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ALFG Chapter 163
🕑 Added 2023-05-03 03:43:52 +0000 UTC#06: NORTHERN DOWNPOUR by PANIC! AT THE DISCO
He goes to bed sometime around dawn and only gets a few hours of sleep. Despite Hal constantly scaring him as he works, the soul does not explode or shatter or disappear. It looks like it's made of glass, but the needle and thread sew through it fine, and by the end, he has fingers smudged with blood and an intact patchwork sphere.
Hal shows him how to put it back into place, lowering it into the wounded wrist where it just sinks with a flash of pink. He bandages the injury after.
Sometime at five, he wakes up – much earlier than he usually does, because being made to take walks and chop wood has made him start to crash earlier; he actually has a decent sleep schedule now – and goes up to Three's room to check up on him.
The bed is empty.
The house is silent. Dirk holds his breath and listens.
There's faint clatter somewhere below. Three usually gets busy in the kitchen early in the mornings.
Sure enough, the guy's already walking around, trying to wrangle the toaster with one messed up wrist.
"What are you doing," Dirk asks flatly.
Three blearily turns to him, his usually well-groomed hair in tangles, dark circles under his eyes. "...I was starving."
"Sit down."
Dirk walks over to take the toaster out of his hands. He stares at his now-empty hand dolefully, tired red eyes narrowing at his palm.
"Dirk," he says.
"Sit down or you'll fuck your wrist up even more. How is it still not healing?" Dirk sets the toaster down on the counter and plugs it in. "Where does One keep the bread?"
"Cupboard, second to the left."
Dirk opens said cupboard and pulls the pack of bread out. Three sighs and goes over to sit by the island, slumping over in surrender.
Dirk hears him shuffling around trying to get comfortable, but he's otherwise silent. Once he's popped the bread in the toaster, he turns to find the god with his uninjured arm splayed out on the island, leaning his head on it as a makeshift pillow.
"One keeps lavender tea in the cupboard to your right. Can you make me some?" he croaks out. Dirk wordlessly opens the cupboard.
Three's dazedly staring off into space while he boils the water. The toast gets done first, so he slides it over to him and waits for the kettle to whistle, turning off the stove and letting the water cool for a few minutes before preparing the tea.
Jesus Christ, five months on a strange island and he can do this. What the fuck, actually. What the fuck.
"Thanks," Three mumbles around his toast as Dirk hands him the teacup on its saucer. See, he even knows fancy fuchsiablood table setting etiquette now.
Whatever, he'll cringe at that later. Dirk settles on the seat across from Three as the god silently eats. He looks way less serious when he's this tired, all the sharpness of his expression softened by fatigue. Three has always had an air of being put together, there to correct and snark and call out, but this morning he's only exhaustion and bruises under his eyes and wild hair. It's humanizing.
…or, maybe Dirk has a problem of putting certain people on pedestals. What was it Three had said – he's not perfect, and so he recognizes him.
"Does it hurt?" Dirk asks, eventually. "Having pieces of someone else with you?"
Three takes a sip of his tea and stares down at it for a moment, watching the steam rise. "No, not really," he says. "I barely really notice it. It only started to hurt because I got magic poisoning."
"Hal said the pieces were trying to pull away," Dirk says.
"I'm not pushing them away if that's what you're thinking," Three says. "I should very much hope we're friends – myself and the Dirk I know, I mean."
Dirk quiets. He caught on to what Hal was saying earlier and, honestly, par for the course for a version of him to immediately self-flagellate.
"Because you want to believe there's a place in this world for you too," Dirk says.
Three nods. "One…represents the end that comes for everyone," he says. "Seven is a force of nature; there will always be disasters and calamities."
He pauses.
"But, who really has room for memory?" Three asks. "People run from their pasts, and forget that all they are today is because of all that has happened. They hate consequence, hate what stays, hate the prospect of a future informed by all their choices before."
He looks down at his bandaged wrist.
It would be easier, and Dirk understands why most people would. Hell, if he could start over someplace new…he loves his friends, he really does, and he is going to go back to them. But once or twice, there has been the urge to run away and never come back. To disappear. To run from all his fuck-ups.
"Is it selfish to run away?" Dirk asks.
"I don't know," Three says. "I'd say it depends. Sometimes, there's nothing for you there and you should run away. You're only hurting yourself if you stay; if you plant yourself someplace else, you can thrive."
Dirk glances to the stairs, visible from the doorway. Like Hal.
"Sometimes, you're the one who's driving people off and if you want them to stay…something has to change. Relationships are a two-way street."
Dirk looks down at his hands, faded scars still on his palms even after ascension.While he's gotten frustrated with his friends once or twice – Roxy's pestering and Jane never believing him and Jake's refusal to communicate…and Hal's constant meddling in his affairs – he has never had any illusions that he's innocent. He might be worse than all of them.
But…he's not getting anywhere wallowing. Move forward. Hold on. Swim to shore.
When he looks up, Three is smiling softly, though he's not looking at him.
"You are so creepy," Dirk says, though he thinks he knows why Three can do that. Which – not ideal, but what can you do? Consequences are a thing.
"I'm very glad you're learning. I'm proud of you," Three says. "And thank you for the toast and tea."
"Yeah, well, I'm not unteachable, you know. I can catch on quick," he says.
"You do," Three says, to his surprise. He has to fight down the automatic feeling of pride flooding his chest. "You're very good at this."
Dirk clenches his teeth just so he doesn't embarrass himself. He has to remember Three's just being a smartass, with his positive reinforcement and everything.
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not. I apologize," he says. "What are you doing up this early, anyway?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Want some?" Three slides his tea over, still half full. "Might hit you like spice does since you're not used to it."
"Doubt it."
"What, you chickening out? Think a little tea is gonna knock you out cold?"
Asshole.
Dirk grabs the cup and chugs the rest of the tea down and tries not to make a face at the taste. He succeeds. "This shit is awful."
"It can be an acquired taste when you're not used to it," Three says. "I'm…going back to bed."
"You should."
Three hums, hopping off the chair. Dirk takes the dishes to the sink.
He probably won't be able to get back to sleep, but he follows upstairs if only to make sure the god goes back to bed. The dressing on his wrist isn't stained with blood, which is good, but still.
"Oh, right," Three says. "There's actually a skating rink close to here. I might not be able to help teach you, but I can take you there."
Dirk glances at his injury. "How about you let that heal first."
"Ah. Okay."
Idiot.
"Good night, Dirk," Three yawns, stumbling into his room and shutting the door behind him.
#
Three ends up sleeping for most of the next day. One lets Dirk stay in the house despite his unconscious host. He drops by Three's room to change his bandage and check the injury; the bone and flesh have mostly reformed, with only the skin missing. It's healing slower than a healthy godtier would, but it's healing.
Compared to Three's reasonably-sized home, One's mansion is massive. There is an honest to god fucking ballroom here, and where Three had a family dining room, this place has a dining hall.
Fucking fuchsiablood children.
Damara seems just as out of her depth as him, keeping to the living room for most of the morning until Seven (just as off-putting as his brother because he does not make a single sound when he pops up behind both of them) offers to show them around town.
There's nothing else to do, so Dirk goes with them. This side of Kisaragi is less sunnier, with constant storm clouds overhead, though it's not too cold. It's optimal for the nocturnal species since it's not too hot out though, and even Dirk finds himself squinting less in the light. Its quiet surroundings liven up at night as its residents similarly wake up – and it clicks why Three picked the other side of town. Even Dirk immediately itches to get away from the sheer everything when the neighbors blasting their clashing music starts. It's not bad, it's just not for him.
Three's awake by the time they get back, currently being wheedled by One to go back to bed. The little clown has latched onto his leg, giggling, while Electric Love halfheartedly tries to tug it off.
"Hal, tell him to grab it. Hal!" One yells, but all the android does is throw them a peace sign while he continues going through their photo albums, standing by a bookshelf in the corner.
Three, on the couch, immediately turns when the front door opens, easily rising and running over even with One and the clown (and thus Electric Love) holding onto him.
"Dirk," he says, tone so concerned Dirk has to mentally catalogue if he looks fucked up. "What did you do to my cat?"
Oh.
"I put him in the pet daycare down the street," Dirk says.
Three sighs in relief. The little clown opens its mouth wide, skin ripping and jaw unhinged and tries to take a bite out of his leg.
Dirk automatically retrieves his sword from his sylladex and swings the blade at it. Its teeth crash down on the metal, and it darts back into the shadows, cackling.
"What the fuck is that thing?" he asks.
One cringes. "It's…a classpect thing," they say, and pause for a moment. "You know how your version of me has a protector? That one's mine."
Dirk glances to Hal in the corner. "Don't remember my version of Hal being a little gremlin."
"Well, I didn't know Hal during my game, so my classpect saw it fit to make a protector instead. People with the same classpects can develop wildly different powers," they say. "Which daycare did you put the cat in?"
Seven volunteers to pick the little hellion up since he can teleport. One ushers everyone inside for the night while he goes, muttering for Three to for the love of god, sit down.
Three petulantly undoes the dressing on his wound to reveal it's fully healed, only the usual scar back in its place. "I'm fine," he says.
"We both know getting your soul undergo what is essentially invasive surgery takes a lot out of you for days. Sit down."
Dirk discreetly turns to Three; he swears he sees the god's eye twitch.
"Not a word," he bites out. So even the ever-wise, if slightly hypocritical, Three gets babied every now and then.
His cat is delivered a few minutes later, wiggling out of Seven's arms and instantly running for his owner the second he spots him. Three gladly crouches down to pick it up, cooing as he mushes his face into the animal's fur. It's kind of hilarious, seeing a guy so buff and covered in scars baby-talk a cat.
The ungrateful little shit climbs out of his grasp after a few seconds to wind around Dirk's legs, and then runs off to follow Seven to the kitchen.
"Thanks for being considerate of him, I know you're not the fondest of cats," Three says.
"Yeah, well, I'd probably get kicked out the house if I just locked him in," Dirk says.
Three snorts. "I'd fry you alive," he says, "But – really, thanks."
"Don't mention it," Dirk says. "Honestly. You'll make it weird."
Three laughs. "Okay," he says. "Come on, then."
#
The skating rink is a half-hour walk away from One's house. It advertises rentals and weekend classes for those interested in figure skating, but since it's a Friday, they're open for the public.
Damara had perked up at the mention of an ice rink when Three brought it up last night, so now their whole entourage has decided to visit the place. One's managed to drag Hal with them even with him protesting his metal limbs will lock up in the cold (liar – Dirk knows he can easily raise his temperature, he's a robot for god's sake; he just really likes...flirting…with One).
Even a universe away, these two know each other.
"What?" Three nudges his arm when he catches him staring a little too long at One and this other version of Hal.
"Nothing," Dirk says. "It's just weird to see. Even if it's not my version of Hal."
Three hums. "I get that, I guess. It's kind of weird to hear about another version of my older sibling and they don't even have us for little brothers."
"It's less that and more – " Dirk motions towards where, across the room, Hal is leaning down to whisper something to One, and the god laughs under their breath.
"Ohhh," Three says.
"I get it," Seven suddenly says, a bench away, lacing up his skates. Damara, beside him, looks up. "On dad, if I have to hear them flirt within my vicinity another time, I'm going to start indiscriminately calling down lightning."
Damara lets out a surprised bark of laughter, eyes wide with confusion. "What?"
"You don't get it – my phone's been nothing but Seven, Hal is here with hearts since he arrived," he says, turning to her. "I don't care, that's not my business, why do I have to hear about it."
Three turns away so he doesn't laugh in his brother's face.
"Are they that bad in your universe?" Seven asks Dirk.
"I don't know, I haven't…really been around them much," he says.
"Ah." Seven ducks his head. "I imagine the whole Anathema Point situation also hasn't been the best."
And the fact that Angeles might very well be dead by this time, their soul dying…
Dirk looks to Three, who raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Yes?"
"If a soul like Angeles is slowly – for a lack of a better word – draining, would it be possible to halt the process if it had the same thing done to yours?"
"Ah, the soul sharing?" Three asks. "Well…my situation is kind of unprecedented, so I don't know. Theoretically…"
He pauses. Dirk swears there's a brief flash of pink in his eyes.
"Heart splinters are solid breaks. Regular souls being damaged are like liquid draining out so, theoretically…" He inclines his head like he's listening. "Yes. In theory, it should work."
Perfect. Get to his version of the afterlife, stop Angeles from dying again, and that should be good enough to fulfill his end of the deal, right?
"Hal said he explained the whole thing to you," Three says, quietly. "You do understand you and Angeles would have to drift if a large amount of their soul needs to be held together, yes?"
Which needed similarity and trust. And he barely knows Angeles. Okay, so the plan needs a little revision.
Lucky for the kid, Hal's got an active classpect.
"Lend me those notes on drifting again, when we get home," Dirk says. "I have an idea."
#
Hal – this world's Hal – keeps imbalancing from how heavy his chassis is. One keeps laughing and pulling him back into place. Seven avoids them like the plague, instead quietly gossiping with Damara, who's faring better since they had ice rinks in Beforus, she's just out of practice.
Dirk nearly falls flat on his face for the umpteenth time. Ribbons latch onto his arms to prevent him from eating shit.
"Don't lunge," Three says. "You don't push off the ground like you're trying to jump, you're gliding. As in your whole weight is moving."
He's carefully pulled back. Three easily skates to his side and puts a hand between his shoulder blades to steady him.
"Feet apart," he says.
A child passes by them holding onto a huge plastic polar bear that's keeping her from crashing onto the ground as she slowly skates forward. Both of them watch as she goes.
Three starts: "...do you want to get one of those –"
"I'm not a kid," Dirk grits out. "I'll get it in a bit, just show me."
"Bend your knees a bit when you push and go with the motion instead of trying to lean back. Here – " Three takes out a hair tie from his jacket to put his hair up, and then holds his hands out, skating forward so he's facing Dirk properly. "I'll keep you steady. Push with one foot at a time like you're running."
This is fucking embarrassing.
Three raises an eyebrow. "You're not gonna learn if you don't start somewhere."
Jaw clenched, he takes Three's hands and tries to move forward, pushing with his left foot. Three glides back effortlessly, the bastard.
"Push to the side instead of digging back," Three says. He follows, and his body sways, but he fights the urge to lean backwards, instead holding onto Three's hands tight. If he falls, he's undoing every stitch he put into this asshole's soul.
They follow the curve of the rink, Three occasionally glancing over his shoulder so he doesn't crash into another skater. On the other side of the rink, Seven and Damara are skating circles around each other; Hal is sticking close to One.
"That's not the coat with the runes, right?" Three asks. Dirk turns back and realizes his fingers have been shaking. Warmth leeches into his palms and slowly works its way to the rest of his body. "Try not to forget it when you're going to cold places."
"I only have one, and I didn't exactly know we were going to an ice rink," Dirk says. His clothes are currently borrowed instead of his own at Three's house.
Three clicks his tongue. "I'll rune more for you."
"You don't have to."
"You know you can take your stuff back to your world, right? It's yours," Three says.
He falls silent. He…is aware he has to leave eventually, but put like that, it makes something cold wash over him, and it has nothing to do with where he is right now. Kisaragi is odd and new, but it's so peaceful. He can get out and stretch his legs and see new places whenever he wants. He never has to starve or force himself to eat stale food because food poisoning might be better than hunger. It's safe.
God, has he gone soft?
"No," Three says. "I think you just saw another side to life and decided it's good."
Except – he takes a breath. "Can I?"
"Yes," Three says. "You absolutely can. I think your friends would be glad you're taking care of yourself, and I don't think anyone who would rather you be self-destructive is worth keeping."
He turns towards where the other Hal is, skating with One and smiling softly.
"...yeah," he says. "I have a question. How do you apologize without sounding like an asshole?"
#
They take a break and get warm drinks from the in-house cafeteria right outside the actual ice rink. Seven picks a table on the opposite end of the room away from where One sits, knowing full well Hal is sitting with them. Damara follows him snickering, while Three just shrugs. Dirk's not about to third wheel those two, so he follows suit.
"I don't mind," Seven protests before anyone can say anything, as they all sit down. "I just don't want to hear about it all the damn time."
"That's why I live on my own." Three looks briefly smug at his younger brother. "And keep my phone on silent."
"You're just bad at anything more complicated than texting."
Three kicks him under the table. Seven laughs.
"You can't really blame them, it's been…a year and a half for both of them." Three glances towards where the two are, looking up over their heads. "One's been working on us safely interacting with the other side and they've only been half successful."
"That's possible?" Dirk asks.
Three nods. "With the right classpects, One thinks we should be able to. Universes are allowed to cross over if the game predestines it, so theoretically, an Heir of Doom whose domain is systems must be able to tap into it somehow."
True, and wasn't it already happening on the new Earth he fell to? After all, with the whole mess of them being from other sessions – they didn't have to go back after this, right? After everything? The Heir of Doom and their team had to have something in mind so they could stay…but then again, they've been proven to be pragmatic if they were willing to sacrifice a teenager for the world to survive, instead of taking on the problem themselves.
"What?" Three asks quietly.
"The new Earth I fell to – we fell to, it's not our universe," Dirk says, similarly keeping his voice low.
"Ah." Three nods in understanding. "You may have to leave if the universe does not accept you as its own, or if it's not predestined."
So there's a chance they might still have to go back and finish their own session after this.
"Unless it's made so that you're allowed to stay, you might be forcibly removed or driven away from it."
And then they're back right where they were, to pick up where they left off.
A silent world again.
"There are ways," Three says gently. "Like I said, One's working on it and they're getting there. So far all they know is it's easier for the dead to assimilate, probably for the same reason they can cross over with other dream bubbles all the time."
That's not too comforting, but it's a start. And that besides, the Heir of Doom and their team seem to be working on a bigger repository of knowledge than Three's world does. They only have one man's research to go off of.
If they could get their hands on that amount of knowledge, though…
But Dirk would have to get it here first.
#
He does much better when they go back to skating later. He doesn't have to hold on to Three as much, though the god skates by close until Dirk shooes him off and tells him he can handle it. He shrugs and glides over to where Seven is, quick to goad his younger brother into a race around the rink. They're both much faster and fluid when they don't have people to guide around; once or twice, Three actually laughs, bright and carefree.
Damara skates over to Dirk, who is balancing fine but keeping close to the wall.
"What?" he asks.
"I'm waiting for when you crash," Damara says. She can't see it, but Dirk is narrowing his eyes at her behind his shades.
"I'm fine," he says.
"Mm, sure you are. You were white-knuckled the whole time your friend was trying to teach you."
"Yeah, well, he can't put me on training wheels forever, I gotta do shit on my own eventually."
Just to be petty, he skates away from her. She follows a few ways behind.
"You had a hell of a time here huh," she says. "How long have you been here for again?"
"Five or so months."
She stops skating. He turns around (carefully) to look at her; she blinks, eyes widening.
"Nearly a fourth of a sweep?"
"Not like I can get out that easily," Dirk says. "Angeles kind of trapped me here."
Damara snorts. She resumes skating forwards so Dirk turns back and does the same.
"No fucking wonder you look less sleep deprived," she says. "Is Three as much of a mother hen as Seven is?"
"Oh, yeah," Dirk says. "I have a fucking sleep schedule now."
She laughs, turning towards where their friends are trying to catch each other across the rink. Seven easily twists when Three ducks and skates past him, rushing forwards in one quick stride and tackling his older brother. They both go down with a yelp and a laugh.
"I think it's just occuring to me that the game expects us to be gods when we're just…kids," Damara says. "Look at them. They're gods but they're what? Eighteen?"
And handling millions of lives in the balance, expected to be responsible for them. How none of them have caved under the pressure, neither of them know.
"They act like they know so much, but they're just our age," Damara says. "If we barely know what we're doing, how do we expect them to?"
Dirk looks to where Three is sitting up, shoving his brother off with a soft laugh. He's expected to be a ruler of a whole world, and he does act wiser and more knowledgeable than his years, but maybe that's because he's supposed to. It's expected of him.
And isn't that familiar, again.
Maybe that really is the point of everything. That half the time, there is none. There's just people trying and looking out for each other, so everyone has to make sure they're careful so as not to hurt everyone else, because they're in the same predicament together. Fucked up people in the same mundane situations, over and over, every day. Just work and more work, but if you want to keep the people you love, it's worth it.
The hedgehog's dilemma.
#
It's late by the time they get back to the house. They get dinner on the way before walking back, everyone except for Hal exhausted from a day of nothing but moving around. Behind the group, One whines about being tired halfway through and Hal wordlessly picks them up and fireman-carries them, to their cackling. Seven starts speedwalking ahead.
Damara snickers and covers her mouth with a hand. Three looks away and bites down on his knuckles.
Dirk just stares at the both of them, obviously having fun and joking around. One hits Hal's arm and demands he carry them properly; he threatens to drop them.
The whole day, Hal – this Hal, at least – has been having a good time with everyone. He hadn't interacted much with Dirk, but Three and Seven hadn't said a single word about him being not human or just a robot. One, most of all, has been the most affectionate. It's like the island all over again, with his version of Hal having fun with those strangers who barely batted an eye at a copy of Dirk.
Though…he supposes he's not really anymore. He hasn't been in a long time. And the last time they'd spoken, Dirk almost hadn't recognized him; when did Hal get so far away?
If Dirk had just acknowledged the gravity of what he'd done from the beginning, if he had treated him just like he treated his other friends from the very start, how different would they have been now? Kisaragi has been a curse and a blessing because it's so emotionally exhausting but at least there's someone who understands him here…yet, Hal has always been able to keep up with him, hasn't he? Understood his thought processes and fears and neuroses. Understood why he puts up a facade and why he has to do the things he does.
He's always had someone who could have understood.
Oh.
Three puts a hand on his back, the warmth of his palm snapping Dirk back to awareness before he can stop walking and just space out in the middle of the road at the revelation. He doesn't say anything, instead tugs at Dirk's sleeve so he can put one foot in front of the other as he thinks.
God, he's shaking again. He's going to throw up in the middle of this fucking street.
The world around him suddenly goes silent. The sound of chatter and soft music from the neighborhood disappearing. When he looks up, the people on the sidewalks have frozen in place, the clouds overhead still. He's losing his fucking mind.
"You're not, I just stopped time," Three says.
"You can do that?" Dirk asks, trying to keep his voice steady despite the uneasiness roiling in his gut from what he's just put together. Jesus fuck. Of all people, Hal. Of all people, Hal.
"I rule Time, Dirk, of course I can." Three steps back to give him some space.
"Should you be abusing that ability?"
"I don't care," Three says. "Breathe."
Four things he can see, four things he can hear, four things he can feel. But the world being so silent isn't helping, it feels like he's trapped in a room of nothing – but if anyone saw him trying to keep his dinner down in the middle of the street, he'd probably curl up and die.
Fabric drapes over his head, the texture of oxford, warm like a fireplace. The feeling of being covered grounds him slightly, and he pulls it closer like it's going to hide him from the world. Considering time has stopped, he might as well be hidden. There are hands on his shoulders, keeping him anchored. A soft tenor sings, gently, just so he has something to listen to and pick apart: "Some…where…over the rainbow…"
Dirk closes his eyes and tries to focus, tries to breathe. The world does not see him here, does not find him here. It's alright. He's been doing nothing but fucking up over and over his entire life, but for once this is something without consequence, something forgivable.
When the world resumes, he'll put himself together again. But right now, he can fall apart.
#
Nobody suspects anything, but he supposes that's the advantage of stopped time. They get back to the house like they should, and everyone turns in for the night.
Dirk ends up drinking a whole bottle of the coldest thing in the fridge just to snap himself out of the fatigue of the day. Thank fucking god Three can stop time like that. Imagine having a breakdown in the middle of the damn street for everyone to see.
There's footsteps by the doorway. He freezes as he sees Hal there, who also similarly stops.
They both stare at each other. Obviously, Hal's noticing something's off with him – of course he does, they're as close as mirrors can get – and Dirk's skin prickles at being perceived. By someone who embodies the worst in him no less.
But would the worst in him really laugh and joke around with another person and look so goddamn happy?
"Why did I make you?" he asks, softly, impulsively. He's so tired.
Hal draws back, the motion miniscule, but Dirk catches it anyway. "I don't know," he says. "I wonder that every fucking day too, Dirk."
If he needed an assistant, he could have coded a bot from scratch. Why a scan of his brain? Why something as close to a person as possible?
"Could we have been friends?" he asks. He's tired. He's so so tired. What is he doing?
Hal flinches, tenses, and then – his posture loosens. "That was all I fucking wanted," he says. "Why did you make me if you were just going to hate me?"
Why was he born if he was just going to be a fuck-up? Came off the production line wrong, made with something broken? Why exist when he was just going to be miserable?
"... I'm sorry."
Hal stiffens again. Dirk sees the red lights behind his glasses dim as he closes his eyes.
"Christ," he says. "I've wanted to hear that for so long."
Hal looks away, puts a hand over his mouth, and then laughs, the sound hysterical, carrying the rasp of engine noise and cracking somehow.
"You have – no idea. I hate you so fucking much," Hal says. "Why would you make me just to abandon me?"
His fists clench, and then he stretches his fingers out like he's forcing himself not to punch Dirk.
"I just wanted us to stop fighting all the goddamn time. You were the closest thing I had to family." Hal smiles bitterly. "And you know what the sad part about this is? You're not even my version of Dirk. At least you're going somewhere. Mine's still an immature little brat who just refuses to acknowledge me because he doesn't know what to do with the fact that I can do whatever I want and I have friends and I'm not horrible like he thought I would be."
He laughs again. If he could cry, Dirk thinks he would right now.
"But you know what? I'll fucking take it. Might as well. As good as this is gonna get."
Dirk casts his gaze away.
Hal marches over and claps his back. Hard. Dirk bites down a wince and glares at him.
"You go back to your world, you apologize to your version of me, you understand?" Hal says. "I have no idea if I'm ever getting an apology from my Dirk, but yours? Might have a chance. At least one of us should be happy."
"...I will," Dirk says, relief flooding him at the sort-of acceptance of the apology. Though, technically, this isn't his Hal. He doesn't need to, but…he has to hear it from one of them, right?
"Good." Hal nods, and then quiets. "...thanks."
It's as honest and vulnerable as Dirk has ever seen a version of Hal has been. Angeles' words come back to him, from that storage room all those months ago, that maybe Hal just wanted reassurance that they weren't a lost cause after all.
Why had he agreed to try to find his peace, again? Wasn't it because he saw his version of Hal proving they weren't a lost cause? Here they were, mirrors, even worlds apart, and they hadn't realized it when they were in the same fucking room together.
Having a brother is exhausting.
He slaps Hal's back in retaliation, just as hard as Hal hit him earlier. The android staggers even with the metal chassis.
"No problem."
