Chapter Text
There’s a specific kind of relief that sinks in when you realize there’s no fight left. As the knife carves deeper, as reality fades from view—an acceptance that you can’t fight any longer, an acceptance of death, a relief, a catharsis knowing there’s no more you can do but rest. You can lay back and wait for it to end. Jake believes that’s where the whole “life flashing before your eyes” thing comes from; in those moments of relief, looking back, knowing this is it, the same way older people look back on their life and learn to accept there isn’t much time left.
Khonshu’s armor—the suit—steals that relief. Wearing that suit, the fight is never over because there is no possibility of death. Jake knows that, but his body doesn’t. Each fight, his body claws its way out of it, terrified and desperate to get out alive. Steven was right, in some ways, about that. He needs to win because his survival instincts don’t accept the reality of the suit; he needs to win because there is no other choice, he can’t lose and he can’t die, like he's some fucked up prize fighter knocking out opponent after opponent until his body gives up; he needs to win because it’s proof.
He was confident in the suit until his confrontation with Layla, realizing Marc and Steven can die. They can get hurt. It’s ruined him; he can’t stop worrying.
Jake’s known for nearly all of his life that if Wendy didn’t kill him, he’d be the one to kill himself. That’s always been the plan. He’d front while the rest of them remain oblivious inside. They’ll never know what it’s like to suffer the way he has; they’ll never know that sick relief of death—because it’s not true relief, it’s an escape from pain, a lost fight, and Jake never wants them to feel that. Jake has felt it time and time again, he’ll take that burden. He’ll experience it for them, keep it contained. He won’t let his memories bleed, he won’t let anything escape. He’ll do it for them. He always has.
The plan is fucked. Useless fucking plan. He’s the only one with this death-defying suit. Going on missions, getting into fights—it’s too risky when the others don’t have the same.
Again and again, it’s his fault. He’s the killer Wendy raised, the monster she knew he was born as.
What is he meant to do when Khonshu’s the only thing that will accept who he really is? He hates killing, he hates watching lifeless bodies drop, hates mentions of death and shivas and funerals. Shame and guilt burns deep in his stomach, as much as apathy tries to numb it. But that’s who he is. That’s what he’s stuck with, being this way. Khonshu accepts it; he likes it.
They’re not friends, but there’s an understanding.
What happens now? What happens if he leaves; when Steven’s trying to tell him he’s not a killer, when Marc’s scared of the reality that they are, when Jake goes so long without killing he gets greedy. When there’s no leash tying him to a sense of justice, a sense of right and wrong, no gavel waving, no judgement.
No, without Khonshu, he’ll do something bad. Worse. He’ll go on a spree, end up on the news, get thrown in jail. He’ll destroy the normal life they’re trying to live and Layla will hate him for it. They’ll wind up in a mental hospital again, this time for good. He’s crazy, he’s violent. He killed his brother, he killed Layla’s dad. He needs a voice of reason. He needs Khonshu.
If he could escape it, he would. If he knew he could live a safe life the way Steven and Marc are. Of fucking course he would. But that’s never been his life, and it will never be. He’s the sacrifice.
For the most part, things go back to normal. They write to each other in the journal, still—Marc’s snarky comments inspire Jake to write snarky comments back, which end up sandwiching Steven’s attempts at a typical journal entry. Khonshu isn’t mentioned. Marc’s insomnia gets worse. If they sleep early, they assume it’s because they’re not actually sleeping, but switched out. Steven pops in on Jake from time to time, sometimes in the car at night, sometimes when he’s back at the bar, but nothing ever comes out of it, nothing permanent. Things aren’t okay, but they’re manageable, and Steven knows it could be worse.
The library has become a second home in a way the museum never had. For one, no Donna—everyone he works with is sweet, even the director. Second, the familiarity—he’s not enclosed in one space, like the gift shop, he can go anywhere (depending on what he’s assigned, of course). The front desk checking out books, the back office to help the librarians organize volunteers, out shelving books and helping the shaky old people turn on computers. People can be cruel, but he’s learned to manage it—to respect it. It becomes a game, almost, watching how people work and function. There are highlights, of course—the student group that comes every Wednesday morning and has warmed up to him enough to show him their latest exam scores, the two little girls with rubber duck charms tied into their locs rambling to him about their new non-fiction bird books as he scans them, the cranky old man who apologized—apologized!--to him last week after weeks of his reign of terror. He likes it. He likes coming in, dumping his bag off, and finishing off his coffee and talking to his co-worker while the library slowly wakes up.
He doesn’t like whoever keeps littering in the science fiction shelves.
“That’s the third one this week,” Stephie says as Steven stomps back to the desk, gum wrapper between two fingers, “and it’s Tuesday.”
Tuesday morning. They’ve barely opened. If he knew any better he’d think they were doing it on purpose.
“One of these days, I’ll snap and spend the entire day sat there,” Steven threatens, dropping the wrapper into the grey rubbish bin beneath the circle desk. It floats and somehow redirects and falls to the floor. He huffs, bends down, and throws it directly into the bin.
“They won’t do it,” Stephie says, “they’ll wait ‘til you’re gone.”
“Should put a poster up,” Steven says, dropping back into his chair. It squeaks, because all the chairs are squeaky. They haven’t gotten new chairs since the dawn of time, according to the head librarian, who has been here for two decades, so Steven goes by whatever she says.
Stephie sways back and forth in her chair, pushed away from the desk to face Steven. One trainer-clad foot is on the ground, the other leg crossed over. She directs her hand across the air, miming writing, “Listen here, rubbish cunt—”
Steven’s eyes go wide, and he quickly looks around—for patrons and the librarian on shift—before whisper-yelling, “No, no, we can’t—”
Stephie’s grinning. Her shoulders are shaking, but she’s trying hard not to laugh audibly.
“Nevermind,” he says, red-faced and trying not to let her contagious laughter affect him.
She snorts, then immediately slaps a hand over her mouth. But it only makes Steven laugh, although much quieter than what hers would end up being. She has a loud, squeaky laugh—contagious, but not the best for a library.
“Did it to yourself,” he says, pulling himself back into the desk.
Back to work—until Stephie’s boyfriend swings by to drop off coffee for the two of them. They look like they were meant to be together—not as though they look alike, the way some couples look like siblings, but as though their personalities were meant to exist side-by-side. His sleeve of tattoos, black hair with light brown roots, the slow slur of his words, his easygoing nature whenever he comes around, greeting Steven like a longtime friend; her slouched cardigan over spaghetti straps, loose belt-less trousers, never any jewelry apart from a stud pierced into her tongue, dyed brown hair with black roots, and radically accepting in a way that frightens Steven sometimes. They’ve been dating for twelve years.
Before he leaves, Stephie grabs his hand and shows off the line around his wrist—more ink added to an arm and hand already full of art. She holds her one arm up—no tattoos except for a paw by her elbow and a black line around her own wrist. Matching tattoos.
When he leaves, Steven tells her, leaning against the desk by her chair, “Will the fourth matching tattoo be a line around your fourth finger, or is that too on the nose for you?”
“Shut it,” she says noncommittally. She’s looking at the logo design on the cup sleeve—purple vines and leaves. She swirls it and sips before finally saying, “Everyone I’ve ever known who’s gotten married eventually divorced.”
Steven blinks. He’s holding his coffee with his left hand. She can see the ring on his finger clearly. “I haven’t.”
She blinks back at him, face clearing, eyes widening in the slightest. Like she’s been caught in something. “Right,” she says, shaking her head. “Yeah.”
“What?” Should he be offended or confused? “I haven’t been divorced.”
Her eyes dart everywhere except him. But when they find him again, she seems to realize there’s no getting out of this. She slumps a little in her chair and says pityingly, “Steven, it’s okay.”
“...sorry?”
“It’s okay to move on,” she adds, oddly insistent.
Steven’s trying to make sense of it, silence lingering. Gradually, the pitying look fades and instead mirrors his confusion.
Slowly—and quietly, looking around to make sure nobody can overhear—she says, “When we first met, you said you were going through things. You were so downtrodden all the bloody time. And when I asked about your ring, you looked heartbroken, couldn’t even speak about it.”
“Oh,” is all he can say as the pieces click in his head.
When they first got this job, Marc was in…lukewarm water with Layla. They were figuring things out. And Steven still felt like they were in the early early stages of dating. If Marc was up here, then he would’ve had a reaction like that—and he wouldn’t want to speak, not with how poor his British accent is.
“We were going through things, a bit,” he says. She’s staring at him intently, hanging onto his words. “A part of me thought she wanted a divorce.”
She did. She said it. Didn’t she? Steven can’t remember; it’s all muddled and mixed up, blended with Marc’s emotions and his memories. The transition was hard on all of them, Layla included.
She squints at him. “But you didn’t?”
“No,” he says, brows furrowing, “’course not. I’ve got a ring, Stephie.”
“I thought that was--!” She leans closer, lowers her voice: “I thought you were being a loser about it, no offense. I wanted to give you time to move on!”
“I’ve mentioned her after that,” he says, amusement bleeding into his tone.
“Not in relation to being married.”
“Haven’t I talked about us living together?”
Grim, she says, “Some exes continue living together. Rent is outrageous these days.”
“Not us. No break-up. A tense spot, but we’re, you know, we’re…” He tries to think of a word, but thinks of Layla. He smiles a little, chest warming. “We’re—yeah.”
“You need to let me meet her,” she says.
Steven’s face warms. “I dunno. She’s busy.”
The phone rings from where it sits near Stephie’s workspace, startling them both. She looks at it, then looks back to Steven as she starts to reach for it: “What’s your favorite restaurant ‘round here? You’re vegan, aren’t you?”
“Most days,” he says, which she takes as a joke, smiling. Her fingers rest on the handle of the phone. “Um. There’s an Indian restaurant a street over.”
“We’re going there for lunch,” she says, but seems uncertain about it, eyeing him for a refusal. The phone rings for the third time, but she still doesn’t pick it up, waiting for him.
“Alright,” he says quickly. When’s the last time he got invited out? When’s the last time he made plans with someone that wasn’t Layla? “Sounds—yeah. Okay.”
She grins before finally turning to answer the phone. He makes his way back to his workspace on the other side of the circle desk, taking a long sip of his coffee before setting it by his stack of sticky notes—far away from his mouse and keyboard.
Absentminded, he taps his fingers along letters on the keyboard, not pushing down hard enough for the computer to register. He glances at Stephie, still on the phone, takes another sip of his coffee; holds it in both hands as he looks out at the library.
Thinking back, he did have friends in school as a kid. He was the one who went to school most of the time, but that meant he had to hide his accent and adapt to Marc's American-ness. He could be bubbly and interested in school and friendly, but he had to respond to the name Marc, he had to introduce himself to the other kids as Marc, he had to wear his accent. His parents didn’t often let him do sleepovers or birthdays. And after Randall died, he didn’t hang out with anyone at all outside of school. His parents didn’t allow it. Like they thought he’d…
Steven blinks at his coffee. He takes another drink, letting dissociation sweep his attention away from that train of thought. He sets the coffee down when he notices someone moseying to the desk with books in tow. He checks out their books, scans the library card, tells them the due date, and sends them on their way. Then, back to his coffee. Back to realizing he never had a friend that was his first. Never had someone in their life that didn't first know him as Marc's alter.
Until now. Stephie knows him first as Steven. It’s embarrassing as much as it’s exciting.
The restaurant is surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon. They’re seated quickly, at least. Steven expects her to immediately start grilling him about Layla, but instead, she eases into the conversation with talk about the new planters outside the library.
“Dunno who will take care of it,” she says, and Steven agrees, “they want a nice little garden but Christ, Steven, none of them know shite about plants.”
“I helped Megan go through volunteers,” he begins to say.
She’s already starting to laugh. “Did you look for gardeners?”
He’s smiling, too. “I tried.”
She laughs loudly. Something in him settles—an anxiety he didn’t realize was there. It’s different from the library, from that familiarity. Like he can miss a step in the staircase and send them both tumbling down it. But it’s not so different, afterall. She’s still Stephie, and Steven’s still Steven.
They get their drinks, take their orders, and that’s when the conversation gets deeper. She shares stuff he didn’t know, and when she prods into his life, he finds himself more giving about information than he usually is.
He gets too into the conversation, he forgets himself, he forgets he’s supposed to be Marc’s alter. He accidentally lets slip he has a degree in Egyptology, to which she’s delighted and says she’ll start sending history students and teenagers with hyperfixations over to him.
“You are mysterious,” she says. Their food is coming around the corner, it’ll be a nice distraction from the horrified embarrassment he’s trying to mask. “I didn’t know you were interested in that sort of thing. I went to school for childcare but the pay sucks the soul out of you, really. Is that why you didn’t get a career in that?”
“Couldn’t find a job,” he admits.
She nods. Their food is served, and after polite talk with the waiter and first bites of their food, she says, “Niche degrees, yeah. I wish I was like you and spent time in school doing what I enjoyed. Wanted to do art, thought I’d make a good school teacher, ended up doing neither. Wasted time.”
He frowns, shakes his head. “Not wasted time if you figured out you didn’t like it. Just means you got to know yourself a bit more, learned what you want.”
She laughs a little and says, “Cheers. Did you meet your wife doing that? Wait, what did you set out to work as?”
“Wanted to work in a museum,” he admits, and she tsks.
“That’s hard. Museums are tough to squeeze into.”
His brow furrows. “Are they?” He asks, then eats while she talks about her sister, who works as a curator for a small-scale museum, and the years she spent as a volunteer. Apparently, it’s hard to find museum work for people with degrees, too. It comforts him more than he expected it would.
Then, she asks about Layla, and he’s not sure how much truth he should tell—and who’s truth. He can say he grew up here, that he moved to London and couldn’t get a museum job so he fell into library work instead, but what about the things that matter? What if Marc meets Stephie one day? What if they become close? Marc would have to lie about himself—about them, about how they met Layla. How he met Layla—and that’s what matters. Marc and Layla were first.
Then what? He tells her they have DID, and then--then Steven will have to tell Stephie he lied to her. Everything he said was a lie. No, he doesn’t have a degree. No, he wasn’t raised here—he’s not British at all. Marc was raised in Chicago—yes, in the states. And yes, Steven was technically raised there, too. He said he was raised here because their brain thought a fictional character was so cool, and so comforting, and such a reassuring, strong presence that it convinced Steven he’s from here.
He can’t take back what he’s already said. He doesn’t want to. But he tells her they met Layla at a funeral without specifying, but he doesn’t have to. She’s shocked. He doesn’t talk in specifics, just tells her about the two of them going on trips together during his…internship. His vague internship for a degree he doesn’t have. They went to Cairo together. They fell in love. She’s the one who proposed, but Steven doesn’t actually know if that’s true—he imagines between the two of them it’d be her, until he realizes he’s imagining himself, as Steven, and not Marc. She’d be the one to propose to Steven, but would she propose to Marc, or would Marc propose to her? It’s hard to imagine, either way.
Stephie seems grateful for any information at all. He wonders if everyone he runs into thinks he’s a private, mysterious person. He doesn’t try to be. Leftover habits from childhood, keeping everything secret.
When they talk about hobbies, he tells her he goes to the gym sometimes—inconsistent, depends on his mood. She laughs and says she’s the same; she tries to go each new year, but the resolution always falls apart eventually. We’re similar in that regard, she tells him, but it only makes him feel alone. He tells her he likes driving, but when he moved to London, he started preferring public transport to traffic. He likes art, and painting, but never has the time or motivation. He tries to stick to being vegetarian, at least, but sometimes he caves. Bits and pieces of lies and non-lies he doesn’t know how he’ll keep track of.
But it’s for Marc and Jake, if they ever want to pop out and be friends with her without telling her. And if they ever do tell her, it’ll be easier. Even if it makes him feel weird and mismatched and lonely right now. All he thinks about is having to prove these things if Marc and Jake don’t front around her. She’ll ask about driving one day, or she’ll ask about his art, or ask to go to the gym together and help her with the machines, and he’ll flounder, because he lied. Because he doesn’t actually do it. Because he’s...like this. Because he’s trying to accommodate for all of them, but if they don’t come around, then the accommodation is useless, and he looks weird.
It doesn’t matter. Not right now. They finish their meals and she looks happy. Steven’s happy, too, despite…everything else.
Stephie leaves at 2pm with her boyfriend. Steven stays an hour after, then heads out. He swings by the store to see if they have acai—Layla’s been wanting to make acai bowls at home because the shop closest to them is too overpriced to justify their new craving—but they’re still out of stock. He greets the pigeons he walks past, and reminds himself—again--to buy bird food.
Layla’s out when he gets to the flat. When Marc called her after that moment in their bedroom, mending Steven’s jeans, she greeted Steven with an enthusiastic, “Steven! I’ve missed you!” It flustered him enough to make him hide inside. Marc laughed about it and told her, and Layla, to his surprise, got flustered because he was flustered.
“Teenagers,” Marc accused with a laugh.
Today, Marc doesn’t come around to do any after-work activities, so it’s just Steven. Which is fine. He checks the journal—Jake’s back to replying with his doodles, including one of how Steven looks in the innerworld, to which Steven carefully cuts out and tapes it on the wall above their desk as keepsake—and reads an old book on Egyptian art. A book he’s already read, sure, but he loves to re-read things. Layla texts and says she’ll be home in half an hour; Steven gets started on dinner so it’s ready when she comes in.
Before, when she didn’t know who was in the body, she’d forgo their name until she knew. Now, she’s taken to greeting them with a fond, “Hey, Snoopy.”
“Layla!” He calls enthusiastically, stepping out from the kitchen to smile at her, careful of his hands, which are covered in (vegetarian) meatball mixture. She smiles as she dumps her keys into the dish on the table by the door. “I’m making meatballs with flatbread.”
“Smells good,” she compliments. She has bags on her arms from her trip to—wherever. Steven’s steps stutter, not knowing if he should help even with his covered hands, but she shakes her head and says, “I’ll tell you about my day once you’ve finished up."
He finishes cooking. They sit down at their little two-seat table, and she tells him about her day out in the shops. Some of what she bought is for him—for later, which Steven assumed that meant it was for Marc, but when he voiced that, she seemed stricken and said, “I wouldn’t get him a gift without giving you one, Steven. No, it’s for December.” And at his baffled state, she added, shyer than he expected, “Marc never wanted to celebrate Hannukah, so. I have to start prep-ing early for you, right?”
It excites him. He forgets about holidays—not on purpose, if Steven wanted to sit down for a big meal and a work-free Saturday, Marc and Layla would do it for him, but because dissociation clouds his mind and whisks his attention away from it. He wanted to do something for Rosh Hashanah, even before Jake told him about the baklava story, but the days passed without him realizing, a haze settling over his thoughts each time he glanced at the date until it was too late. Steven thinks Hannukah will be the first, actual Jewish holiday he’ll get to celebrate with Layla; he’s not holding out hope for Yom Kippur, as much as he wants to try.
After, they watch The Mummy—another check off their to-watch list. She washes up before they settle down, pajamas and purple bonnet on. The bow sits at the top of her forehead; Steven thinks it’s cute. When Layla eventually falls asleep, Steven tries to pick her up and take her to bed the way Marc does, but he struggles with getting a stable grip on her, and she wakes up giggling as he accidentally tickles her. When she fully awakens and realizes it’s Steven, she gets embarrassed. She pulls away, and so does he.
They tidy up—throw blankets folded and on the back of the sofa again, pillows in their rightful spots. Steven turns out the lights, and at the end of the hall, Steven brushes the back of her hand, and Layla kisses his nose. Steven smiles, nose scrunching. She smiles back and kisses his lips. It’s a toothy kiss, and the silliness of it only makes them smile more. Soon, they relax, wanting to kiss properly. Not for long, but not completely chaste. They wish each other good-nights like teenagers, as Marc said, like Steven’s dropping Layla at her door.
Steven washes up. He turns on the lamp so he can read a bit more. When a wave of tiredness crashes over him, he sets the book aside and tries to sleep.
And tries. And tries.
He’s tired but he won’t be able to sleep. Beneath his skin, his muscles are stone. His heart is beating too fast. Even when he tries to take a deep breath, his breathing returns to a shallow inhale and exhale.
“Marc,” he whispers, eyes falling shut.
He tries to reach for him, but ends up running into a barrier, like Marc’s shutting Steven out physically. Steven sighs, agitated. It’s run-off from Marc’s panic; he wants to snap, wants to be annoyed with Marc, knowing he’s the one who will have to wake up at seven and get ready for work, work the entire day through his exhaustion. But that’s not fair; everything that happens to the body affects Marc, too. And it’s not as though Marc wants to be too afraid and panicked to sleep. Neither of them want this.
“I know you’re there,” he murmurs.
As a child, before he’d fall asleep, he’d have these strange almost-dreams of hugging another boy, one that looked just like him. The boy would always hide his face into Steven’s neck. He’d never want to be seen. He never thought much of it—dissociation stole any suspicion of what it could mean. Looking back at it, knowing it was Marc needing affection, only makes him want to go back as he is now, as an adult, and take them both away from there.
He can feel Marc now, like he’s slipped into bed beside him. Laying next to him, arms barely touching. He can almost smell his shampoo.
Steven doesn’t open his eyes, but he does turn his head. His cheek brushes the pillow. “Marc,” he repeats quietly.
He can feel Marc’s body heat. No, not in actuality, and not as hallucination, but—dissociation. Imagining Marc there. If he opens his eyes it’ll go away. He doesn’t want it to. He feels comfortable and he wants to talk about this. Marc’s been having these strange...almost panic attacks when they try to sleep, whenever Jake isn’t forcing them to switch.
Marc says, a mumbled, muffled, distant, “Nothing.”
Steven would roll his eyes if he could.
“Seriously. Nothing.” He’s gaining clarity to his voice.
“Mmm,” Steven hums, not believing him, but he’s far too tired to argue about it. If Marc doesn’t want to talk, he won’t push. But he’s got time to wait; they won’t be getting any sleep. Three or four hours, maybe. Five if they’re lucky. Maybe six, but in two three-hour increments—sleep three hours, wake up, stay awake for an hour, fall back asleep. Steven hates those nights.
Steven asks sleepily, “Should we lie here or read a bit more, you reckon? Or tea? I know you don’t like those teas made for sleep, we’ve don’t have to drink those, I can make somethin’ different.”
Marc doesn’t want to move. He wants to lie here. It’s comfortable, and he’s—afraid. And it’s freezing him solid.
Steven frowns. He turns his face more, so his cheek is fully against the pillow. His fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, knowing he’ll come up empty. In a whisper, he asks, “What’s scaring you?”
He could take a guess. It’s not hard. He doesn’t know why he’s started to not care about their night adventures while Marc’s terrified of them. No, not that he doesn’t care—he’s apathetic, dissociation glazing over any hint of panic. Maybe it’s because he knows Jake, or maybe it’s because whenever Steven pops in, it’s times when there isn’t any violence—or is he dissociating that if it happens?--so it feels less… traumatic.
Jake’s going out to do Khonshu’s bidding. Of course this affects Marc more. Steven didn’t get to know Khonshu very well, but Marc did. He saved Marc’s life, convinced him he was indebted. Khonshu, not a human person, but a god. An Egyptian god.
Their insides squeeze. If Marc was really beside him, Steven would see him tense up.
He won’t discuss emotions. Steven already knows he’s going to deflect from the problem before he does it: a snapshot of Stephie pops up in his mind, from the restaurant. He wonders if Marc was there, or if memories have leaked over to him since. Given the limited snapshot-memory Marc’s reflected back to him, he thinks he may have leeched from Steven’s memory.
“She’s really nice,” Steven says quietly. His eyes blink open before he remembers why he wanted them shut. He frowns, seeing the empty space beside him.
An image of Layla in her own bed comes to mind. Steven winces and immediately shakes his head. “I don’t think we’re that close yet.”
Amusement, from Marc.
Steven rolls his eyes, now that he can. “You married her, not me. We’re still—dating. And I like taking things slow with her.”
Marc goes silent for a while. Steven reaches over and turns off the lamp to try and help them relax into sleep. It won’t work, he already knows. The dark feels better anyways. He lays back down, bundles the blanket up to his chin. It’s getting colder. Layla doesn’t like it, he’s found out. Maybe they should take a holiday together. Maybe Layla would like it if they both went to Cairo.
Something’s bothering Marc. It feels like there are words on his tongue he can’t yet say—they’re there, waiting to be spoken. Steven’s eyelids flutter, surroundings growing distant as he tries to step closer to Marc and prod at whatever he isn’t saying, but it doesn’t work. Marc takes several steps back.
Steven blinks up at the dark ceiling, coming back to himself. Light comes in through the window, street lamps and moonlight; their curtains are too short. They need longer ones. Black-out curtains, like Marc said once, right? Bird food and curtains. And acai, for Layla and him.
Internally, Marc says, startling Steven, “You’re allowed to have your own friends.”
Steven laughs—not a full laugh, but a quiet, half-snort that he’d be embarrassed by if Layla heard. “I know that, thank you.”
“Do you? Know?”
Steven’s smile fades. His brow furrows. “I’d say so, yeah.”
“You felt alone.” Blended with his words, a distant, muffled memory of Steven talking about meeting Layla during his fake internship.
Feeling unmoored, Steven asks, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Marc’s frustrated; even if it didn’t bleed into his tone, Steven can feel it. “You don’t have to lie to her about your life.”
“You realize I’d have to lie to her either way, right?” Steven’s frustrated, too. He doesn’t know if it’s a byproduct of Marc’s, or if the way his tone hardens is completely of his own volition. “The only way to tell her the truth is by saying I have DID, and it’s too early for that.”
Marc’s doesn’t say anything. But Steven's last few words feel heavy, all of a sudden, like they’re echoing between them.
Steven’s eyes grow big. He’s wide awake now. “You don’t want me to tell her. Ever. That’s what you’re getting at.”
Marc’s talking fast, now—strings of sentences blending and merging, trying to convince Steven of something he knows Steven won’t be convinced of, but Steven isn’t having it. He sits up in bed, squeezes his eyes shut, and says harshly, “What happens if you or Jake front around her? What if Jake wants to be friends with her, too? I told her all of those things for a reason, ‘cause I—I thought it’d make things easier.”
“Jake and I will pretend,” Marc insists, “like you have.”
“I don’t want that,” Steven stresses, eyes opening. He looks off to the side, unseeing, too focused on their conversation. “I don’t want anyone to have to pretend. I can’t—I hate lying, I hate pretending, I don’t want to do it anymore. I know it’s not safe ‘cause we aren’t close, but if we get closer, I’d like to.”
Steven waits, searches for Marc’s response. He can’t feel much of anything. There’s a steel wall built around the topic, and Marc’s not budging. He’s not even hearing Steven out at all. If Marc’s feelings were words, it’d be a simple, tough fucking luck, Steven.
“Oh, is that how it is?” Steven glances at the door, lowers his voice to say angrily, “Sorry, forgot it’s Marc’s DID. It’s Marc’s life, and Marc’s alters, and Marc gets to make all the choices.”
“Steven.” Marc’s regretful. And...sad. It digs at their chest. “I’m just...I’m trying to let you have your fun. It’s—it’s Steven, and Steven’s alters and Steven’s DID with your friend. That’s how it should be.”
“It’s not, though,” Steven says, petulant. “It’s just Steven.”
Just Steven. Marc doesn’t understand their DID is part of him. His identity is tied to it. His identity is tied to Marc, and Jake, and their shared life. Maybe they have no problem lying about their life, but it’s inauthentic to Steven. He doesn’t think he can fully trust someone without them knowing. It’d feel strange. Like being friends with someone for years and years and somehow not ever talking about a spouse. Marc talks about Layla all the time, if he had to pretend she didn’t exist, what then? He’d have to make up lies to fill in the gaps. He’d be missing a part of himself, his identity, every time he lied.
Steven doesn’t know why he feels the way he does. He doesn’t know why he can’t be like Marc and Jake. But it’s how he feels about his identity as a DID system, and Marc’s being unfair about future events that might not happen! They’re just co-workers who happened to get lunch once.
Calmer—starting to edge into that gentle, reassuring tone he takes when trying to break not-so-good news to Steven—Marc says, “Two people know about our DID. One out of two that found out about our black-outs and amnesia took advantage of it. He’s dragging Jake around, manipulating him, hurting him. And—and we can’t do anything about it. We just have to let this happen, because we can’t control Jake and we sure as hell can’t control Khonshu.”
Steven’s silent, letting the words linger. He takes a deep breath, one he isn’t sure if it’s from Marc or himself, and exhales slow.
Marc continues, still speaking internally, “Khonshu could do anything to Jake.” It comes with a rush of panic and fear, weighing down on their chest. Steven’s breath stutters. “I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I know—we have roles, right? You were the one to ignore the pain so we could get through the day, and I was the one aware of it. That’s happening now, you’re not emotionally aware the way I am about this. And that’s fine. It’s—it’s just reality, it’s just how we are, how we function. Whatever. But I can’t…”
Their hands scrub over their face. This time with the body's voice, cracking with emotion, he says, “I’m scared Khonshu’s gonna drag me back. All of us. I know there are ways to stop being his avatar, but I’m just...a human. And he’s a god. He can hurt us in ways I can’t save us from. I’m trying to be patient for Jake, but it’s wearing down at me.”
Gently, from inside, Steven murmurs, “It’s hard, I know. I don’t reckon anyone would fare well knowing their body’s gettin’ thrown around without their doing.”
Marc rubs his face again and sighs. “Yeah.” He sounds angry with himself.
Steven says, still internally, still as gentle as possible, “Why don’t we get water in the kitchen, yeah? We can come back, do a reset, you know.”
He won’t mention Layla; Marc would resist all attempts at calming down if Steven did that, he never wants to bother her with this stuff. Instead, Steven paints a picture in their head: going to the dark kitchen, turning on one of the softer lights, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. They’d drink it, refill it, take it with them back to bed. They’d get back into bed, the cold of the flat trying to freeze them over quickly ebbing from the warmth of the blankets. It’d be so easy to let themselves sink into the bed and relax. All Marc would have to do is follow—no thoughts, no stress, Steven’s already got the plan laid out.
Marc’s tempted. It does sound easy. But he won’t sleep after returning to bed, he knows. Steven will read books, maybe he’ll convince them to wake Layla. He can’t stay here, he needs to...run. He needs to escape from the box he feels he’s trapped in, just for a little while.
Steven knows he’s been defeated when Marc starts getting dressed.
“Write a note for Layla,” Steven reminds him.
Marc scowls as he shoves a hoodie over his head. “You know I will.”
Then, later, as Marc’s stuffing his feet into his shoes, Steven hesitantly warns, “You know Jake might be out there. Right?”
Out there—as if he’s separate from them, a creature lurking in the night. Steven doesn’t mean it that way at all—he just doesn’t know if having a run-in with Jake is the best idea given the way Marc feels.
Marc rolls his shoulders back. There’s a sticky note on the door, and their flat keys are in Marc’s hand. “Good. I’ll kick his ass.”
Whatever was barring him to the front has left; Steven feels himself sinking into pleasant, comforting darkness as Marc thuds down the stairs of their flat building. He murmurs a warning to be quiet, and Marc quickly lightens his step. Steven gets little glimpses here and there—the fresh, cool scent of the night air, the electronic chime as they enter a convenience store, the humming of the cold aisle—but gradually, everything tethering him to the outside world fades.
It might be a dream. Or the innerworld. Or both.
It’s raining. The sky is a deep, dark grey; he can’t tell what time of day it is, only that it is day. Instead of his flat building, where he’s been appearing whenever he switches inside, he’s on the front porch of his childhood home. Beside him, in front of the curtained window, is the small wood bench he would sit on and tie his shoes before mum took him to school. The scratchy welcome mat lays behind him. A few potted plants sit by the door, tabs sticking out to identify the type of plant they are. The pots themselves are painted—the blue one painted by his dad, the pink and green one by his mum, and the rainbow one by him.
It smells like rain. He takes in a deep breath of it and sighs happily. It’s not raining very hard, not yet; a drizzle, lightly tapping at the roof and the road. He watches dots of rain spread and spread until the entire pavement and road are saturated as grey as the sky. Nobody’s outside, but across the road, a downstairs light is on; it’s so dark, he can see shadows moving in the lit room until the curtains draw shut. The house next to it, their garage opens and a car zips out, disappearing down the street. The neighborhood falls back into a peaceful stillness. Until the screaming starts, and Steven’s face drains of color.
High-pitched, loud, blood-curling. Like someone’s getting murdered. He stands on wobbly legs, trying to see where it’s coming from—inside, he realizes. Inside his home.
He stares at the door, heart pounding. He has to go in. He’s terrified, and his eyes are already stinging with tears, but he needs to. He needs to and he can’t; he’s frozen. His heart hurts so bad his face screws up from the pain, a hand pressing to his chest to try and massage it away. His hand gravitates to his face, covering his eyes like he can hide from what’s happening. But no, the screaming continues.
Automatic, his legs lurch forward, taking him off the porch and into the rain. It pelts down on him, turning from a drizzle to a storm. His clothes are drenched in seconds, sticking to his skin; his hair plasters against his forehead and his nape. All he can think about is the screaming—it grows faint as he staggers to the neighbor’s house, but it echoes in his head.
Steven has no plan; he’ll knock on the neighbor’s door and figure it out from there. But as he steps up to their porch, he hears voices through the cracked window. The smell of cigarettes drift out, mixing with the rain.
“—got autism.”
“You think?”
“In my old apartment, my neighbor had an autistic four year old that just would not stop screaming, every night. I could hear thumps of the kid throwing shit around.”
“Jesus. Was that while you were in school?”
“For nursing, yeah. Would show up to the hospital looking half dead.”
Laughter, then a pause. The screaming continues.
“They need to give him candy or something.”
“Their youngest drowned in the caves a year ago, did you hear about that? Sirens up and down the—”
“Holy shit.”
“Right? If the child’s autistic and—well…”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I should close the window.”
“My dad would’ve whooped me if I screamed like that.”
“What do you mean, you screamed like that during movie night last week.”
“Fuck off, I didn’t.”
“You did! Like a ban—like that autistic boy!”
The window slams shut. Steven jumps. He hears the window latch, locked. A shiver runs down his back, shaking him. His throat squeezes.
He goes back home. He sits on the porch, hugging his knees to his chest. The storm worsens; thunder shakes the trees as rain slams into the house. The screaming turns into these horrible, sobbing shrieks. He trembles.
Then, like a cord was pulled, all at once, the shrieks stop.
Steven sits up, eyes wide. The storm stops. He can hear his own unsteady breathing and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He turns his head to glance at the door without facing it head-on.
He should go inside. He needs to. He needs to help. He needs to, he needs to. But he can’t move from where he’s sat. The rain froze him over, stuck him here. His limbs are made of stone, too heavy to move, and his mind is clouded over. He looks out at the puddles in the road, and a stray, childish thought crosses his mind, wanting to get up and jump in them. He won’t; he can’t. He stays like this, huddled in place, until his eyelids weigh too heavy, and his eyes shut.
Steven’s body aches the next day. A headache pulses at the back of his head, stabbing where his skull meets his neck. It takes him ages to drag his body out of bed. He forgoes breakfast—no appetite—and gets dressed with his eyes half-closed, groggy and groaning in pain as his stiff muscles jerk to pull his shirt on, then his pants, then his button-down. He brushes his teeth, staring at the shadows beneath his dull eyes. He fixes his hair, splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t look any better.
He’s out the door before Layla wakes; he’s thankful, for once. Who knows what she’ll say about this. Probably that he should stay home.
At the library, Stephie double-takes when she sees him. Her step falters, lingering, but she ends up heading into the back room to drop off her things—bag, water bottle. When she steps back to the front desk, she immediately asks, “Long night?”
Steven doesn’t know where the excuse comes from, but it slips out as easy as breathing: “Drank a bit too much with Layla.”
Stephie sits down in her usual seat, spinning to face him, sat in his. “I didn’t know you drank.”
“Usually don’t,” he says. He feels strange. Dissociated, sure, but something else, too. Out of place, like he was thrown into an alternate dimension and everything is just a little off. He tries to shake it away. “Don’t like the taste of it, but she was in the mood.”
“So you were a good husband and tried to keep up,” she teases. “Eating my words from yesterday, all that talk of being divorced.” As she gets out her phone—to text her boyfriend—she asks, “What size coffee, babe? Large?”
“A medium’s fine, really.”
“So a large,” she says, thumbs flying across the screen, “got it.”
“You’re too kind, Stephie,” he complains with a sigh, turning back to the desk.
“And you look half-dead. Need to get some caffeine in you if I don’t want to re-shelve all the books tomorrow.”
Steven wants to slam his head against the desk. Instead, he closes his eyes and rubs at his chest. “No volunteer today?”
“Nope. Exercise is good for hangovers.”
Steven doubts that. Even so, this isn’t a hangover—this is...whatever Marc did. And whatever Marc did, he doesn’t want to know. He wants to get through the day, go home, lay in bed, and sleep for fifteen hours.
He gets through the first two hours fine. Stephie’s boyfriend comes in, he gets his coffee, and after, he heads out into the shelves with the cart of books. About halfway through, Stephie finds him, her eyebrows furrowed, a question poised on her lips as he’s reaching high up, inserting a book on a shelf he didn’t want to walk across the library and grab the step-stool for. Her eyes dart down, and she freezes, sucking in a sharp breath. Her eyes immediately jump back to his face.
Steven frowns, settling back from where he was stood on his toes. “Alright?”
She stammers, “Yes, I’m—yes. Fine.”
“You had a question?” He prompts as he grabs for another book.
She stares at him. “Right. Um, nevermind. Sorry.”
Bewildered, Steven watches her turn around and walk away. He tries to make sense of it as he continues on, pushing the cart, putting away books, but it doesn’t make sense to him. He looks down at his shirt, but he didn’t spill anything on himself—and she wouldn’t have reacted that way if he did. It unsettles him—displaces him, gives him that same feeling he had earlier, like everything is just a little bit off.
Steven finishes off the cart around his usual lunch time. He heads into the back, takes out the container of noodles Layla packed for him, and eats it while staring at the wall, letting himself dissociate to the sound of Adam’s—one of the librarians—typing and clicking. When he’s finished, he sits back down in his chair at the front desk and Stephie immediately turns to him, staring.
“Hey,” he greets. There aren’t many people here today; a few people at the computers, a few hidden in the stacks. It means they have time to gossip.
But Stephie doesn’t look like she wants to. She looks serious, determined. She gets out of her seat and leans back against the desk right next to him and speaks in low tones: “Listen, I know we’re co-workers, but I’d like us to be friends, too.”
Steven brightens. “Me too!” He flinches at his own raised voice, lowers it to match hers. “I enjoyed yesterday.”
“You’re a great friend, you know. Real smart, kind with patrons. And you can come over anytime,” she says. He can’t read tone well, but he knows this isn’t a normal invite. Nothing about this is normal, and it makes his dissociation—his derealization, he pinpoints, that’s the feeling—worse. “We’ve got a spare bedroom.”
“Okay, wow.” He can’t hide his surprise. “Yes, I mean—that’s lovely, having an extra bedroom for guests, um. Is this about me drinking? I don’t drink often. If I visit, I won’t be too drunk to leave.”
“No, not at all. Sorry if I’m being awkward.” She touches his shoulder, then immediately pulls away.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nods and smiles—not her usual smile. This is all very strange. “Don’t worry about me. Here, I’ll write my boyfriend’s number down for you.”
She hurries off to her part of the desk, grabbing a sticky note and pen. He doesn’t have the opportunity to ask why she’s giving him his number. She hands him the sticky note, smiles, then returns back to her chair.
Steven stares at the sticky note, more confused than ever. And nothing gets cleared up by the time Stephie leaves an hour later, smiling at him kindly and waving goodbye, nothing like her usual playful self.
Either from the exhausting night, or the strange day with Stephie, Steven finds he doesn’t want to go home after work. Thinking of opening the door and seeing Layla there fills him with dread, and doom, and everything he doesn’t want to associate with Layla. Instead, he sits at a park near the flat and watches a sweet old granny feed the pigeons.
He should go to the store, find acai for Layla and bird food for the pigeons. He’s too exhausted. He imagines one of those emergency helicopters lifting him up and taking him home—if only. He has to walk home after this. How? How is he going to get home? He could fall asleep here.
Steven’s gaze grows blurred and distant, unseeing. Blank faced, emotionless, he picks at the belt loop of his trousers. He’s stuck here in place, an object with no tether, while the world moves around him. A world he isn’t in. He’s a goldfish in a goldfish bowl.
Suddenly, he’s hit with the urge to cry. He won’t be able to, too dissociated, but he wishes he could. If he cried it out here, he’d feel better. He’d be able to go home and not infect Layla with this weirdness.
Instead, he gets up unsteadily, and, on autopilot, goes home. He forces himself through the motions, dread building. By the time he gets to the door, he stands there without grabbing his keys, stalling for time. His insides squeeze, his shoulders pulled tight to his neck with stress. Stress from what? Seeing Layla?
He exhales, frustrated, and gets his keys out. He unlocks the door and ignores the nausea burning in his stomach as he pushes it open.
It feels like he’s sneaking. Lightly stepping inside, shutting the door. He toes off his shoes, puts them on the neat rack Marc complained about when he first got it. All of Layla’s shoes are here, which means she’s here. Somewhere. In her bedroom, probably.
Then, he hears her footsteps. He drops his work bag to the floor and stands there, waiting until Layla appears at the mouth of the hallway. She’s wearing one of his knit jumpers and sweatpants with a pair of her favorite fuzzy socks. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and her face is bare of makeup.
“Hey, Snoopy,” she greets fondly, stepping closer to them.
She reaches a hand out, and Steven is hit with a flash of panic. He startles, flinching back, slamming into the door hard. Layla freezes where she’s at, wide eyed. Steven’s heart pounds.
“Sorry,” he whispers. His accent sounds weird; more American, but he can’t feel Marc. He can’t feel anything, disconnected from everything internal. “I’m sorry.”
Layla’s brow furrows. She takes a measured step back. He relaxes.
“What happened today?” She asks softly.
What happened? Nothing. It was a normal day; he was the weird one. And Stephie, they were both strange.
“Nothing,” he says honestly. He sounds more British now. He doesn’t know what happened, why he flinched and why he could hear Marc in his voice without feeling him, but the moment starts to blur in his head; it’s not for him to stress about. Layla’s for him to stress about, the concern on her face. “Um, my co-worker kept acting strange. But that’s all, really.”
Layla seems to mull something over, tongue poking into her cheek. She offers, “How about you sit while I make tea?”
“Are you sure, love? I could make it.”
“I’m sure, I’ve got it. Thank you, Steven.”
She steps away, into the kitchen, and Steven retreats to the sofa, but he doesn’t remember sitting down. He blinks, the world tunnels, and in the next second, he’s laying in Layla’s bed, in Layla’s bedroom. She’s propped up against the headboard, and his head in her lap—a mirror of their snoopy-morning post-Jake confrontation. Except, this time, he can’t feel Marc. He can’t feel Marc, but he does feel sick to his stomach, and an ache clusters at the back of his head, right where it connects with his neck.
“Steven?” She asks gently.
His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He smacks his lips, tries to swallow. He gives up on talking. Instead, he grabs for her hand, and she intertwines their fingers. Her other hand pets through his hair. He closes his eyes again.
“I think you were triggered badly last night,” Layla whispers. A spark of panic ignites in his chest, but it’s quickly whisked away as her fingers drag over his scalp. “But you don’t need to worry about that right now, okay? Just rest, I’ll take care of you.”
The permission lets his body go lax. Steven’s head weighs heavy, sinking into her lap. His senses drift further away from him. He can’t tell if he’s falling asleep, or if he’s switching—either way, it’s a seamless, peaceful transition as the innerworld pieces together around him, like rain clearing, the sun coming out. First, the blank walls of the hallway, then the floor beneath him, then the scent of food cooking from another flat. Back in his innerworld flat building; he no longer switches into the treehouse, fortunately, but the corridor right outside his flat.
Steven’s innerworld flat is a result of being raised an American child in the 90s with no idea what a typical flat looks like—meaning, it’s somewhat Friends, mostly Seinfeld. The door opens into an open plan main room: wood floors, rugs beneath the coffee table in front of the white, plush sofa and the round dining table behind it; no divider for the kitchen, which is small, and consists of a outdated fridge, minimal counter space, and a kitchen bar fit for two seats but in reality, only one person could comfortably sit there. It’s enough space to fit a bookshelf with games and books, and beside that, an outdated computer he probably only used as a kid. Beyond that, a hallway leading into a toilet, then his bedroom. He’s never tried to change it, but maybe he should. Maybe he should take the time to make it a place he’d like to come back to.
It’s useful, ending up in his building rather than the treehouse. He sticks his hand into his pocket, takes out his keys, inserts it into the lock. He pushes the door open and steps inside, shutting it behind him as he takes off his shoes. It’s as he’s throwing his keys in a dish he keeps on the kitchen bar does he see the person on his sofa.
Steven freezes, arm still outstretched to drop his keys. Jake turns to look at him over the back of the sofa, arm stretched out like it’s no big deal. Jake grins.
“Hey.”