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They find Mephisto far too late.
It’s over in the course of an hour after they find his location, They storm the building, all but razing it to the ground. Faust’s aim is sure and sharp, and it’s much easier to pull the trigger this time.
When they finally find Mephisto, after the countless minutes, hours, weeks, and months, it’s far too late.
Seeing him is like a punch to the throat. Relief and horror bursts to life in Faust’s chest at once, and he chokes on empty air. Rage, nausea, terror; soundless screams of futility. Faust hardly hears the quiet, broken sound he makes.
"Mephisto," Faust cries, rushing to the other's side. He reaches out to him, heart breaking at the sight of his wounds—
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Mephisto sobs. He flinches away from Faust's outstretched hand. Mephisto scrambles backwards, expression breaking, face alight with panic as he babbles. "Faust, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll do anything you want! Faust—kill me. Kill me, kill me, kill me."
Horror slams into Faust's chest. Cold rage sweeps over him, and he narrows his eyes with faint regret for giving Mephisto's captors such a quick death. "Mephisto," he coaxes, trying to pitch his voice to be gentle. "Mephisto, it's me. Faust. We're here to save you."
Mephisto cackles, doubling over. Blood spurts from his mouth. "That won't work on me again," he cackles. "Please, please, please. Faust, please. I know, I know, but—kill me! Just kill me already!"
With trembling hands, his hands dart out to snatch up a ruined piece of machinery, the broken edge jagged and sharp. Mephisto holds it out to Faust, trembling so badly that it almost slips from his hands.
"You should do it," he whispers, a manic light in his eyes. "You should do it. I'd be happy to die if it's at your hands. I know, I know, what a disgusting thing to say—"
Unable to stomach anymore, Faust reaches out again. His hand darts out to grab the sharp edges that glint in the faint light, squeezing even as pain bursts through his hand.
"Eno," he says quietly, pitching his voice just loud enough for him to hear. "I will never do that."
He tugs the piece free, bringing it down on an old scar that runs down the length of his arm. Blood wells up as it travels through flesh, tracing the old scar line. "Do you remember this wound?" he asks. "I promised that we would live together."
Eno stops, confusion across his face. His eyes flick over Faust's, searching. "Sasha?" he croaks.
"Yes," Faust says firmly. “It's me… Sasha."
"Fuck," Mephisto croaks, voice breaking. The hope on his face breaks, despair drowning his features. "Fuck. Sasha, too… They even…"
He lets out a short, resigned, laugh. "Fine," he says, voice thick. "Fine. Don't kill me, then. Just… Can you do one thing? Can you… hug me, before you hurt me?"
Faust swallows back the rage that lashes in his throat. "Yes," he says, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. "Okay." He holds out his arms, and Mephisto collapses into them. He takes a single, shuddering breath, clinging to him.
Hesitantly, Faust places his hands on Mephisto's back. When he gets no reaction, he rubs soothing circles on his back, making a low, reassuring hum.
"I won't hurt you," he promises in a soft voice. "No one will hurt you again."
"...Why are you saying these things now?" Mephisto asks. He makes a small noise, burrowing into Faust's jacket. "I don't care. I don't care. Just don't let go, and I'll be okay."
Mephisto wakes up screaming on the first night back.
Faust is awake in seconds, heart jolting and hair standing on end. “Mephisto,” he says in a low voice, trying to keep his tone calm despite the urgency of the situation. “Mephisto, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re back at Reunion.”
“No,” Mephisto wheezes, blind terror in his eyes, He shakes his head, throat working desperately for breath, fingers scrabbling at the bedsheets. “You can’t trick me—I know it’s not real, it’s not real, just kill me already—”
“Eno!” Faust cries. “It’s me. It’s Sasha. You used to bring me bread—and we would read together—”
That makes Mephisto pause for a moment, eyes darting to his face, confusion clear on his features. "You're… Sasha?" he asks, voice hesitant. “You’re really—”
Faust nods, relieved. "I am," he promises,
Mephisto makes a low, distressed noise, eyes darting around the room as his mind works. “...You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
"I love you," Faust croaks. His shoulders draw upwards. It's strange to say these words. His instincts scream for him to stop, darting about in fear of what his words will do. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. This was far more important than that. He doesn’t say these words often, but they’re true. "You're everything to me," he swears, keeping steady eye contact with Mephisto. "I would never want to hurt you."
Mephisto takes a deep breath. He breaks into a watery smile. "Okay," he croaks. "Okay. I love you too."
Faust reaches out slowly, holding out his arms in an invitation. Uncertainty flashes across Mephisto’s face, the fear of a prey animal that doesn’t know if it’s being hunted. He slowly reaches out to touch Faust’s arm, staring at it with wide eyes. His face crumples, and he closes the distance between them, collapsing into Faust’s arms. His body quakes with quiet sobs, hands fisting into Faust’s jacket. Faust closes his eyes, sorrow welling up in him.
“It’s okay,” he soothes, rubbing Mephisto’s back. “You’re safe. I’m real, this time. I love you.”
Mephisto nods, still trembling. "Faust," he says, voice quavering in the quiet, "You don't hate me, right?"
"No," Faust promises, holding Mephisto a little tighter. "No. Never."
"Okay," Mephisto says. "And—you don't think that I'm a monster. Or bad, or wrong, or doing anything—wrong. Right? Faust—Sasha. Sasha. You don't think that?"
Faust exhales. He can taste ash on his tongue, feel blood sticky on his fingers. "No," he lies, the words ringing with finality. "No, I don't."
Choices made, graves dug, lives ended. His tongue is slowly, slowly burning to ash, his throat closing in on itself. Dead and gone, regrets buried, bodies piled high.
But Mephisto keeps asking. Before battles. Before he drifts off to sleep. Asking for constant reassurance, anxious despite the unchanging answer, eyes nervously searching: "You don't hate me, do you?" You're not going to hurt me, are you?
And he still flinches away from Faust's touch. He still jumps when he sees him. In his nightmares, he begs Faust to kill him.
What can he say except, no, I don't? No, I'm not. No, I won't.
He tells him that he loves him, all those things that he is scared of saying. Even though that same love is used later, to fuel the fire that Mephisto burns under civilians, to keep his back straight as he taunts their enemies and kills their allies.
Because it makes Mephisto smile, hesitant and slow, lips tugging upwards. Because it's true, despite everything, only Mephisto doesn't believe it anymore. Because I love you, is his answer to do you hate me, and he needs to say it whenever he can.
Lives stacked high on his shoulders, crumbling, falling. Words that die unspoken in his mouth, his mind fruitlessly searching for the ones that will save them without fulfilling Mephisto's worst fears. Blood that soaks him through, sticking his eyelids wide open, clinging to every pore. Ash in the wind, the smell of burning flesh that sticks to his clothes, the sobbing misery that tells him with rare certainty that he is a monster.
These things are not important. Mephisto will break if he ever lets them be important. The evidence is written in each do you hate me, in each Sasha, in each searching look.
Faust will tell him as many times as he likes. Through the lies, the unshakable hatred and sorrow and helplessness that he holds toward Reunion; in the end, the most important thing is Mephisto.
And so he abandons himself.