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In a blink of an eye, in what feels like the first droplets on a drought-ridden Sahara, Z appears in the middle of the lobby of their shared house.
Regect and Moe immediately jump out of their shared couch to approach the man. There is a desperate wobble in their steps, as if Z would be gone at a simple wave of the hand. The funny thing is, he would. Z would dissipate into the tiniest of pixels and leave him and Moe standing in the odd mundanity that is their abode.
“Z!” Regect immediately calls out, giddily jumping once near. Moe punctuates his excitement by repeatedly honking her horn; it is louder than it usually is, the sound squeaking as she squeezes the handle too intensely.
Unfortunately, Z does not move much. That is to be expected when you're merely a player. Anomalies like Regect and Moe are used to this finiteness. But when on desktop, Z would be incredibly animated— moving his head, swinging his gun collection around.
Most importantly, he would talk.
Z doesn't, when he plays on his phone.
This never was the case before. Regect made fun of him for transitioning the server into a realm. “Do you know how ruthless Magma Cubes are in Bedrock?” Regect said before, causing Z to protest and enter the Nether himself. Obviously, the idiot died and lost everything. But the comedy of the entire situation evaporated when, at the end of their session, Z tells both of them that, “I'm sick.” A silent beat. “But I still want to see you guys, even if I don't have access to my laptop often.”
Part of Regect appreciates the effort from Z. The other part remembers why anomalies never interact with humans. They're like pets, his old mentor used to say, they just die after you accept that, hey, maybe they're not an inconvenience.
But he still tries. If he can levy the same level of insult with the kinds Z sends his way, then he can reciprocate other things too.
I will be home tomorrow at 1pm, he types in the chat. He and Moe see it as a text bubble floating above Z's head. I can play for a bit before I have to go to a new hospital.
“Holy shit,” Regect remarks, “freedom!” he rejoices in a drawl, punching the air with his dominant hand. He ignores the clench in his ribcage, and the way Moe remains silent.
Yeah they still don't know what's wrong with me asshole, Z continues to type. But whatever, play with me tomorrow?
“Of course,” Regect says immediately. There's an edge to his voice that's been lost in the moss and dust of their tavern. But at least Moe honks her horn twice, humbly smiling at Z.
Regect knows Z will never physically witness the intricacies of how they see the world, but he trusts that he will pick it up anyway.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Regect asks. “I—I'm not asking because I care, by the way. Just wanted to ensure I'd do the exact opposite.”
Z moves his head a bit. Regect imagines he is laughing behind his screen, his thumb jolting slightly to the side.
Well if you're doing opposites, he types. Then no adventure, no music, no dancing, and definitely no conversating.
“The word is ‘conversing’. Fuckin’... dumbass,” Regect jests. Moe lightly slaps his arm. “Ow, the fuck?”
Moe honks her horn near his hypothetical ear. Regect prepares to wince until he realizes it doesn't really do anything to him.
I'm sorry if I won't be as energetic tho, Z continues to type. Both Regect and Moe turn back to him. I just, he adds, then pauses. I need to make things count.
Regect thinks similarly. He thinks about all the times he never made things count. Of him sitting under heavy drizzles until he finally walked out of that world and into Z's.
“When the end of the world is inevitable, I guess you kinda have to, huh,” Regect mindlessly comments.
Moe thwacks her horn on his arm, making him yelp.
Haha, Z types. The silence it is haunts Regect. Keep doing that if I do die, Moe.
There's an exchanged look of abject horror between Regect and Moe before they return their gaze at Z. Crude humor doesn't mingle well with grief when past wounds of such were never healed in the first place.
The necessity to unmask and be truthful grates at Regect's skin. Maybe that's what this new anomaly wants. Maybe it's meant to be a situation of mutual torture.
To be fair, the looming prospect of death isn't really an easy thing in general, is it?
—
They do end up meeting the next day at 1PM sharp. Z enters the world with a sharp cough that makes his character spin, and Regect jokes about how he doesn’t want Z's cooties even if he feels like he's dying inside, too.
They spend a few hours on a flying whale. Z had fun shooting gigantic, robotic locusts as Moe breakdanced from the back.
Then, they land near a mountain. While Moe tends to the whale, Regect and Z make their way up a cliffside, one that directly faces the saffron-orange sunset.
They sit together in the most comfortable, uncomfortable silence.
Regect can start this conversation in many ways. An apology sits at the corners of his figurative tongue. Many, actually. Whatever anomalous parasite ended up in Z will all be tied down to Regect, because a trail of blood has always followed him ever since he killed Micha.
But, he knows what Z would say. That that trail of blood also brought Moe out of her own miserable situation. That he was able to make hundreds of intricate buildings that all have their own stories to tell. That they were able to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas together. That he introduced himself to Z. That, despite all the bickering, Z would sacrifice any time he had with actual friends and family to kill time with him and Moe.
“The sunset's nice,” Z comments. His face never changes, but Regect likes to think he means it, even if all humans see is a dulling square. “Thanks for hanging out with me today.”
“Awh, have you gone soft on me, dude? That's kind of gay. Homosexual, even,” Regect jests.
Z laughs. “Sure,” he replies with an air of vagueness. He's not even looking at Regect. “Maybe I have.”
If Regect had eyes, he'd blink slowly. Instead, he feels the exposed lung of his torso pulsate as his breath hitches. Something curls uneasily in his gut. There's something in there, soft and malleable, that is being murdered by anticipatory grief.
“You what?” he expresses in return. His clawed hand grasps at the greenery below him. “Dude, that's not funny.”
“I'm not being funny,” Z replies quickly, turning his head. “I—” he is interrupted by a violent and raspy cough, one that makes Regect flinch. After he clears his throat, he continues, “I'm dying, Regect. I'm realizing a lot of things.”
“Okay,” Regect says slowly, suspiciously.
“I've been thinking about how fucked the norms for honesty are,” Z continues. “Because everyone seems to think you're lying no matter what you say, even if it's the most direct thing in the world.”
“Okay,” Regect repeats in the same tone.
“What I'm— what I'm saying,” he says while clearing his throat once more, “is that from this point forward, I want to be honest with you and vice-versa.”
“Jokes aren't lies, if you think about it.”
Z snorts. He might be rolling his eyes. “Whatever, dickhead. I'm just trying to find a natural way to say that I really, really fucking like you, without you thinking that I'm doing a crazy bit.”
A pang.
“What,” Regect replies in hesitation, but he still sits firmly on the ground. His nerves pinprick at every word added to this conversation.
“I like you,” Z says. It's the smoothest thing coming out of his parched throat. “I love you. I love you a lot.”
Regect suppresses an urge to laugh, because what is this, even. What Greek God plagued him to witness and personally experience continuous tragedies? He is born a literal vessel for hurt and death and sickness — why is he bursting in the seams with mortal want?
“You can't,” Regect murmurs. It isn't even denial. It's just plain truth, because they are just one hundred, twenty-eight pixels on a screen. Regect even has less. “Z, you can't—”
“I can,” Z says calmly, like he's been thinking about this for a while. Regect wonders if that's all he thinks about, when he gets a multitude of MRI's, or when he's bedridden for days. Regect can't even blame delirium, because he trusts Z is a more complex person than that.
Regect merely sighs.
His ghoulish, gas-like head peers downwards, towards the gap in between them. In between their hands. “You're so stupid,” Regect professes. “Are you burdening me with this, so that you can do one more cruel act before you die in a hospital bed?”
“I feel like it would kill you more if you didn't know, man,” Z replies. “You're an anxious guy. You'd be crying on my Minecraft grave, pounding the dirt demanding why I never told you.”
“Fuck you, man,” Regect replies with a somber chuckle. Then, something in his head burns, so he flinches away. “I hate you so, so much.”
Z mimics his chuckle. “Don't say that,” he says, not unkindly. “We still have thirty minutes, don't we?”
“What, you wanna speedrun getting married? I'm the one impregnating you, by the way.”
Z laughs, more genuine this time. It's a harrowing sound. “No, no— I just…” Z pauses. Regect imagines him looking away sheepishly, and he distantly wonders how different it would be if they were two childhood best friends born on the same plane. “Don't laugh at what I'm going to say.”
“No promises,” Regect says.
Internally, he does.
“If you were real,” Z begins, “or if I was in there with you, how would you kiss me?” Z asks. It's soft. Regect understands Z's never done this before, and it makes his nerves stutter. “Would you?”
“I would,” Regect replies involuntarily. “I just don't have a head.”
Z bursts into laughter. He's blooming, like a lone allium. “Well, yes— we can add that to the equation. What if we existed together, and if you had a head. How would you kiss me, hypothetically?”
“Well I—” Regect stutters, then clears his throat. “I'm not used to it. Kissing, I mean.”
“I don't assume anomalies have time for that— well, I mean Ptolemy did. But that's an outlier statistic.”
“Yeah it's—” Regect inhales sharply, trying to calm the scattered butterflies in his head. He still wants to give an answer. “Okay, if I were to kiss you,” he starts again. “I don't think it'll be sexy or whatever. Not a sloppy kisser.”
“Not a sloppy kisser, noted.”
“Yeah, no tongue. Sorry about that.”
“Wished you had no tongue all the time,” Z jokes.
“Hey,” Regect protests. “I thought we were having a vulnerable moment!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he replies, but Regect can detect a slight smile in his voice.
“As I was saying,” Regect continues. “It would probably be after like, a day of something. I don't think we would before all our energy is spent. We would— well, it would be calm. Quiet, maybe. I'd just look at you and go, fuck it, I'm kissing you. It wouldn't be long, I don’t think. Maybe I'll hold it it for like, three seconds, then let go.” His phantom eyes shift away. “Maybe I'll wait to see if you'd kiss back the second time.”
Sometimes Regect wishes players can emote more. He knows Z is smiling. Regect would kill to see it.
“Of course I would, dumbass,” Z replies. “You think your lips are soft?”
“I—” Regect sputters. “Well, I don't know! Maybe?”
“Feel like your lips are chapped as fuck.”
“If I were human, I'd invest in skincare.”
“No the hell you won't,” Z retorts. “But I'd still kiss you back either way,” he adds coyly. Sometimes Regect thinks about how Z is just in his early twenties. “Fuck, this is so lame of me. It's like falling in love with someone you met on Discord— I can't even conceptualize what you look like.”
“We look different in our perspectives,” Regect replies. “It's just that Minecraft's graphics simplify our appearances. You're still kind of block-ish, though. Your face barely moves.”
“Wait, what do you look like in your perspective, then?”
“Kind of a… black entity, with exposed organs in the center,” Regect explains. He suddenly feels coy about it, as if Z himself can see his lungs and heart. “I do kind of have facial features, but it's more… it's floating, never in one place. It's kind of like gas, or light. That's why you can't really suffocate me.”
“Oh,” Z says.
“Would you still,” Regect clears his throat. “Do you still like me, knowing I'm—”
“Yeah,” Z replies immediately. “Look, I love you as like, dismembered limbs. You think I care if you have exposed organs?”
Regect feels something somersault in his stomach. “Oh my God, you're a monster-fucker,” Regect says abruptly to dispel it.
“Oh fuck you,” Z retorts. “Okay, well, maybe I am. A little,” he adds quietly.
“Oh my god, Z,” Regect gawks. He can't even think of a proper joke to use as a rebuttal. “I fuckin’—” A breath catches in his throat. Suddenly, he's hedged with the most intense sorrow he's ever felt, his nerves as erratic as a fleeing fish. He would start crying if he could. He does not know how to properly respond to unconditionality. “Jesus, I fucking love you, man. It's not even funny.”
Z laughs, and it's so, so beautiful. It hurts. Regect feels like he's witnessing a slow-burn funeral. “I love you too,” he says, preceding a sniffle.
“Are you…”
“Crying? Yeah,” Z replies wetly. He's not a quiet crier. “I—” he inhales shakily. “I'll miss you so, so much. I hate it,” he cries. It makes Regect feel so helpless. It feels like there is a perpetual, impenetrable glass window between them. All he can do is watch. “I wish you were with me— Moe too, of course. But I want— I want to feel you, here with me.”
“I'm sorry,” is the best Regect can offer.
Z chuckles mirthlessly. “It's so embarrassing,” Z says. “I'm such a loser. I have no friends outside of you and Moe,” Z confesses. “I'm not even that close to my parents. It's so pathetic. I want someone to hold me so, so badly.”
“I wish I could,” Regect says. False promises are the best next thing he could do.
“I— I actually downloaded something before logging in,” Z tells him. “Lemme just—”
Z quiets, and Regect waits.
At some point, Z moves. It's unexpected— Z cannot move without the mods he downloads. His torso inches towards Regect, then his arms spread wide. In one movement, they cling onto and around Regect, hands intertwining behind his back.
Z's body is cold. Players’ bodies are always cold. But the touch— the touch is so, so welcome. Regect buries his transparent head into the curve of Z's inner elbow as if trying to imprint it into his cheek. Regect's own hands instinctively wrap around Z's body. He feels like his organs are spilling into Z's lap.
“Does this feel like anything?”
It doesn't. “It feels like everything,” Regect says. “I want you here forever. I'll miss you so much.”
“Maybe if I die playing Minecraft, I can be an anomaly.”
Regect grips tighter. “You don’t want that,” he insists. “You don't know what they'll assign you.”
“But you'd still love me right, even if I'm different?” Z murmurs.
It would kill him. “I would,” Z says. “But I'd rather you live.”
“Ok,” Z replies. “I'll try. But you do your part too, okay?”
“I'm trying,” Regect chokes out. “Moe and I are trying so hard.” It's another thing he would be sorry about. How do you even kill a Lovecraftian, non-Eucledian creature?
“I know,” Z replies. The recognition kills Regect.
He knows Z would never see it, but this phantom head of his ghosts over Z's uncreased forehead. A spectre of a kiss, one that Z can't even feel. But Regect knows Z knows he's trying. It's all they can do in the face of impending death. A kiss goodbye. A kiss good luck. A kiss of, let's meet again, please.