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The problem with coming out of your self-made isolation, is that you’ll quickly realise just how starved you are of contact. In Netzach’s case, this is a series of realisations every time another living person even looks at him.
The most biting example, pun fully intended: Yesod. Their relationship could be described as tense at best. And it’s always been that way, as far as his memory serves. The green haired man would fall, and poke at him, provoke the snake until that itch of loneliness is thoroughly scratched. It doesn’t matter if all his coworker does is glare at him. At least he’s looking.
All it takes is a little prodding, and then his gears are running wild. Cooling system in overdrive. Like a proper heartbeat speeding up from adrenaline. And for a few minutes, he feels alive.
They’re not machines anymore though, and the thorn previously in his side has distanced himself. The man is probably fighting his own demons. But Netzach’s urges aren’t quelled. And so he stares, and imagines, and does nothing.
What would he even do? Waltz into the Floor of Technological Sciences going Hey Yesoood~ Can you yell at me? Pretty pleasee? Somehow, he doubts that would work.
The emptiness doesn’t care. It claws at him either way.
There’s a gnawing void where his anger used to be. The grief. The pain of every loss new or old. By the end of the loop, there was nothing left. He stood on a pile of corpses and wished anyone stayed. It meant nothing.
Now, things are a bit different. None of his employees die permanently, for starters, which does help somewhat. He can spend half his time hanging out with his librarians, and not have to constantly think about them dying tomorrow.
Sometimes he feels better. Maybe even happy. Sharing stories and joking around just like he’s seen people do. Real people with a working brain. It feels nice to pretend for a moment, that he’s just like them.
Giovanni didn’t pretend. He knew his faults like the back of his hand and hid away with them. Barely interacting with anyone unless he had to. Most people couldn’t tell there was something wrong. They thought he was just quiet.
Only Carmen knew. She took his hand, smiled at him sadly. She said “You’re sick.” And then, “But it’s okay. I’ll fix this.”
She’s long gone now. The sickness isn’t.
It got passed to him with all of Giovanni’s remains. That same emptiness makes up his bones and every bit of tissue. It flows through his veins as simply as blood. It seeps into his voice and radiates through every gesture. A copy of a copy of a person.
Some notice. Some don’t. Most probably think he’s just a slob with none of the gory details. He watches them feel their emotions so clearly and yet somehow, not as violently as he does. It’s interesting. They’re all full of their own anger. But when Netzach is angry it’s not shouting. Or cursing. None of the like.
When he’s angry it’s a crippling pain. It doesn’t happen as much anymore because he knows all to well, no matter how he screams and cries and tears at his hair it’s all going to mean nothing. It means nothing. It means nothing. It means nothing.
“Netz?”
His hands unclench from the couch. That voice. Roland. He tries to straighten himself, look a little less like he was just digging into the nearest object. “Oh. Hey.”
The man in front of him is another topic by himself. His usual drinking buddy, and one who shares as much as he listens. Though with time, they’ve occasionally just been hanging out. Barely touching the alcohol. It’s times like that when the artist somehow starts spiralling more.
Because why? Does the guy like him? Is there even anything to like, because he really, really doubts that. But then sometimes the black-haired man just watches him talk or paint with a barely visible smile. Even when he’s said nothing funny. It drives him a little insane.
Sometimes he just wants to pull him close by that stupid, form-fitting suit and make him look. Really, thoroughly look at him. The absolute state of him. And maybe then he’ll finally start backing away from this walking corpse.
They drink again this time. Most of the evening passes in a blur, sharing beer and complaining about work. Being closer than he’s used to with anyone. Existing side by side.
There’s a warm pressure on his leg. He looks down.
..Roland’s gloved hand rests on his knee. The man doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe doesn’t care. Maybe it’s a normal thing for friends to do. Not that Netzach would remember.
The touch does.. something. Threatening to awake the same weird, fuzzy feelings he’s felt for some time now. He tends to ignore them. Really tries to pretend they don’t exist. Giovanni lived like this somehow, right. So he can probably live with that ache in his chest too. Even if it hurts just a little more every time.
He thinks for a long, selfish moment. They’re both drunk. The best possible excuse to get close to someone and pretend it never happened. The void in his chest could be bearable. Even if just for a little while.
But it’s reckless. And stupid. And he’ll only feel worse afterwards, and
Since when did any of that stop you, Netzach?
He breathes in. Out. His hand slowly reaches to touch Roland’s.
The man startles. “Oh, uh. Sorry.” The hand under his is noticeably bigger, supported by an amount of muscle he can’t really imagine. The guy could throw him around if he wanted to. Instead, he sits next to him and pulls his hand away in embarrassment. Like he wasn’t supposed to do that.
..Something clicks. The way Roland looks at him, eyes occasionally wandering all across his body. Lingering just below where his eyes are, closer to his lips. He thought he was imagining all of it. Wishful thinking. But now the taller man is pulling away like he’s.. caught red-handed.
Huh.
Attraction is easy to understand. Even if he wouldn’t know what’s attractive about him. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Roland wants him in a physical way, and he can do that. He’ll try, anyway. And bury whatever feelings will torment him in the process, because at least he’ll be wanted. For a moment.
Good thing he’s already a few beers down. Otherwise he probably wouldn’t have the courage to reach out again, this time more insistently.
“Actually..” his fingers close around Roland’s wrist, moving the man’s palm to settle on his thigh. “You can..” the words feel too forward, but he wants to keep this going. Netzach looks back at his companion, meeting his eyes.
He watches his fellow patron freeze. Eyes wide, flicking between his face and the point of contact. His hand doesn’t move away, resting there for a moment. Then, very carefully, as if handling something fragile Roland’s fingers move to wrap around his leg. The two men breathe in silence.
He feels the pressure building in his throat at the touch. It hurts.
“..You sure?”
He’s very careful as he says it, not moving any further. That alone makes something within him start to boil. A sort of paradoxical anger driving him out of the comfortable distance between them and onto the other man’s lap. He straddles Roland, grabbing him by the shoulders as he’s still stunned in place.
“Come on.” Just do it. Take what you want. It doesn’t matter what Netzach wants. Never has. But maybe he can feel alive for just a second while this happens. Anything other than the usual emptiness within his ribcage.
There’s another moment where nothing happens. Then, Roland seems to process all that’s happening, judging by the way he slowly moves his hands. The man shoots him another look, hovering around his waist but not quite touching yet. When the shorter man stares back, not moving from the spot, that’s when his hands finally settle on Netzach.
Something seems to click in Roland’s brain. And suddenly the man is wrapped around him like he’s been starving for this. Burying his face in the artists shoulder and breathing out. It’s a lot more. mild. than he expected. And they stay in that position for quite a while.
It feels foreign. He doesn’t remember being held by anyone at all. Even looking through Giovanni’s memories, nothing comes up. So he just sits there. Still as a statue.
At some point, the other man seems to get his fill, inching downwards to settle a hand on his hip as his eyes are set on the main course. It’s still very hesitant. Gentle. Distantly, Netzach feels like crying. Nothing comes out.
There’s warmth in front of him, on his body. Maybe not his. He can’t really tell. Some shuffling, a couple more sounds that vaguely resemble his name. Then, his head hits something soft.
“..Let’s just go to sleep, okay?”
The world seems to fade in just a little, his body cold and unchanged as only careful fingers card through his hair. He doesn’t fight the sudden exhaustion rattling through him, and simply closes his eyes.
Morning comes way too soon, as it always does. Dragging him back to the same green light, the same couch, the same void. He feels nothing as he wakes up. Then, a steady trickle of shame as the memories return.
He got rejected. Plain and simple. Roland barely put his hands on him before probably finding something so grotesque he had to pull away. He almost wants to laugh. Or cry. Nothing happened and now even worse, that same mountain of regret crashes down on him anyway.
Why did he do that? Now Roland knows he’s a freak. And gross. And he probably wants nothing to do with him now. Another bridge burned by his own hand. All this for the tiniest chance at feeling like a person. Pathetic.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps coming closer, but he does see a glass of water appear before him.
“Hey.”
He’s still here..? The thought lingers in Netzach’s mind as the water hits his lips. The other man is still a bit disheveled, suggesting he never went back to his own floor, even for sleep. Huh. He watches as Roland fidgets with his tie.
“How’re you feeling?”
Netzach takes another sip, contemplating the best answer. He doesn’t feel much of anything right now. Other than guilty excitement about how the other man doesn’t look mad at him. Even though he really should be.
“Fine” is all he says instead. Staring into the glass in his hand as that usual blunt emptiness takes hold.
“Why did you stop.”
His voice is too flat to result in a proper question. He feels Roland’s eyes settle on him anyway.
“..You. uh. didn’t really look.. into it?” There’s a clear edge to his words, something like worry. Why? This doesn’t matter. Nothing about Netzach matters.
“So what.” He almost regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. Because now the Fixer is staring at him. First in confusion, and then an odd sort of sadness like he just found out something devastating. This is further confirmed when he hears a long sigh from the other man.
They sit in silence for a while. The anxiety of clearly saying something wrong is already starting to dig into his chest. Stupid. So stupid. Now he’s gonna be mad for sure.
But Roland only straightens his suit, still looking a little dejected. “Okay. I.. guess I should—“ a similar urge drives him forward this time, grabbing onto the taller man’s sleeve.
“Wait.” God you’re pathetic. Let him go. There’s nothing worth staying for, if not even his body is enough. Nothing he can give. But he’s stupid and desperate and no one’s ever looked at him like this. like there’s something resembling a person behind this artificial skin and set of broken limbs torn apart then violently put back together again and again and again and again and
“I’ll take the floor.”
His hearing comes back, and there’s some shuffling nearby. He watches the other man struggle to get himself comfortable, before finally just leaning against the foot of the couch. “G’night” is all he says in lieu of an explanation.
Netzach stares. His hand is still holding onto a black sleeve. Roland didn’t pull away.
He squeezes once, and the Fixer meets his eyes. There’s some clear hesitation, the man looking back and forth like he’s really making sure of something. But then a single gloved hand finally settles on his. And squeezes back.
There’s something missing, some social cue he should’ve figured out here. But he’s tired. And a calm, decidedly not angry Roland is resting next to him. The usual storm of his mind has nothing to say about that.
So he looks at the ceiling. Feels the hand in his. And closes his eyes.