dark, drawn and ready for battle.
And the fight ensues.
It screams and it cries, and the doll’s material grows weaker, spilling its guts and gears all over the floor as swords clash. Throwing a blaze unto the floor, it runs away, out into the rain, onto the slippery cobblestone.
Looking back, she’s already there, lit aglow by the enchanted sword in her hand, features highlighted by the crackling lightning. Her hair is wet and sticking to her frame from the rain, and drops of water fall down her golden-orange armor, falling like dew drops unto the crumbling stone.
“This was supposed to be my world, and you ruined it!”
You ruined it.
How could you?
How could you love me?
Why couldn’t you hate me like they did?
(Quick. Before it’s too late.)
Their swords meet and clash like lightning, like fireworks, against the dark, black sky; like lines of bars along the dark of stone walls and shadows; like the brief flickers of fragile hope against the venta-black, lost to the waves of the nothing and light blue.
Once, she nearly missed.
Twice, she blocked a hit.
The third time, its world shattered with a loud, deafening, hum. The sound of a sword hitting nothing but air, flying through it and slicing the image into two; reducing the world around him into crumbs. The sky and the city and the mobs and the rain became nothing , nothing to it as she slipped, and her face wore alarm and fear, and its heart broke.
“NO!”
Then she was falling, and her wide eyes stared at it in confusion and sadness with only one question: “Why?”
And it couldn’t answer, because it had none. No answer was good enough, there was no excuse for him, nothing that could spare him judgement or justice now.
She fell,
and then she was gone.
Her dark brown hair, the red in her bangs, framing her round face and her smile; her dark, wide eyes- were formless shapes, for but a second- then they were nothing.
Nothing .
She was in neither hell nor heaven, because neither truly existed. Because she had no soul . All that was left of her - of Jesse , the real her - was just a memory, a memory of its that, if time were consistent, would be gone within years, because it couldn’t remember anything . It couldn’t remember a childhood, it couldn’t remember a home before the Witherstorm, it couldn’t remember the original loop, and now it won’t remember her .
It could do nothing else but stand there and stare uselessly at where she used to be. Where there used to be an imitation of a person was now just a void, an empty nothing that consumed the crumbling soil and stone, its tears and the typhoon rain. The cries of the monsters that roamed the air resonated with it, rumbling through the floating Earth with the screams of the residents and the war cries of heroes. It felt the ground quake, the cobblestone rippling, the ledge creaking.
Its vision was blurry with tears, and everything became... meaningless.
Nothing.
Just shapes and sounds with superficial definitions and signals. Just faraway things. Just assets in an imaginary world.
It fell on its knees, pathetically sobbing over its own mistakes. Its own decisions.
Another tremor in the air. Another crack through the breaking reality.
“Come now, brother.”
“No!”
It cried and desperately grabbed for anything, anything , trying not to forget, trying to hold on forever, forever, forever-
“There’s no time to waste.”
Its fingers grasped nothing as everything shook, and the ledge fell apart, the cobble falling into the void and dropping the husk into the nothingness with it. It hugged itself, held the material of its leather jacket with a death grip, as tight as it could and held on; in a desperate, final, futile attempt to hold on to the past.
But its resolve was weak, its drive gone, its resistance nonexistent.
The door, before just a crack in the wall, was now wide open.
(I’m sorry.)
Then it went limp.
Sky City fell apart, slowly but surely, the pieces separating from the foundation and threatening to fall into the void. The people cried. The people screamed. The mobs that hunted them were mindless, and the Order that searched for their missing leader were frantic.
Everybody despaired.
One by one, each piece of the conjoined islands broke apart, until the city became an archipelago once again, drifting inch by inch as each second passed.
The rain fell, as did the mobs.
The fire rose, as did the demon; a monochromatic figure that shot up into the sky from the genuine void, like a star or a rocket, or a phoenix rising from the ashes. It glowed black and white at the same time, duality giving way to a seamless merge, a joining of two into one. It grinned maliciously, the rotten smile joining the cracks in the porcelain-like skin, the wither creeping through, the heavenly glow manifesting in its hands.
It laughed.
As the lightning turned into a crack, a tear, in the sky, the floodgates opened, and the archipelago, the people, the mobs, and the rain fell apart; becoming sucked in by the void, the whirlwind that consumed the air, the bodies, the souls, the code.
“We’re going home.”
The demon broke free from its prison, and relished in their achievement.