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Every night he keeps thinking about it, and he isn't sure why.
Just when he thinks he can relax, he sees them both in his eyes, he feels his gaze and often feels like he can hear his voice.
From the moment his head was torn from his body, to the hours he spent getting dragged place to place by the copy of his best friend. He replayed it in his head so many times he felt like a VHS, worn down and damaged.
He was in a daze for a majority of it, feeling like he was barely even existing. Only coming to clarity towards the end, and when forced his conscience back. Is that was dissociating felt like? He doesn’t know.
Even when he was given a body, it helped very little to make him feel grounded. You’d think his autonomy would come with having a functional form to move around and protect himself with, but it didn’t. Not really, not when faced with a man that could shape Donald into anything he wanted.
It had taken the rest a long time to finally find him and bring him back. Brit told him it had only been a few weeks. Only just a little over three weeks.
For him it felt much, much longer. He never knew what time it was, what day it was. With only one person to keep him company, the seconds stretched thin and narrow.
He feels he should’ve been “Better” about it all. It wasn't like he was exactly treated badly, though the limited freedom did pose a bit of a hindrance.
But despite it, the Emperor was indeed ready to fulfill whatever need and whatever request Donald made, almost like a chaperone. If you could consider a practical god to be a chaperone.
At first it was quite hard on him, feeling quite panicked and out of place every moment he was there. But Donald guesses he eventually got quite "Beauty and the beast"-ed, as he put it.
Got used to the kindness to the point he normalized it in his head. The nice gestures should’ve felt normal but they never did. It always made him feel uneasy, like a final meal on death row-not to be dramatic. He adjusted to being a prisoner in an entire universe. It was fascinating what the human brain can adapt to, just to keep itself going a little longer.
Donald didn’t understand his motives or what he was doing at first. Having assumed insanity. And while yes, he was an insane man, that wasn’t all to it.
They went on what he could only call dates. His fear slightly faded as he realized the Emperor was just a broken man, but it went back up when he began to show Donald prizes and souvenirs of those he killed. Like he was proud to hang their corpses on walls.
At times, it was quite troubling that Donald needed to focus and remember he was with a disturbed man. He was uselessly empathetic.
"Are you having fun?" The emperor asked him. Donald having dozed off while still awake.
"I suppose." He said, having been made to watch countless movies. Many he did not recognize yet the emperor insisted that he did. Donald just went along with it, not much else to do.
"It's an okay movie." He added after his initial sentence, thinking he sounded unenthusiastic.
"You seem bored, Donald."
He tensed up a little. "No, no I'm not. I'm enjoying it."
The Emperor thought for a bit. His presence feeling more overwhelming the longer he was silent.
"I guess you would be bored." He said. "Watching movies you've already seen before."
It’s gotten to the point he could not tell if he knew Donald was separate from the cyborg he was currently fused with. Was he purposefully lying to himself? Like a mother taking care of a doll in grief of her baby dying? Or did he genuinely convince himself that this WAS the Donald he had lost. Either way he was not enthusiastic to burst any kind of delicate bubble.
"Regardless-" The emperor grabbed his hand, standing up from the couch suddenly.
"Just a minor inconvenience. We can do something else. Anything at all, anything you want.”
“Really… really I am fine.”
He felt the disapproval.
“You always say that, every time I ask, every time I offer anything. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”
“No.”
“Then how come you don’t like me? I’m doing everything right, aren’t I? I’m providing everything you ever enjoyed.”
Donald went silent.
In a sense it felt like he wasn’t talking to a grown man, not one who conquered galaxies, not one who enslaved all of humanity. At times he really was appalled by how immature the Emperor could be. How ignorant he allowed himself to get.
“I’m sorry.” Donald said.
The man before him softened again, it didn’t take much from Donald to have that effect. He’d be lying if he didn’t constantly take advantage of that wherever he could. With such little control over his circumstance, he’ll exploit anything he felt he could forgive himself for.
“I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat.” He hugged Donald, who braced himself, knowing they’ll be in the air again.
Certainly Donald could just fly alongside him, not that he could even go anywhere that the Emperor wouldn’t find, but Donald figured that this Brit liked being as physically close to him as possible. He knew why, but pretended like he didn’t.
Donald looked down at the cities and the people below. Some acting normal, a few not doing anything, sitting or standing idly.
He brought them to the same place they always ate at. The little burger place created from memory, atop a place it didn’t belong.
He ordered them the same things, not that Donald felt picky these days. Though he was starting to suffer from palette exhaustion.
The emperor went on about a few new things. Donald tried to pay attention but his mind threatened to go elsewhere. Brit went on and on about himself, hoping to finally say something that Donald would congratulate or praise him for. Though he was painfully unimpressed by it all.
A familiar waiter came and served them food. Always wearing that blue vest.
“Can he talk?” Donald asked, having thought about it for a while.
“What?”
Donald gestured to Cecil, the permanently controlled butler.
“Of course he can. I can make him do anything.”
“I mean like…Without the device, authentically?” He said. “Can he still think for himself?”
The emperor looked at him, as though he was finally starting to use the right formula.
“Is that what’s wrong? Do you miss Cecil?”
Donald didn’t exactly miss Cecil specifically, no. He missed everyone, he missed his home and he missed the real Brit, but seeing a version of someone close to him slaving away did trigger distress and longing. A desire to connect.
“I guess I do.”
Something clicked and the fog in Cecil’s eyes seem to clear. He looked around at Donald, and at Brit. He instantly recognized the look in his face. The same expression he used when masking his fear for neutrality.
“Cecil?” He said, standing up.
The former director took a few steps back. “Donald.” He whispered like he was afraid of him.
Donald turned to the Emperor. An idea growing.
“May I ask something of you?”
He looked too eager to comply. “Anything.”
“If it isn’t too much trouble… Could I speak to Cecil privately? Just a few minutes.”
A stillness formed in the air like the atoms itself stopped moving until the Emperor allowed them to.
“Okay.” He replied. “Just a few minutes.”
“And then… you can show me around the palace more… You said there was much more I haven’t seen, right?” Donald added, immediately sensing that Brit wasn’t happy about it.
And this indeed helped. Even if he couldn’t make facial expressions through the mask, Donald could just tell.
The Emperor stood up and broke the window beside them, stepping out with one leg, then jumping down. He flew up and out of sight shortly after.
As soon as they both were sure he was gone, Cecil collapsed to the ground, his legs giving out under him.
Donald leant beside him, lifting his head from the ground. “Hey.” He said.
Cecil was breathing heavily. He looked stunned.
“Cecil- are…are you alright?”
“Yes.” He coughed, sitting upright. “I’m fine.”
“Please, let me help. Can I carry you?”
Cecil looked hesitant. “If you must.”
He placed Cecil’s arm around his shoulder and picked him up, carrying him to the nearest seat. He sat next to him rather than opposite.
The other man, with the device still stuck in his neck, scooted as far as he could.
“What do you want from me?” He asked.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“If you want to ask questions, there's nothing I can tell you that Brit won’t know about.”
“It’s not that either, again I didn’t want anything from you.”
“But you do. You obviously do.” His arms shook a little, struggling to support himself.
“Was it pity? Did seeing me that way make you feel bad?” Cecil asked.
“I wouldn’t phrase it that way, Cecil.”
His expression dropped and instead he looked calm. An unusual calm. As though hearing his own voice was like morphine.
“We only got a couple minutes.” He recalled. “Then I’ll be back under control.”
“I could ask him not to.”
“And then what? At least while under his commands everything is numb. You don’t really think or feel. It went from nothing to full awareness just now, the transition is not gentle.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“I remember everything, but only now can I process it like real thoughts.” Cecil rested his head in his arms, holding it like it hurt.
“Right.” He turned to Donald. “You introducing yourself or do I need to guess?”
Donald stared at him a bit. “Is there anything really you haven’t figured out?”
“Ah…” He said. “Well, Brit’s obsessed with you. I figured you’re some poor soul that’s been forcefully brought here by him. Or did he create you? I can’t tell, honestly.”
“No.” Donald said. “No, I’m from somewhere else. Where everything isn’t this bad.”
“Fucking lucky you I guess.”
“I was indeed brought here. I was just at the GDA, listening to you speak, giving your usual plans and your usual talk. Then I was just a head.” He gestured to his neck.
“He destroyed the rest of me.”
“What? He decapitated you?” Cecil asked.
“He did.”
“How funny.”
“How is that funny?” Donald’s eyebrows furrowed.
“It just is.” Cecil shrugged.
Donald leaned back into his seat. Now a little sour.
“So yes, I’m just stuck here in this world. Currently larping until they come for me or until I figure out how to-” Cecil abruptly cut him off with a single hand.
“Hey now.” He warned. “Mind your words.”
Cecil was looking out for him. He didn’t know why the concept of that was so jarring to him. He guess he found it a little touching that despite being in a zombie state for however long, his priority had become Donald.
“...Right.” He said. The concern of being monitored was definitely there.
“You got one thing going for you.”
“Which is what?”
“I already said it. Brit loves you, don’t hurt his feelings.”
He knew what that meant. Don’t himself yourself in danger, how Brit actually felt wasn’t the point.
“Also, visit me often. Took you way too fucking long.” He said, feeling the device on his neck. Just a single finger touching the long transmitter embedded into his nervous system and spine.
Donald weakly smiled. “Of course.”
Cecil looked at the forgotten food. “Do you mind if I have this, actually?”
“Of course, all yours. I’m not hungry.”
The other man, with his still recovering body, grabbed the fries and slowly hastily ate them.
“Is It strange to say I missed you?” Donald asked.
Cecil looked at him. Eyebrows raised.
“Don’t think so. I miss you too.” He said, not to Donald, but probably to the memory of him.
“But no use grieving someone that's been gone for years.” Cecil finished his fries. “He’s coming back, by the way.” He added, eyeing the broken window.
Donald could feel it too.
“I just needed to talk to someone that wasn’t him.”
“I get it. Like I said, visit me. I’m sure somewhere deep in there, he still recognizes me as his friend. I’d be dead otherwise. You wanna know about the heroes he’s slaughtered before you go?”
“No thank you.” He genuinely wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Just as he finished, the Emperor came back through the window he shattered.
“You done, Donald?”
Donald made eye contact with Cecil, who seemed at peace again
“I’m done.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, it was like the light once again disappeared in Cecil.
He had to move out of the way as his former boss stood up and walked past. His hands clasped together in a polite manner.
Brit moved towards him, holding both his hands.
“The palace.” He said.
“The palace.” Donald repeated, his eyes still stuck on Cecil.
Days passed, with the same routines and the same behaviors. Except slowly Donald began to be more receptive to him.
He actually laughed at his jokes, not by force but because he did see the humor being attempted. He connected and added onto the conversation at hand, chatting like he wasn’t in an existential position.
In the moment it was nice, but Donald would snap back to reality and feel gross about it soon after.
In the face of loneliness, the chat with Cecil made him only crave home more.
As he laid in his bedroom that was created from memory in near perfect detail, having requested it and lied about wanting sleep, he just stayed there for hours.
Anything to get away from the Emperor, as he was getting attached against his will.
At one point his mind began to wander, and he grew more infuriated, angry, and upset. Everything he’d bottled up began to resurface onto him all at once.
He started to freak out as silently as he could manage. Getting to the point he brought up his hands to his own neck, and squeezed hard. Choking himself.
It wouldn’t kill him, no, but he needed an outlet for his feelings. He couldn’t destroy anything without risking hurt feelings so this is the only solution he saw.
Donald only let go when his knuckles became white and the discomfort in his neck spread to his chest, and only got worse.
The body the Emperor conjured up was far different. He felt pain like normal again. His senses more vivid.
It took him hours later to calm himself and finally sleep. Of course his dreams were just as plagued. He kept repeatedly dreaming throughout the night of going back home, just to be thoroughly disappointed upon waking up.
Even though it had been just a little over two weeks at this point, the loneliness had gotten to him. As The Emperor flew with him in the air, he eventually hugged him back.
Forcefully. Very forcefully.
It had shocked Brit so badly in fact that they stopped at a nearby building and just stood there a while.
Now that he thought about it, Donald might’ve been having a slight panic attack. With the way he held on so tight he was starting to injure his own arms and fingers, the metal starting to give out and bend. Which Brit promptly put a stop to.
This might’ve put the wrong idea into the Emperor's head, as he was noticeably different after that.
While subtle before, he now just treated Donald like a genuine lover. Being more affectionate, talking differently, forcing proximity even more.
The worst part is it did have an effect on Donald. It really did.
When Brit pressed his face against Donald's, he reciprocated. When he laid next to him and hugged him, he let him. When Brit said love filled sentences one after the other, he nodded along and egged him on.
This all got to the Emperor's mind far, far more than it did Donald. At the end of it, he never did lose sight that it was all fake, and he knew he was encouraging just a fantasy. A risky one at that.
He knew his own Brit, the real one, the one he actually cared for, would come for him. Sooner or later.
But alas, when the Emperor leaned in, trying to kiss him for the first time. Donald didn’t have it in him to reject it.
Maybe because he was just as selfish, maybe even more. Or maybe it was because Brit had morphed out of the helmet, and into the original face Donald knew.
It wasn’t pleasant, not in the traditional way. The Emperor kissed like he was trying his darndest to get as much of Donald into his mouth as possible. The most he could do really was keep up.
Did it mean anything to him? Now, no. At the time, still no. He only lied to himself that it did, but ultimately it was nothing.
Maybe the Emperor would’ve wanted more from him, but he wasn’t around long enough to see.
Just merely a day after their first real intimate act, Ms. Popper, along with the rest came and finally brought back Donald.
In the face of it being over, he didn’t really know what to think. Perhaps he shouldn’t think at all?
Before they left, he went to see this world's Cecil once more. Just a last talk before they never met again.
The first thing the ex director said was. “He’s gone?”
“The Emperor? Yes.” Donald replied.
Cecil looked away. “Donald’s actually alive?”
“Yes.”
“And he just forgave him, and left?” He looked amused, but he could see Cecil was genuinely gut wrenched by it.
Donald had nothing to say once again but yes. As much as it pained him to do so.
“Guess he was dead, then.” Cecil took off the jacket and blue vest he’d been subjected to wear for months.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me, Donald.” Cecil said, looking at him. “Would you have forgiven him, just like that? Wandered off to the stars in bliss?”
“No, I couldn’t do such a thing.”
“Then the Donald we knew is very much dead. If guilt is the only thing keeping them away, I hope they drown in it.”
Donald really did feel for him. If this were him, he doesn’t know how he’d have handled it.
Cecil, after a good five minutes of silence, finally spoke. “But at least with you, it does feel like closure, and a proper goodbye.”
Donald bid him a good life, and left back to his world. Overwhelmed with relief, he shut out all his memories for the first day or so. But like a broken sink, each droplet accumulated, and now he was burdened by everything they did.
He kept thinking about the Emperors, both of them. That Brit and his Donald.
He struggled for a while to comprehend what exactly he felt, before coming to the answer that he was envious.
He wanted Brit to be that obsessed, he wanted Brit to want him like nothing else mattered. The attention was so intoxicating that he actually missed it. It was wrong but he did.
He laid in his actual bed, feeling like he did all those nights ago. His heart beating fast and a horrible, ingulfing distress in his chest and his stomach. In his arms, in his legs. Everything, everything everywhere.
It felt like he was going to cry, even though he physically couldn’t.
He didn’t love the Emperor, he never could.
But he loved the concept of Brit loving him.
It genuinely consumed him so bad he took a long time off work, stating mental health issues.
He wouldn’t be able to tell them the truth, even if he did what was he supposed to say?
He dreamt of the Emperor, more importantly, he even dreamt of the alternate Cecil. It took him so much effort not to fall to the knees of Ms. Popper, wanting to go back. Wanting to see what became of it all.
But he couldn’t make her relive that trauma. Make her go back to the world she saw crumble before her.
All he did was try to forget and recover. He knew if he distracted and stalled himself long enough he’d forget and more on. It was a mere inconvenience yet it weighed on him so heavily.
These days he isolated himself and stayed away from Brit. He wasn’t ready for that yet.
Until then, he stared at the mirrors, seeing the Emperor in place of himself.
He just stared back, knowing it’ll blow over, and he won't care anymore. A little embarrassing that this was the most emotionally devastating even to have ever happened to him. That he could handle everything but not this.
Not his death, not his divorce. Not even when he thought Brit had died in front of him and he had to break the news to Jessica.
Donald grew exhausted, and laid down on the floor. Closing his eyes, trying to rest as he couldn’t for many days. He only hoped his sleep was void, with no nightmares that kept him up in the first place.