Chapter Text
Let’s take it slow together, Bam had told him, and frustratingly this had been in reference to training—because what else was there—and not certain other pursuits.
Not that Khun had ever alluded toward even the general vicinity of the general vicinity of That Which He Wished Bam Had Been Referring To By That Statement. No, the fact remained that his own mind categorically rejected the idea of—well, he wouldn’t even think it, would he—any variety of charged interaction between them with all the organic violence of white blood cells attacking a foreign object. Still. The idea existed nonetheless, almost stronger for all his denial. Gathering clues to turn to evidence to turn to argument solid enough for even Khun to consider it. A glance here—devoid of context—a touch there—he casually brushes your arm, but in conflict who does he carry in his own?—kind, perhaps suggestive words everywhere—renewed affirmations of friendship, no more—all added up to form the perceived ambiguity of intention requisite for the unconfirmed mutuality of romantic emotion.
Or, put more simply: the—what the fuck.
Because at the end of the day that’s what he settled on: what the hell. When his racing thoughts blurred into a tangled web of confusion, apprehension, and, by far the worst: ache. When he laid awake as time meandered past, dragging him with it to mornings where he’d wake bereft of answers, again and again, and again and again. Frustrated, he’d ask of the Tower: What the hell is Bam thinking? Does he feel like this, too? And why do I, in the first place?
And the Tower would answer back: Everything I am wishes you dead.
Which: fair, and what had he expected of it, really.
Of course, he wasn’t necessarily preoccupied with the subject, either. He wasn’t pining. Khun Aguero Agnis did not pine.
He only sometimes found himself gazing in a way that might be described by onlookers as “wistful”. He only sometimes sighed “dreamily”. But Bam had no sense for subtlety. No nose for nuance, as it were. And so he did not think anything of Khun’s visible elation each and every time they reunited, of Khun’s perfect balance of concern over and unyielding respect for him.
If Bam found out that Khun lived in constant fear of holding him back, would he offer comfort? Would someone endowed with near-godlike powers even understand the sentiment?
And why did Khun ache so, at the prospect that he wouldn’t?
He was lounging on a plush couch, idly browsing the lighthouse when Bam’s sworn enemy walked in. Instantly Khun was on his feet, knife drawn.
“I’m not here for you,” the fake Jue Viole Grace told him in a voice bereft of irritation, panic. A voice Khun might have mistaken for the real Bam, had he not been blessed with intelligence in abundance. Khun studied the glorified piece of software and marveled at its eerie resemblance to the real thing. Whoever, or whatever, had created him had spared no detail, down to the familiar sheen of his hair, the particular pattern of dark flecks in his big, golden eyes…
A breath hitched in Khun’s chest. He straightened, let his weapon hand fall to his side.
“Of course not,” he said on an extended exhale. “Bam is my… is my friend. It’s preposterous to think he’d suddenly appear as my sworn enemy.”
Viole met him with that familiar, infuriatingly impenetrable expression and a silence that offered no further clues as to what he was thinking. If he was thinking. After all, a newborn piece of data programmed solely to track down and eliminate a single person likely wasn’t capable of sentient thought.
“Where is he?” Viole asked. The uncanny lack of body language he displayed left Khun feeling thoroughly unnerved, if only because it was all too easy to recall the period of time where Bam had acted in the same way.
“Isn’t it obvious? Bam isn’t here right now,” he told the clone. “Funny, though. I thought they told us you ‘sworn enemy’ folks had the ability to find us no matter where we are.”
If this bothered Viole he did not show it. He turned as if to leave, and Khun tensed as the intoxicatingly familiar scent of Bam’s shampoo wafted down from the long tresses of hair that billowed from Viole’s high ponytail like a dustcloud. The hyperrealistic qualities the clone embodied threatened to pick him apart at the seams; he could already feel some long-coiled thing beginning to unravel within the pit of his stomach.
Without thinking he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Viole’s wrist (his vision went temporarily slantwise from the sensation of pulse beneath them, of beating heart through digital veins), holding him back.
And the strangest thing.
The strangest thing was that Viole let him.
Jue Viole Grace. FUG Slayer Candidate; pathetic illusion. The last lingering remnant of the life Bam left behind. Stronger in the past than Khun was at this very moment.
He was merely bits and bytes, ones and zeroes. A hollow mirage of Bam’s past memories, past emotions, past fears.
Right?
Yet he permitted Khun to hold him still with the slightest bit of effort.
Whatever could the reason for that be?
“I’m sorry,” Khun said, releasing him. He folded his hands into his pockets and rocked back on the heels of his dress shoes. “It’s easy to forget you’re not the real thing. Just a tired ghost…”
But he hadn’t forgotten. Khun Aguero Agnis would not simply forget something so consequential.
This they both knew.
For a moment they stood frozen in time, Viole with his back turned and his fists clenched at his sides, and Khun a portrait of thinly-concealed mischief.
Then Khun broke the silence. “Well?” he prompted. “He’s not here. Aren’t you going after him?”
From behind Khun watched the exaggerated rise and fall of Viole’s shoulders as he sucked in measured breaths. “You always… chase,” he said, and the words were strained as though he’d returned from a grueling battle, devoid of even the strength necessary for proper speech. Or as if they belonged to someone else, but he was obligated to say them. “But you never ask me to stay.”
Khun felt his eyes grow wide. He gritted his teeth, glared at a mote of dust suspended above the shards of dying light scattered across the floor of Eduan’s residence.
“I won’t take criticism from a phantom. You’re not him,” he scoffed, but couldn’t make himself believe it.
Viole turned to face him, golden eyes half-obscured by dark locks of hair that had grown too long to be considered a fringe.
“You’re right,” he said. He studied the lines of his own palms, curling and uncurling his fingers like a child learning how to fit the contours of their body. “I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re a phantom,” Khun repeated. “Run along after him. I’m not going to ask you to stay.”
“I don’t understand,” Viole said, still mesmerized by his own hands as though he’d just discovered them. “I have to defeat him. That other ‘me’. It’s why I was created. But… part of me also wants to stay here. Just for a little while.”
Khun’s heart skipped a beat. He swallowed the heat rising in his esophagus and tried not to look at Viole straight on, because that seemed to worsen the base, desperate hunger that even now turned his stomach claws. “What, is there a flaw in your code?” he asked, but the question died in his throat.
Viole frowned at that. “That’s impossible,” he said. “I’m a perfect replica… every painful feeling…” Then he looked up sharply, a volatile amalgamation of shock and acceptance masked across his features. “You…” he continued, and his voice continued to shake. “I think—I miss you… I’ve missed you for such a long time. Even when we’re together, I miss—why… does it hurt to say that? I’m not… supposed to… No…”
Something pricked at the corners of Khun’s eyes. He ignored it, refused it. Before him Viole shuddered, dragging his fingers down his cheeks, covering his face.
“What are you talking about?” Khun said. “In any case, this is probably a good thing. For me, I mean. If you’re malfunctioning that means there’s one less obstacle in our way.”
Viole shook his head. “No, I know what I have to do—I can’t ignore my fate. I won’t let anything hold me back, not even—“
He stopped short, searched for answers hidden in the lofted ceilings.
And Khun stepped forward against every instinct that begged him not to. But he could not stand by. He could not stand by while Bam—while someone who resembled Bam—suffered. He crossed over to where Viole stood and, with a shaky breath, pressed the palm of his hand to Viole’s cheek. Viole blinked but did not flinch or move to stop him, merely looked into him with a muted curiosity that stung Khun’s insides and made his ribs feel all bruised.
Khun brushed a finger over the replica’s soft skin (fake), smoothed away the salty damp of a single tear (fake), marveled at the tenderness of his lips (fake), the way the light slept deep within his irises (FAKE). Khun Aguero Agnis did not forget that this man was not Bam in the slightest, could not feel, could not think, had no more agency than a worker bee designed to carry out a single task and then cease to exist, but he could see how it would be easy to slip into a state, not of denial, but of intentional ignorance as to the true nature of the body before him.
For in a sense he had already slipped into that state, because when would he ever allow himself to be this close to the real thing? When had he ever offered Bam comfort beyond a few meager words, encouragement beyond a hoarse shout of his name? Khun Aguero Agnis was not a sentimental man. He did not care much for the theatrics of compassion. He found himself disgusted by blatant displays of affection, platonic or otherwise. Found himself downright repulsed by sappy speeches, by forced optimism, by anything verging on intimacy, emotional or otherwise.
But the warmth of Bam’s—no, of Viole’s, he reminded himself—face beneath his palm felt right. It felt right in a way he had never really experienced. Like the final piece of a puzzle had snapped into place. Like his arduous trek up the Tower’s center had prepared him not to reach Ranker status, and certainly not to rule, but to simply exist beside Bam. To offer him comfort.
Khun closed his eyes and leaned forward so that their foreheads met.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he opened them again. Viole stared at him, all aglow with that same tentative hope.
And when it was clear he had nothing to say, Khun kissed him.
He hadn’t planned on kissing him.
In fact he’d spent the vast majority of his time around Bam actively trying not to.
But his body moved before his brain could protest, broke the failsafes he’d spent years creating, blew a hole straight through the hundreds of layers of walls and fences and locks and vaults he’d carefully constructed to suppress his secret longing, that cavernous, ruinous thing that would eat him alive if he did not keep it properly sedated, and threatened to regardless.
At least he wasn’t kissing Bam.
He was sure this was nothing like kissing Bam.
Kissing Bam would feel wrong. They were friends. Nothing more. Why sully that with the red tape of romantic involvement?
Kissing Bam would feel forced. Something Khun would do because he believed he himself wanted to. Something Bam would do for him even though he knew he himself didn’t.
But kissing Viole.
There was no risk, right? No strings. The near future was sunny with no chance of stilted conversations, awkward silences, sideways glances, forced laughs. The replica would be gone soon anyway. Wiped from existence. Erased like the ghost that he was. And the world would be right again in his absence.
But kissing Viole.
Khun pulled away first to murmur another sorry, but the replica shook his head.
“Khun,” he breathed.
Khun shuddered. “Stay,” he whispered.
“I will stay.”
“Good.”
Under shattered light Khun backed him up against the wall. In a haze he wondered what kind of shoddy coding The Hidden Floor employed to generate a piece of data that would allow itself to be placed in such a compromising position without the slightest bit of protest, but in the moment his overwhelming emotion was namely gratitude, less genuine concern for the integrity of the program.
“I miss you all the time,” Khun mouthed against the bare skin of Viole’s neck. All the unsaid words he’d kept under pressure for so long sensed the hairline crack in his defenses and burst through, sliding off his tongue in a stream of inarticulate expressions of feelings both vague and sinfully specific. Between open-mouthed kisses he whispered to the fake Viole of sleepless nights he’d spent thinking of him (not of him, of Bam), of unspoken fondness and how he cherished every single moment they spent in each other’s presence, how he’d always yearned for intimacy but never been able to admit it to himself, much less to Bam. How when he’d thought Bam dead he’d had to face the climb with drowned lungs and a sadness far too heavy to carry, had to weigh his own mounting emptiness against the need to fulfill Bam’s dying wish. How he’d become something not unlike this false Viole, a sham, a hollow replica of a person he’d once been.
Viole responded by way of soft moans and gentle touches that suggested Khun come closer, impossibly closer. Would Bam sound like that, if Khun touched him like this? That was the thing, wasn’t it? Their voices were indistinguishable. Perfect copies. Sounds with which to augment the already colorful fantasies in which Khun had absolutely never indulged—
Viole’s fingernails dug into Khun’s back, inducing a moan of his own. Khun’s interest in carnal pleasures had always been low, almost to the point of nonexistence; if given the choice, he derived far more enjoyment from intellectual pursuits. He struggled to remember the last time he’d yielded to physical desire, as it was so rare he felt it at all. All he knew for certain was that it had been long before he’d even entered the Tower, and since that time any desire he had experienced had centered around a certain Irregular…
But where the mind hesitated, the body remembered. His greedy hands found their way beneath Viole’s Slayer coat, beneath the hem of his shirt where his taut stomach radiated heat, and this would be how Bam’s body felt, too, wouldn’t it—developed, unapologetic musculature, all the firm warmth of his midriff resting just above sharp hipbones, which in turn rested just above—
Viole let out a sharp whine, and Khun quickly retracted his wandering touch.
“I’m sorry,” Khun sighed for the thousandth time. He leaned back to survey Viole’s face and furrowed his brow when he found the replica sheet-white, staring over Khun’s shoulder at something behind him. Khun whipped around, a defensive arsenal poised and ready to rain down upon whatever unsuspecting intruder dared interrupt them—
But in the mouth of the hall stood Bam, jaw slightly agape, and myriad realizations dawning across his features all at once.
“Bam,” Khun pleaded. He shoved Viole away with all the violence of a child discarding a broken toy and strode down the hall to where Bam looked as though he might scream, cry, or potentially both.
“Khun…” Bam clenched his jaw shut and wrapped his fingers around the wrist of his opposite arm until the knuckles went white. “What are you doing…?”