Chapter Text
“I had no idea this would work.”
Chief could faint right there. “Shit— that’s— you idiot! It could’ve killed you!” he shouts at him, entirely ignoring how he’d been so ready to die for him. His chest heaves as he catches his breath and he lets his head fall back onto the wood of the stairs—it’s unbelievable this tower is still standing.
But as he relaxes, the gash in his leg starts to burn and throb, forces a groan from his lips. “Okay, I think we might be cooked. I can’t run like this.”
“How bad is it?” Jaron asks from his place on top of the monster. He crouches, trying to find a more comfortable position, but otherwise doesn't move from where he is.
He has to sit up, and it costs more effort than he wants to admit, but at least there’s screams far away in the forest to fuel him. He curses through gritted teeth as he reaches out to undo the straps of his greave. Taking it off reveals a flesh-deep gash riddled with black corruption that would make a normal person gag and turn away. Chief just stares at it with tired annoyance.
“Fine. Walking will be shit, but I’ll live.” Before Jaron can decide to jump down to see for himself, he straps the armour around his shins again, tightening them until it hurts so he won’t lose too much blood. “I might have to resort to pearls.”
He’s being stubborn, he knows. Whatever Jaron says he can do, he doesn’t know how. Maybe he can manipulate him again like he’s doing to the Man from the fog, but he doubts either of them really want that.
“It’s you, you know.” It’s almost as if Jaron knows exactly what he was thinking about. “Your body, your code, your soul. You are the gate and the key. We don't need to walk, just— you need to open it, Chief.” Jaron sounds distracted, barely looking at Chief, his eyes squint, glaring daggers at the monster's neck. “You need to stop letting this place control you, and control it instead.”
He opens his mouth to protest. They’re just going in circles. It’s useless. But it hurts his head too much to think of a proper way to go against him. And really, if Jaron read him like he said he did, how right is he?
Chief swallows heavily. “How?” Because that’s just it. Jaron may be right, he may know exactly how to get out of here, but if Chief can’t do it, there’s no point.
Jaron shakes his head. “I don't know. It's supposed to be innate, at least it's what it looked like to me.” He still doesn't move from his position over the monster, Chief can see his discomfort grow as the seconds pass by. “Try thinking of home, knocking on the ground asking if it can let you go or something like that. There must be something that will trigger it.”
A scoff escapes him. Even imagining that sounds stupid. “Maybe that’s what your magic does, Jaron, but mine hates me. I’m sure if I knock on the ground, I’ll summon some other creature.”
He’s being so difficult. It’s being spelled out for him and he still refuses to go along with it. Damn his own stubbornness. Tearing his eyes away from Jaron, he grits his teeth to try and ignore the pain.
Focus on something good. Focus on something good. But fuck, what good does he ever have?
Thinking of home, of Lifesteal, only has him listing all the ways he could fuck it up and ruin everyone’s lives. He can’t help the way he frowns at that, teeth gritted. He just wants to be home. To have a home where people won’t hate him because they’re afraid of him, and he’s too scared to figure out whether Lifesteal is that place or not. Jaron seems to be convinced it is, but can he ever really be sure?
“I—I don’t think this is working!”
Jaron shakes his head, he looks frustrated, he has still made no move to get off from the Man, he’s tense, teeth gritted in a painful way.
“Chief.” He winces when the other says his name like that. Jaron sounds so angry, it’s so not like him that it takes Chief by surprise. “You magic is you, the magic can only hate if you hate it first.” He shakes his head. “If it is not working, try harder.” It’s harsh the way he says it, words dripping with vitriol.
Jaron winces, shaking his head the second he realises. “Sorry, man.”
Shit, did he ever think of that? That he’s causing this all himself? He lets his head drop against the wood and clenches his eyes shut. Damn it. Damn it all. It’s a fucking circle, a pit he keeps digging for himself.
Biting down on his tongue, he forces his thoughts back to Lifesteal. That’s where he’s staying, the place he got invited to, it’s home enough to count, he wants to go back.
And then it’s something tangible. Home is a place he can reach out for, can wrap his hands around it so there’s no chance he loses it.
Trumpets sound, awful and bone-chilling trumpets he’s grown too familiar with. A voice rings out through the forest, distorted and strange. They don’t want him to leave. He could look over and see a familiar, burned face inching closer through the trees, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has left to ignore the invitation for terror he instinctively wants to take.
Home. He wants to go home. Please, let him go home. He can feel it, the place is so close he can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue instead of blood. He digs his nails into it and crawls closer.
For once, something feels right.
The good feeling is a beacon in the darkness. He reaches for the warmth and safety on the other side. This side of the gate screams out in rage, but he forces out a breath to keep going, keep pushing, keep ripping open a portal to go through. Jaron cheers, the sound echoing and strange. There’s a roar he recognises as the Man’s right above him, but they’re falling before he can open his eyes.
Then he’s on a soft bed. Jaron shouts, and Chief opens his eyes just in time to see him fall from the ceiling onto the floor. There’s the carpet, the stupid painting he hung on the wall, the gentle light coming from his living room.
He … did it. He did it!
But there’s no time to cheer. The second he laughs in disbelief, the chain rattles around his wrists. He stares down at it, feels the gross taste of things trying to climb back out through his mouth, and promptly realises he’s just opened the gate widely for everything to come through.
The muzzle is right there, next to Jaron by the wall. If he gets to it, he can reattach it and nothing else can come out to terrorise his friends. This was enough.
He bites down onto fingers and shoots off the bed. The chain pulls taut and he crashes to his knees, nowhere near the wall. A noise is ripped from his throat, but he keeps his lips firmly sealed. He tries, he reaches, he pulls so hard the bed is going to be dragged along, but he needs that damn muzzle or it’ll be the end of the world.
Jaron is by his side in seconds. To Chief’s growing horror he puts himself in between him in the muzzle, his eyes wide, more grey than the blue Chief is used to, the hand that covers his mouth is cold, the fingers feel longer, sharper than they should be, considering they’re Jaron’s. If he weren’t right on the brink of panic, he would’ve considered it weird, unnatural, would’ve asked about it.
“Chief, breathe.” It's a command and a request. Worry seeps into his voice. “You’re hurting yourself. I need you to stop panicking.”
He’s not giving him the muzzle. Why is he not giving him the damn muzzle?
“Jaron—” he chokes out. With effort, he sucks in a breath, just to do what he asks. “Please!” He keeps pulling at the chain, hoping it’ll just give a bit more. Of course, he knows better, and he also knows the key to them is stuffed away in his enderchest. “Just— give it to me!”
“You already opened it.” Jaron doesn't waver, doesn't look like he will even consider listening to Chief. “You already brought us home. I need you to close it, you are the gate, you can do it. The muzzle isn't the key.” He shoots a look of disgust over his shoulder, clearly at the item he refuses to hand over.
He lets his head hang, trying to swallow down all the fear choking him. Opening the gate is one thing, something he hardly knew how to do until the very last moment, and now he’s supposed to close it too?
Jaron takes his face in his hands, shimmies closer to hold onto him, a presence that’s comforting in the icy cold of the room. He turns his head to hide away in the awaiting arms. A sob escapes him, pathetic and high-pitched. God, he never asked for this, why can’t this just be easy?
“I don’t know if I can,” he admits quietly, voice rough. Finally, he lets his hands drop to the ground, the sting of it sends waves of agony up his arms. He could fall asleep like this—but he shouldn’t, not without the muzzle to keep everyone safe. “I’m so tired, Jaron.”
Jaron hums, it's a sad, but contemplative sound. A hand pets his hair, and oh shit he didn't think something so simple could destroy him even more. He feels like he’s shaking apart in his arms. He’s safe here, he’s safe with him.
“I know.” Jaron puts his chin over his head, leaning in the embrace almost as if he needed it as much as Chief. “I’m sorry it took us so long to notice.”
It’s safe. It’s safe, it’s safe, it’s safe. He bites down any pleas for help, any words of being scared and unable to do this. He uses the pattern of the hand going back and forth over his scalp to focus on the opposite. Shaking, he reaches to grab the edges of the gate and pull it shut, a violent shiver running down his back every time something tries to escape at the last moment.
And then it’s shut. All the screaming cuts out and out of nowhere it’s quiet.
Chief can’t swallow the sob in time, slumping against Jaron entirely. It’s done? He did it. The gate is shut. For how long, he has no idea. But it’s quiet and he’ll take it.
“You did it.” Jaron sounds so proud, so relieved, from his place in the embrace. Chief feels his chest rumbling with the sounds, it's soothing, another living being against him, living, but not warm, Jaron feels cold, shivering, they both are, Chief just hasn’t noticed it with everything else. Jaron doesn't acknowledge it.
“I told you you could. I always believed.” There is a pause, Jaron's hand stops in place, fingers still against Chief’s hair, the man takes a shuddering breath. “Mind if I set you free?”
He swallows, clearing his throat. “Yeah— yes, please,” he forces out, his whole body weighing him down too much to be bothered to cringe at how he stutters. He doesn’t actually want to sit up and go through all this effort, but the chains are painful around his wrists.
“Ok.” Jaron nods. He lets Chief go in favor of shuffling on the ground, getting closer to his hands. Chief tries to not flinch when cold and long fingers gently hold his left wrist, looking over the lock. The other hums. “Any idea where the key is? I could try ripping it off, but I don't want to hurt you by accident.”
“It’s in my e-chest. I didn’t want to be able to reach it in a panic.” And that sounds awful too, but it had been best—or, well, he’d always been convinced it was best. He can’t look at Jaron, face heating up with the realisation that yes it had been awful and he’d never gone to anyone to ask for help.
“I— do you have any?” he asks.
“Yes.” Jaron nods, hand moving from his wrists to his back, before placing the chest at his side.
Chief jumps in place when the front door is forced open and bangs against the wall. In an instant, his hands shoot up to cover his mouth but they’re once again stopped short by the chain, which rattles painfully loud in the room.
“Chief?”
It’s Minute’s voice that rings out. First, a wave of relief washes over him. Then, a newfound panic. He sits up, eyes darting from the chains to the muzzle and back towards the front door. Shit.
“Chief, are you home?” Minute’s voice is overflowing with worry.
Steps echo through the house as Chief shares a look with Jaron, and he can’t urge him to find the key fast enough. Of all people, Minute seeing him like this has to be the worst possible outcome. His throat clogs up, breath stuck in his lungs. Fuck. Not like this.
The hand on his back moves to squeeze his shoulder, Jaron doesn't look him in the eyes, instead he stares intently at the entrance to the bedroom.
“Breathe.” He repeats. “You are safe, we are safe, no one is getting hurt.” He sounds so sure of himself, but even so Chief can hear how his voice wavers with a type of fear that runs deeper than he shows. “Minute, we’re here!”
Chief wants to sink through the ground—is it worth slipping back into that horrible dimension just to escape this? He refuses to face whatever’s coming, shrinking in on himself when Minute rushes over to the bedroom, pausing for just a second at the sight before he’s walking over and kneeling by their side.
“What happened? Who did this?” he asks, words tainted with a type of danger Chief hopes to never be on the other end of. He takes the sight in, sucks in a deep breath and settles a hand on his other shoulder. “Chief, what happened?”
He can’t see his look of disappointment and worry. Jaron’s was bad enough, and Minute’s will kill him. So he squeaks out a “nothing,” like it’ll do anything but delay the inevitable.
Jaron’s hand let go of his shoulder, Chief squeezes his eyes shut when the other starts talking.
“I found him like that, chained to his bed and—” He doesn’t finish the phrase, Chief hears a shuffle of clothes, as Jaron gestures towards something, Minute gasps, and he can only shake his head, preparing.
“Why?” And isn't that a loaded question? Minute sounds heartbroken, almost betrayed. “Chief, why? Why didn't you say anything?”
He can’t quite shake the feeling of fear when he opens his mouth to reply, it takes effort to remind himself the gate is shut now, and he can’t find his voice for a moment. “I just—” he starts, cringing at every rattle of the chains. “I didn’t want you to know … I didn’t want anyone to know.”
A part of him wants to be mad at Jaron for this. Of course he brought Minute over the second they got back. But it’s not justified, he knows. Guilt sits heavily in his stomach as Minute’s claws hover over the metal. The chains are moved up, revealing all the bruises underneath from how hard Chief pulled at them. It’s … not a pretty sight. Purple and blue and green, all standing out on his pale grey skin.
“The key is in his enderchest.” Jaron’s voice is a bit far away. Chief raises his head, squinting when he notices the distance the other has put in between himself and them. He is sitting by the wall, hands deep in his pocket, legs close to his body, trying to look nonchalant, but he can see how Jaron still shakes. It’s cold in the room .
Chief shoots a quick glance at Minute and he’s relieved to notice that the admin is also looking oddly at Jaron.
But he doesn't acknowledge any of it. “We were trying to get it off before you got here.”
“Right,” Minute mumbles. He turns back to him, his worry not gone at all. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re chained up and hurt like this?”
Instead of facing the look he’s being given, Chief reaches over to open up the enderchest, elbows popping painfully, before he reaches in and struggles to pick up the key from it. When he does, he hands it over without any fuzz. “Safer that way,” he says quietly.
Minute unlocks the cuffs before anything else. The second the chains fall away, Chief’s holding his own wrist to soothe the pain, and he hisses at how raw his skin has been rubbed. This just looks worse with every second.
Wordlessly, Minute splashes a healing pot at their feet. Chief still thinks he will need to bandage it, but he can't help how he sags at the feeling of all his injuries scabbing and closing. He doesn't move from his position on the floor, much too tired to move. The healing process seeps even more energy from him, he fights not to lean against Minute.
“For how long, Chief?” Minute cups his cheek with a careful hand and he can’t help how he leans into the touch, starved for the warm he never allows himself. “How long have you been doing this to yourself?” The guilt eats away at his mind, Minute sounds so broken and it's all Chief's fault.
“You don’t want to know.” He bites at his bottom lip, but the thumb that reminds him of his presence brings back the warmth the guilt threatens to steal. He digs his nails into his sides where he hugs himself. “I don’t— I don’t know, for as long as I can remember?”
Minute hisses, flinching like he’s been hit.
“We would've helped.” Glowing white eyes meet his, and Chief feels himself shatter a little with how determined Minute is. “If you told us, we would've helped.” His hands move to hold his shoulder. “We can still help, Chief. You don't need to do this to yourself.” He has never seen Minute so emotional like this, and yet there’s still a traitorous voice in his head, telling him that it's too good to be true, but even so, in that place, in that moment in time he can't help but believe it, hanging onto each word coming out from his mouth. “We can help you, you’re not alone.”
He doesn’t even try to talk after that. He launches himself at Minute, arms wrapping around him in an act of selfishness he won’t refuse himself now, face buried into his suit. Tears burn in his eyes he tries to stop, a useless effort as soon as Minute hugs back, tight and secure around him. He wants to believe him, he wants to believe him so bad.
“I was scared—” he gets out and bites down the sob that wants to follow. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
….
I didn't want to hurt anyone.
It burns, almost hurts. The words resonate with him, excuses he’s used, again and again, through the years of solitude.
It hurts, squishes and rips with teeth the softest part of his heart, watching how Minute just hugs Chief even more fiercely after these words. It's exactly what Jaron told Chief. He told him that people care. Lifesteal, this one and so many other more, is a family, even in between all the hurt, they all care. This is something that almost never changed.
So why does he feel so hollow at being proved right?
It’s unfair to feel like this. It's unfair to Chief who has already gone through so much, and it's unfair to all the other people who are doing their best to welcome him in their homes.
To Rek who begged for him to stay, who calls him for dinner, and checks on him to make sure he’s still there.
To Angel, who barely batted an eye, no signs of worry at having him there, who jokes and lets him prank and bakes cookies with him.
To Spoke, who, even after everything he did, let him stay , forgave him for the bad and horrible, and Jaron still doesn't understand; why?
Jaron feels broken. It's unfair.
But this isn't about him, it's about Chief.
It's not fixed, not yet. But he found the problem, butt-headed his way into it when no one asked, and now Chief will receive the help he needs. Jaron himself doesn't matter if it means his friends will thrive and be happy. This is a fact he came to accept a long time ago.
He feels nothing—no crushing weight, no sense of accomplishment—when he realizes he was just playing his old role yet again, now just in a more … involved kind of way.
He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. His fingers hurt, his hands and arms ache, heavy with code that doesn't belong to him, needing a good prune after his badly thought-out stunt with the Man from the fog. But he will not take care of it in front of prying eyes. Not at the risk of bringing attention to himself like that.
Chief would freak out.
Jaron doesn't know what Chief thinks he knows about him, but whatever it is, it is wrong . He is human, flesh and code and painfully human. He will not give him more ammunition to say the contrary.
And Minute, one of the admins … he has no idea how much the admins know , how much they are aware of the anomaly they allowed in their server. He really doesn't want to know. He wants to play fantasy as much as he can before the shoe that drops crushes his house of cards without ceremony. So that means avoiding the admins. That means crossing his fingers that Chief won’t tell about the stunts Jaron pulled in that dimension in detail, where he’d been too hyper-focused on helping to care about what it would mean for his future.
Jaron gets up, arms twitching. Like it’s muscle memory, he tries to put his hat from his inventory back on his head, but he keeps himself from it, nails digging painfully into his legs from the bottom of his pockets, biting his lips so he doesn't make any noise he would regret.
He ignores the other two in the room, making a straight line to the door before daring a glance at them. Chief looks … so small. He’s all wrapped up in Minute, he shakes with sobs, his hands are dug so deep into Minute’s suit it’s all rumpled up. But he’s held like he’s the most precious thing in the world, Minute’s quiet words reach him across the room, quiet reassurances and promises and everything Jaron had sworn he’d hear.
Of course, Chief opens his eyes and finds him before he can escape. He frowns, like he’s disappointed, like he’s begging him to stay. But it seems he’s too exhausted to get up, too tired to do more than hum, and even then his voice sounds rough and abused.
It hurts, it's unfair, the stare makes him want to scream. Jaron bolts. Before Chief can say anything at all, before Minute can even realize, he runs.
Out of the room, out of the house, straight into the storm, water soaks his clothes in an instant with the downpour. It's still night, though he doubts for long—not that he can tell with the pitch black clouds above.
For what feels like an eternity, he flees. The house is long behind him, he’s enshrouded in darkness and rustling trees. His legs scream with the effort but he keeps going, until he stumbles over a loose rock. He ducks under the nearest tree, hardly able to keep his balance, where he grabs onto it and hides behind it, back against the bark. His knees buckle and he can’t ignore the strain in his legs for long before he has to sit down on wet grass.
Breathless, shaking, Jaron tries to stop his heart from escaping up through his throat. For the first time tonight, he truly feels hunted.
Was it the kindness?
Was it the fear?
Was it the rough reminder that, wanting to or not, he will never be what he’s supposed to be? That he’ll never be where he’s supposed to be? No one will ever hold him and tell him it’ll be okay, not in a way that matters, because none of them understand.
He takes his hands out of his pockets and they aren't shaking like they always do. He holds his breath, seeing the grey that now paints his skin, fingers to elbows. It's the same shade as Chief.
There is a reason why admins don't mess with code the way Jaron does. It goes two ways. One wrong move, one wrong touch, and both admin and entity may as well be gone. Code contamination is no joke after all.
His fingers are longer, clawed, he remembers seeing that thing—the Man from the fog—holding Chief’s chest with one claw like it was nothing. Had he stayed longer linked to its code, would his own fingers stretch like that?
He shivers thinking about it. Maybe it’s better to not know.
His eyes find the sky, past the treetops, through the rain. His friend is still there, like it always is. His friend could've gotten them out of that dimension so easily, but it would’ve meant shedding another layer of himself he isn’t ready to.
“Is he—” It’s hard to find his voice, but he knows he needs to ask, it’s been nagging his mind since he first realized what Chief truly is. Jaron clenches way too long fingers, and focuses on the universe instead of focusing on how weak he feels at that moment. “Is he like me?”
The universe is eerily silent at his question, Jaron expected mockery, a playful giggle telling him what a silly question that was, not silence. Silence is bad, even if he can't explain why.
“You know! Like—” He digs his fingers into his hair, pulling at the strands. He hates how these deformed, monstrous fingers are more steady than his normal hands. “That dimension! Did it make him? The same way you m—” He chokes. He has to swallow the lump in his throat with the tiniest shake of his head. When he continues, it’s quiet, whispered. “The same way you brought me back? Is Chief like me?”
Jaron never intended to sound so broken, he can't explain why the idea of having other people like him walking around evokes so much fear in himself.
His friend embraces him, warm despite the wet cold that holds his bones hostage.
You are love.
The universe whispers in his ears and Jaron hangs onto each word.
The universe is love.
And the universe is you.
There is no one else like you.
It's different. You are different.
Jaron can't help the way his entire body relaxes at that, strings that were holding him tight let him go, and he collapses in place. He feels so … relieved.
Like a doll celebrating the fact the other dolls will never hit the stage.
Good. Good.
Chief isn’t the same as him, and that’s good.
“I want to go home.”
The universe giggles, and Jaron knows that it’s a stupid request.
As his home is within the universe, he is home, it doesn't matter where he is, the place he can’t return to doesn't matter because he’s always home, even here. Even in this strange and oddly kind version of Lifesteal he’s travelling through for a little while. His home is with the universe, forever.