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Homelander was a man who could never find peace, as these manifestations from the depths of his unconscious always found a way to resurface, wounding him where it hurt most with the sole purpose of tormenting him, as if they were entities with a particular fondness for breaking him, for watching him collapse in his room, curling up naked on the floor in fetal position, and making him contemplate taking a permanent vacation in the sun.
They spoke to him in his dreams, often taking the form of small whispers, barely perceptible but nonetheless present, and sometimes there were men who wore his skin and mocked him, believing themselves untouchable simply because they were on the other side of the mirror. Homelander even began to question this, to doubt himself, to believe that he was that corrupted version lying on the other side and that the reality projected by the entities was the original.
Homelander has been denied love and affection since his conception.
Hated by his father.
Labeled a defective product, stripped of his humanity and reduced from a person to an object.
Even the people he believed in, people he used to know, showed their true colors and betrayed him.
John has had several names throughout his life.
John is synonymous with disappointment.
John is synonymous with failure.
John is synonymous with rejection.
And the worst part was that those who showed him any "respect" didn't do so because it was genuine, because their days were brightened by seeing him walk through the company hallways, or down the street, when he participated in those stupid tours to promote movies, TV series, or even the perfectly edited autobiography published by Vought about his life.
Everyone was afraid of him, and that affected him deeply, to his very core.
Would there be anyone in the world who would wake up and have him as their first thought?
Would there be anyone in the world who would enjoy his company?
Would there be anyone in the world who would even touch themselves thinking about him?
These questions amplified his suicidal tendencies because, if there was no one, then what was the point of trying? Following the rules of people who didn't like him, of people who only adapted to him not out of desire, but for survival.
But then.
One day.
John had a visitor.
His name was William Butcher.
William wasn't like everyone else; even his heart rate, breathing, and muscle tension weren't the same as the people he usually interacted with.
And William had a smell... a sweet, pleasant smell, a smell quite different from the tobacco and alcohol scent that seemed to be his signature perfume. That smell was eventually investigated by John, who discovered, to his great surprise, that Butcher secreted immeasurable amounts of serotonin simply by being near him.
Even when they tried to take their own lives, despite the threats and the evident contempt they had for each other, cloaked in hostility and aggression, Butcher didn't back down, nor was he afraid.
Then, John wanted a different approach.
A less violent one.
To go to William's apartment just to talk to him, bring him one of his best wines, and simply enjoy the moment.
To take him to a paradisiacal place known only to him, to spend the afternoon, to see everything from the most memorable sunrises to sunsets that made him feel that everything would be alright, that tomorrow was indeed a gift and an opportunity to do better.
And John knew more about Billy's world.
About the walks through the city's fetid alleyways, where sex workers flirted with him or drug dealers shamelessly closed deals in front of him.
Of how John first tried beer to the point of getting drunk and vomiting, and even when he tried a cigarette he was choking on the smoke because, essentially, he didn't know how to smoke.
Of all the people in the world, William was that special someone.
Both his hatred and his affection were genuine.
And so, one day, John asked Billy what he thought of him.
His answer would define everything.
And, becoming a believer for a few seconds, John placed all his hopes on that answer.
"Please..."
The supe thought to himself as he looked at Butcher with a serious face, his eyes scanning him from head to toe.
John expected anything.
You're a failure.
You're pathetic.
You're attention-seeking little brat.
"Oi, listen up, you smug, flag-wrapped cunt… this might come as a bit of a shock. Truth is, yeah, I can't stand most of what you are."
That was unexpected; even John stopped tensing up. But he knew it wasn't a complete answer, that Billy still needed to say something more.
And so he did.
"But here's the funny part, mate. I reckon I… like you more than I probably should. Mad, innit? Thing is... I see you? Properly. And somewhere in that twisted mess you call a soul... there's something I can't help but respect."
John felt relieved, exhaling deeply and letting out all the pent-up air he'd been holding since he started asking the question.
The rest of the day was unusually quiet.
They were both now lying in John's apartment, at the top of the Vought tower. While William couldn't stand how fake everything looked, from the leather sofa to the bed that John probably didn't even use because he didn't sleep, the company wasn't so bad.
John and William enjoyed each other's company and the possibilities it offered.