Chapter Text
The thing lying in bed next to him is not Alexis Ness.
Granted, it does an excellent job of imitating Alexis. With it’s shaggy brown hair fading into dark magenta, innocent doe eyes and every last freckle perfectly splashed across it’s nose. The way it stares up at the moon through the window besides his bed before falling asleep, breath stuttering every once in a while. Dreaming. Eyelids fluttering.
He studies every inch of it’s body he can see, looking for a tell. A flaw. Proof that this isn’t Alexis Ness. He doesn’t know how, or why, but this thing waltzed into his home without his knowledge and has taken Alexis’ place, now masquerading with his face.
He has half a mind to kick it out. One less thing to worry about when he starts searching for the real Alexis. Or maybe he should ask it instead. Surely it should know. Like faeries swapping out babies for changelings.
A sharp ache courses through the back of his neck, spreading to his chest. Maybe he should kill it instead.
The kitchen floor is sticky. He regrets not wearing his house slippers and not mopping the floor in forever. But there are more pressing matters at hand. The knife he pulls from the cutting board is sharp. He tests it against his thumb to be sure.
Walking quietly is a skill best learned when young, in the walls of a broken home. One can master it naturally under those circumstances. It’s do or die. It’s do or die. He stalks up to the sleeping thing, knife hidden behind his back. It doesn’t stir. He lifts his hand-
It’s eyebrows furrow, a soft whine cutting through the still night air. It turns to it’s side, pulling the blankets tighter over it’s shoulders. It begins to snow. Sweat slides down his forehead. He lowers his hand. Goes back to the kitchen and sheathes the knife.
Another day.
He hasn’t been able to look himself in the mirror lately. His previous morning routine didn’t survive the overhaul of his life. He hasn’t taken a full shower in a while, but he isn’t so far gone as to not wash his hands after using the toilet yet. He isn’t enough of a coward not to stand in front of the mirror either.
His hair has grown longer, blue rattails inching towards his upper waist. He should just hack them off. Or get the Thing That Is Not Alexis Ness to do it since it’s here. Might as well make itself useful, be a good copy. Puffy eyes and dark circles beneath, cracked lips, cracked heart, cracked mirror, cracked everything.
The bathroom light flickers above him. A constant hum.
"̵̣̱̫̱̠͇̍M̷̺͔̥͔̫͂i̵̢̨͖͉͈͖̲͆͊̾̏̏̀͊̉̚ͅͅͅc̵̻̲͉̹͆̓̃̐̕͝h̷̤̯̥̭̺̜́́͗̀̐̑͜a̸̞̫̓͑̌͝e̴͙̗̼͙̻̺͓̬͍̐̂̈́̑͜l̸̻͈̋̈!
Stop it.
I̸̜̙̮̦͝t̶͍͐'̵͕̺̻̱̘̊̿̕s̵̛͔̮͈̬͙̠̉̽͒̀͜ ̶̤̬̓̒̀́̓͘͜͠ŏ̶̢̤͕͈̗̍̿k̵̛̮̜̒̂a̴̪͆͋y̸̨̪͖̤͙͋́̎̋͊̋.̴̺̔̑
Stop.
İ̵̛͍̹͉̓̑̌̂̓͑̇̌'̷̢̡͓͓̙̥̊̂̍͜ͅm̸̭̿̐̑̍̂ ̴͖͇͈̺̟̄̾͋͘͜ḩ̵̱̫̪͉̼͊͌̆́͘e̸̜̹̾̈͂̔̏̑ŗ̸̞͔͎͙̻̬̞̗̥̺̐͂́̕͝͝ę̷̣̟̟͉̀͒̾̔̍̉͌̓̒̈́͠ͅ ̵̢̦̘̣͇̠͓̲͙͛f̷̛̫͙̺̹͖͈̟͍͈̈́̾̓o̷͍̻͖̙̤̳̺̿̒ř̸̛̪̻̈́́̌ ̴̧̨͚̰͉̌̈́͊̽̾̀̈̾̚͝y̶̟̮̤̝͉̳͚̼͕̰̖͐̓́̑̂̆̈́̉̍̚ö̶͇͚́̒̌͊̽̾͆̾̕͝͠ű̴̡̙̦͖̬̹̳̭̻͍͍.̴̡̭̀̀̈́͋́̃̀̋̈́̀̈́
Stop it. Stop! Stop!!!
L̶̳̩̠̮̘͚̆ê̶͙̥̗͇̑͗͝ť̵̛͓̤̥̻'̵̦̱͇́̓̀͘š̵̹͐̓̉͝ ̸̙̻͍̏̋̊͜j̴͇͖͇̘̅̑̀͗̋u̷̗̙̭͐̓̎̀̄s̷̞͘t̷̨̹͚̀̏̑-̴̥̯̙͚̋͐͒̌̾͒ͅ ̸̠͓̂̓̋̑͐L̷̛̖̫̲͕͔̽̍̔͜e̷̠̻̗͋̈́͋ͅt̴̨̝̎̕͝'̷̲͉̗̈́͆͂̚͝s̸̞̗̑̾͒̆͝ ̷̢̣̞̻͈̞̚j̵͈̿u̷̼̽̃̄s̸̟̤̹͋͋̂̌̕t̸̢̗̹͇̍̀͋͑͝ ̴͈̺̜͍̫̟͐͗̔̃̂͊g̸̘͎͒̆̾̐͝o̵̜̳̖̘͇̩̿̋ ̶̢̬̹̜̻̓̐́͒̑̈t̸̛͔̥̜̟̘͋̚ò̴̲̭͕̥͊̈́̊̽̓ ̴͍̩̟͕͙̇̂̿̽̓b̸́̐̓́͘͜͝e̴̡͙̦̒͘d̴̨̧̪̼̺͠.̶̖̺̻̦̈́
STOP IT I SAID STOP WHY WON’T YOU LISTEN TO ME -
L̸̢̧̡̥̙̹̻̣̥̰̱͙͔̋̋́͊̉͝e̷͉͔̻̥̲͂̀̆̓̒́̒̈̀͂͂̅̍̂̐x̷̱̞͔̠̝̹̖̻̻̑̎̎͂̅̌̆̑̒͗͝į̵̩̯͍̗̲̞̱̬̪̪̙͇̦̰͈̾̐̀͆͒̈́͠͝?̴̮̭͎̺̜̱̦̳̯̑͜ͅ
He yanks the tap handle to the left with a howl of rage. Boiling hot water fries his synapses. Stinging red hot pain, stinging red hot rage blocking out any unneeded memories. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need painful memories tying him down.
He slams the tap handle down, cutting off the water. The buzzing hum comes back to his senses. His fingers throb. He can feel the thing sitting by the bed like an alert dog anxiously awaiting it’s master. Bile rises to his throat.
He needs to wash his hands again.
You have one voicemail from ISAGI YOICHI: HEY, UH. I KNOW WE’RE NOT EXACTLY THE BEST OF FRIENDS BUT I’M JUST CALLING TO… *huff* CHECK UP ON YOU. NO ONE HAS SEEN OR HEARD FROM YOU IN A WHILE AND WE’RE ALL WORRIED. I KNOW IT’S BEEN VERY HARD FOR YOU. NESS… NO, I DON’T THINK WE’RE CLOSE ENOUGH FOR YOU TO TALK ABOUT IT. I’M PROBABLY THE LAST PERSON YOU WANT TO TALK TO RIGHT NOW. CALL SOMEONE, OKAY? ANYONE FROM THE TEAM SO WE KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. BYE.
Terrible days pass. It is easy to forget that the thing in his house is not Alexis. It is very good at pretending. He would have forgotten on good days if it weren’t for the notebook he keeps in his drawer to remind him. Every flaw and mishap recorded, set in ink and paper.
Alexis smiles all the time, and said smile is always real around Michael Kaiser. Michael makes him happy. Michael makes him happy. M̸̨̢͆͠ì̴̧͓̈́ć̵̜̯͎̱h̵̬͔̄̌̏ȃ̸̹̔́͌͝ȩ̷̨͎̺̳̈́̓̈́͜l̴̲̮͍͗͌ ̴̞̫͖̬̉̐̎̂m̸̛͓̟͓̝͔͌̓̓ȧ̷̭̞̅̓̚̕k̴̲̦͚̰͚͍͛̑͜e̷̤̤̰̮͙̳͋s̴͈̠̈̀̓̇̐̒ ̸̮͔̲͔̉͂̀͒h̴̻̹͍̮͒̊i̷̦̟̠̭̗̳͖̓͑̕͝m̶̞͕̫͔̞͚̰͊̍̋͗ ̴͇͈͙̹͖̈̾̓́̕̚ḣ̷̨͇̻̱̽̑̽͗a̴͔͈̥͑͐́́p̵͚̗̈́̀̐̉͊̂͝p̶̨̤̠̫̩̙͓̃͋͌̑͒̎̚ỹ̸̢̛͚̤̈̅̅̚̚ Sometimes the thing forgets to smile, staring blankly into space as if Michael isn’t there. Sometimes it stares straight at Michael. Past him, as if he’s invisible. Sometimes the thing does smile, but it’s hollow. Old habits. He records every instance, date and time, ink and paper.
Alexis bites his lower lip when he’s upset. The thing does not. He hasn’t seen unharmed lips on Alexis’ face for such a long period of time. Instead it paces. Measured steps along the hallway. Step, step, step. Up and down and up and down and up again. Like clockwork. Like a wind-up toy whose key is always turning. It paces for hours. It only stops when he is nearby. He suspects it could pace for a whole day if he did not interrupt.
Alexis is graceful and flexible. It another universe, he would have made a great dancer. The thing moves in rigid, jerky movements, like a puppet on strings. It does not move the way a living thing would. Smoothly, fluidly, without conscious thought. He watches it reach for a book on a shelf, movement after movement carefully executed like a list of tasks. Reach up, uncurl fingers, take the book, pull it out from the shelf, put hand down. He fills up half a page in his notebook.
But it is a good imitation. On good days, Michael has to remind himself.
Sometimes it comes up to him and hugs him from behind. The way Alexis used to when he was ▇▇▇ here, clinging to Michael all needy, looking for Michael to love him.
It is a rainy night, the thunder rolling and lightning flashing kind. He sees the thing sitting in the armchair by the window, looking at trees outside swaying in the wind, wearing Alexis’ beloved cream cardigan. It is a familiar sight. Nostalgia wraps itself around his neck like a hand. Makes him weak. Makes him go over to the thing and hold it gently, pressing gentle kisses to it’s hair. It is not Alexis Ness, but for tonight he can pretend.
It snuggles up to his chin, the way Alexis would have.
Fantasy.
The knife remains in the cutting block.
Benedict Grim is calling you.
Decline.
Noel Noa is calling you.
Decline.
You have a message from Alexis. Would you like to read it — again?
No.
It is important.
I don’t care.
The thing remains in his house, getting better at emulating Alexis. His acquaintances continue to call him, though their attempts at contacting him have dwindled considerably. He doesn’t leave the house. Groceries and meals are ordered online. Some days he doesn’t order meals at all, rotting away on his bed until the thing gets too hungry and cooks something for the both of them.
He doesn’t do anything. There is nothing for him to do. The thing is content with lying next to him as he sleeps most of the day away, until it isn’t. For their first activity together, the thing pulls him to the couch to watch a movie. He used to have weekly movie nights with Alexis. He’s not sure if the thing has emotions required to enjoy a movie; maybe this is its new attempt at keeping up the act. He chooses not to say anything. Cuddling with the Thing Shaped Like Alexis Ness is nice. He can pretend.
The movie ends at sunset, burning light disappearing into the skyline of Munich, always on the verge of something else. He gets up from the couch to put the now empty popcorn bowl away, slippers slapping rhythmically against the floor. Fwip, fwip, fwip.
“Mihya?”
The bowl slips from his hands and clatters to the floor. Leftover crumbs scatter as they please. Slowly, he turns around. “What did you say?” He asks, breathless.
The thing swallows a gulp, eyes shining with what looks like nervousness. That can’t be right. The thing can’t feel. “Mihya?” It tries again, licking over its lips.
He stumbles over. One step. Two steps. Kneels down, grasping the face of the thing in his hands. “Don’t call me that.” His throat sears, tears building up in his eyes. “Don’t call me that again.” He cannot hear it. He cannot hear Mihya from… from a…
The thing looks down at him. For a long moment, he cries relentlessly into its knees. Then it nods.
“Kaiser,” it says, voice hoarse with disuse. Its first word in his home was Alexis’ nickname for him. Michael didn’t know it was capable of speech.
“Good boy,” he sobs. Pulls the thing down and presses a kiss to curly hair.
“Kaiser, Kaiser, Kaiser.” It mumbles softly, as if trying to familiarize itself with his last name. Inputting new data perhaps. Updating its near flawless act.
Ahh, I want Alexis. My Alexis. Not you fake. He resists the urge to squeeze his palms, to tug harshly on curls and yell into its face the way he used to with Alexis, a long time ago. Dark times in a cage he willingly put himself in. He resists. If he does that now, even if this thing is not Alexis Ness, he’ll break. Guilt will eat him alive.
The thing goes silent, eyes roaming over his clenched jaw.
A long, slow month passes.
Kaiser wakes up to six inches of snow and the thing’s face right next to his, eyes closed, breathing slowly. He watches the movement of its chest. Rise, fall, rise, fall. When its eyelids flutter open, he meets its eyes with his own. They stare at each other for an aeon. Dull magenta against striking blue.
Nothing changes.
“Kaiser?”
The thing begins to call his name in the afternoons, which he now recognizes as a request to make lunch for the both of them. Sometimes he has something in mind. Sometimes the thought of chewing anything makes him feel like throwing up.
The thing brings his lunches to him in bed or in the armchair. On days when even breathing feels like too big of a task, he will hang his mouth open and wait for the thing to place food into it, like a helpless baby bird. If Alexis was ▇▇▇ here, he would feed Kaiser too. But if Alexis was ▇▇▇ here, Kaiser wouldn’t be in such a sorry state.
There’s a knock at the door.
The thing looks up from its book. It had been reading, or at least doing a very good job at making it look like it was reading. Kaiser had watched the movement of its eyes from left to right for the entire duration of appropriate lunch times. He knows this because the sun is now low in the sky, and his stomach is aching for a snack.
Kaiser hadn’t ordered any groceries or food. Fear crawls up his spine and curls around his heart. His jaw locks up and tenses. He resists the urge to claw at his neck. All around him, the world keeps going, as reminded by the clock. Tick, tock.
The trek to the door takes a second and an eternity all at once. His hand shakes as it clasps around the doorknob. The thing moves into the kitchen, ghosting past the knife in the cutting block, towards the bowl of strawberries that had been washing beforehand. Tick, tock.
Twist the door knob. The thrumming of his heart. Sapphire blue eyes, glaring at him from beyond the door.
“What the hell, Kaiser?” Accented German.
He stares at the man before him, mind drawing a soundless blank. It takes him a while to recognize who it is. Cotton and buzzing bees fill his brain. The possibility that this is all a delusion rings in his head. That [COTTON] will enter his apartment and the illusion will fall away, revealing that there is no thing standing in the kitchen, no book on the coffee table or strawberries in the sink. The thought of such a thing fills him with such suffocating despair he could fall to his knees and cry.
“You look like a mess,” Yoichi huffs. “And where have you been? You haven’t been answering any of our calls. Bastard is this close to firing you, you know?”
He can’t look away from Yoichi’s sapphire eyes. They look real, and human, two pupils of black ringed with blue irises. “Let them. I’m not playing football anymore.” His voice cracks a little.
The slam of a door swinging shut. “Huh? Oi, explain yourself!” More slamming, cracks of contact between a fist and sturdy wood. Yoichi yells until one of the neighbours comes out to investigate the racket. Sheepish footsteps growing further away.
Nothing happens.
The thing appears with a bowl in hand, cheeks filled with strawberry. Adam’s apple bobs as it swallows. “Yoichi?” Syllables ring out from its throat like brittle glass.
He shudders out a breath. Takes a strawberry and bites down. Sour spreads across his tongue. Outside, mold spreads across balcony tiles.
Long, quiet days follow. The thing does not speak to him with words beyond his name. Kaiser spends his evenings with his ear pressed to the bathroom door, listening to the echo of the thing mumbling to itself, strings of incomprehensible ramblings and disjointed pieces of lullaby. After the pitter patter of the shower. Always after the shower. He can imagine its wet body sat on the tiles, knees drawn up to its chest, chattering mouth moving and emitting sound in the bright white room. Sometimes he can make out his name within the murmurs.
He remembers Alexis. Before all this happened. Happily babbling nonsense, filling the house with chatter. Dawn to dusk. He had been attentive, anxious. He didn’t pace to a clock. He bit his lips. He moved, and ran, and danced with grace. He dreams of this Alexis, sometimes. At night, as he stays awake listening to the mechanical breathing of this thing, with the occasional stuttering like parts of a soul stolen away.
The click of a lock. The thing does not see him when the door is opened.
Spring arrives. Kaiser wakes up to a rain shower, raindrops running down the closed window in rivulets. Dull sunlight illuminates the heavens, and the thing’s shaggy brown hair, face pressed into the crook of his shoulder. He doesn’t move. One breath. Two breaths.
The rain stops.
The thing sleeps on, unaware. He brings his hand up, the one trapped beneath the thing’s body, and closes his fist over mussed hair. He does not tug, or pull. But he does not caress either.
It takes two more months for the knife to stop calling to him.
You have a message from Alexis. Would you like to read it — now?
No.
It is very important.
Leave me alone.
That’s what you said last time.
…
Please.
…
Nothing happens.
The thing begins to knit, taking up once abandoned needles and yarn. Alexis’ beloved Harry Potter collection is reread for the thousandth time. Their football cleats lay rotting in the cabinet, locked away for death.
“Will you sing?” Kaiser asks from his side of the couch.
The thing turns to look at him. Dull magenta eyes stare at him, exactly as Alexis’ ones had been, but there’s something wrong with them. He can’t point out what it is, but he knows. He just knows it in his soul.
“Will you sing?” He repeats. The clock on the wall ticks away.
The thing pauses, then turns back to its half-finished scarf. A familiar lullaby rings out from its throat like birdsong and cherry blossom petals and broken glass. He closes his eyes and remembers.
Tick, tock.
Kaiser is on his third notebook. The thing’s movements are so fluid it could pass as a human now. It sings and takes things off shelves without trouble. It knitted a blue scarf and gave it to him. It doesn’t mutter in the bathroom after its shower anymore, but rather sings softly to itself. Spring comes and goes, thrusting the heat and flies of summer upon them.
The knife remains in the cutting block. Untouched, unbothered.
Kaiser watches the thing attempt to dance in the kitchen, humming and twirling around on bare feet. Watches the flex of ankles, contracting and relaxing in time with each turn. Like the clicking of rocks trapped in a tight cloth sack.
It is getting better.
It is getting better at a lot of things. Perhaps he should give it some credit and call it Ness. Kaiser thinks he will order the chocolate that Alexis used to love so much, just to see how Ness reacts to it. If at all.
October looms.
Ness seems to like the chocolate. It eats anything, with the same measured pace. Bread, cheese, nuts, berries, pudding. Everything is chewed and grinded at an even pace. Kaiser couldn’t tell then if it had preferences. If it had any need for food, or if eating was just another part of the act. But Ness seems to like the chocolate. It chews faster than it does for any other food, blinking quickly. It does not smile.
Kaiser wonders if it ever will learn to. Wonders what it would look like.
How well can a sham of a human pass off a smile? The stretch of a grin, rising cheeks, pearly teeth. Could it pull it off? Or would it fail somehow, lopsided or too wide or not wide enough or eyes opened too much.
Ness breaks off a piece of the chocolate and holds it out, hovering in front of his mouth. It takes Kaiser a second to realise it’s an offering. He opens his mouth and bites down.
Nothing changes.
The thing lying in bed next to him is not Alexis Ness.
Granted, it does an excellent job of imitating Alexis. With it’s shaggy brown hair fading into dark magenta, innocent doe eyes and every last freckle perfectly splashed across it’s nose. Kaiser finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore, pressed against the wide plane of Ness’ back. Inhale, exhale. The occasional stuttering of breath.
His phone chimes. A message from —?
Did it work?
Ah. He remembers now. Memories flood back into his mind in waves. His head fills with water, spreading to his airways, then his lungs. His jaw locks and tenses up. He forgets the instructions on how to breathe. His heart seizes with each beat.
All around him, the world keeps going, as reminded by the clock. Tick, tock.
tick, tock,
tick, tock,
tock, tick
tock,