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It was late at night and, as had become routine, John could barely shut his eyes.
He always hated that name. So lacklustre and normal. But his mind seemed to always cling to it when he was laying in his massive bed, alone, thinking about himself. In this state, (much to his dismay) he wasn’t the Homelander, saviour of America, an alien God sent down from the heavens. He was just… John. He wore that name like a reluctant disguise of humanity, a mask made of dead skin and flesh.
John knew a lot about humanity. This was a given, of course, with the first seventeen years of his life being dedicated to memorising the endless customs and traditions and religions and rituals of humankind. But these mind-numbing lessons didn’t just take place in a padded white room. He’d come to learn that his entire life seemed to be one long never-ending class. Instead of escaping that laboratory, he’d found himself on a permanent and grudging field trip to a hyper-realistic museum of these creatures — these creatures of flesh and bone — that defecate, and indulge, and lust, and pine, and love, and break.
The Homelander knew a lot about humanity, yes, but in the way that an apex predator knows a lot about bacteria; for its own protection, and for its own gain.
Self-preservation was one of the few things humans had in common with him. It didn’t take hours of slideshows to understand that human beings are really, really selfish fucking creatures. He recalled laying in the silent ringing of that room, freshly fourteen, his eyes soaking in the fluorescent light, and playing a game in his head, wherein he traced back each concept he learned about that day back to the core benefit it provided for human beings. Humans enter relationships because it makes them feel attractive. Having children makes humans feel like they are a good member of society. Giving to charity makes humans feel moral and good.
All he saw as Misty pulled her zipper down her insulated sternum was those fluorescent lights burning through his eyelids.
It’s about “loyalty,” is what she said. Loyalty. As if she had, at once, placed herself in some kind of two-way bond with him. She had formed that unspoken connection, a relationship where a social contract is broken if the right words aren’t said, if the right actions aren’t done. She built it in her own mind, and with a plastic grin on her face, with countless little tablets in countless little bottles as her tool of choice.
Loyalty. He remembered being taught that word, actually. In the context of loyalty to your country. Apparently, your country gives you something that you must pay back, with blood, sweat, and tears. He remembered tracing that one back. Humans are loyal because they want to prove that they are good enough for what they receive. Humans are loyal because they want to be a part of something, and to eventually make it part of them.
It wasn’t difficult to fit Misty into that category. The sweetness of her milk and of the action left a disgusting taste in Homelander’s mouth. A saccharine film, like drops of wax from a prayer candle stuck to the ground. A souvenir for God from the deepest depths of his believers’ egos. A woman who was supposed to be nearly on his social level, giving into her human instincts like they were a fucking illness. And when her heart began to grow and attack her body, she gave up. Surrendering that supposed loyalty the minute it turned against her.
No, that wasn’t the loyalty he wanted. Not at all. He was promised followers that turned his every word into another commandment, patriots to the nation of him. He was promised devotion. Pure devotion that transcended human nature.
And, still wide awake, he decided to go hunt for it – in the place he knew he’d find it.
———
A part of him felt guilty for not asking to come in, but that part was quickly drowned out by the beauty of William Butcher’s apartment.
Maybe not beauty. It certainly wasn’t aesthetically appealing, with random trinkets lining the shelves and kitchen counter, and tacky wall decorations he must’ve gotten from a thrift store. William never really struck him as a sentimental type, but there was something about his choice of decor that seemed familiar, in a way. Like it carried that universal feeling of home. This is, of course, not something John himself feels — but it was something he was sure a human would appreciate. There were many things he remembered about the house since his last visit, like the chipped bulldog cookie jar, and the lingering smell of whiskey, among other unpleasant fragrances.
This was the home of a man who demanded nothing in return for his devotion. Nothing was put there deliberately, nothing begged to be involved, to be seen.
Even so, the Butcher had a way of putting his things down and a method of organising his space that felt… superior. It had beauty in the way that a bird building its own nest has beauty. It transcends the constrictive nature of its animalistic form to build something that binds together with nature. He imagined the snarky response William would have to being compared to a bird, and felt the corners of his lips begin to turn up towards his cheeks. It was a smile of mockery, of course, but it still sufficiently disgusted him, making him bite the smile away and clench his jaw.
Anyway, he wasn’t here to appreciate William’s space, nor to think about his irritating voice. He was here to get a good look at the offering William had made him. A long, good look, without having the joy of being worshipped diluted by Butcher’s snarky remarks and desperate attempts to end Homelander’s life.
As he crept in from near the entrance of the balcony, he turned his head towards the left side of the cramped apartment. He was at the beginning of a miniature hallway, where, at its end, a door was cracked open about the width of a horizontally positioned human hand. The apartment was dark, but the slim opening of the door felt like it was calling him with its own light. A holy and pure light. He knew this was Butcher’s bedroom. He could smell him getting closer with every step, and suddenly he was at the door, and he could see that beautiful thing inside of him, and oh—
“Evening, mate.”
In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious that someone like William can’t sleep at night.
But reflecting on that wasn’t about to do anything. In fact, the only solution John could really think of was to be silent. As if he could will himself into being invisible.
The voice was a shout, in that condescending fucking tone John hated so goddamn much. Like he thought he was real clever, like he knew better. He didn’t need permission to feel like he was better. That was what disgusted Homelander the most — but, was also what caused the intrigue that put him in this situation to begin with. God, why was everything so complicated? It wasn’t like this in the lab, with Vogelbaum, with Stillwell…
“You gonna say something or just keep walking ‘round my house like a fuckin’ wrong’un?”
“Good evening, William” He responded quickly this time, volume ever so slightly too high. There was an awkward gap between the greeting and the man’s name, as if he was prolonging having to say it. His nose twitched.
“Yeah, evenin’, lovely weather, been a while, the fuck are you doin ‘ere?” William rattled off, the expletive fitting smoothly into the small talk. Even his sarcasm was full of confidence, full of light.
Wordlessly, he pushed open the door with his index finger and hesitated before walking into the room. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and scanned this part of the house that he’d never seen before. It had that same unfortunate mixture of scents, but there was something else above it all. He knew this smell. It was the Rosewood Musk candle from the Dollar Tree a short drive away. It was unmistakable, and it made something inside John flinch. The room was significantly emptier than the rest of the flat, like somebody had run out of energy halfway through decorating. The thick dark blue hue that the night painted over the room tied everything together, and as his eyes touched everything in that room, he felt the quiet getting heavier and heavier. This was awkward, that’s what it was. Somebody had to say something right about now.
“What, so I’m not allowed to pay a pal a visit?” John put his hands on his hips and suddenly felt the urge to escape the situation, which he coped with by glancing at the floor and discreetly pursing his lips. He hadn’t felt so much in so long. “Jesus, lighten up, will you? I don’t want to hurt you.”
The sentence came out less threatening than he wanted. It sounded more like he was comforting William, like it was another way of saying he wasn’t going to hurt him.
“First of all, we ain’t pals.” There wasn’t a second of laughter in his voice and, for a moment, John felt his heart clench at the prospect that he might actually be unwelcome. Like everything else, he didn’t understand why. He told himself it was annoyance. The sadness in his throat said otherwise. “Second off, I thought Supes needed their beauty sleep and all ‘at— energy for ruinin’ lives.”
John’s shoulders fell slightly lower in relief with the smirk that started to paint Butcher’s face. At least he didn’t have to think about it anymore.
“Well, thank you for the concern.” He started to pace around the room. “But I’m fine. I didn’t necessarily expect to see you awake, either.” He glanced at William. No reaction. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nah. Humble yourself. I’m up.” He sat up in bed, and John was suddenly overwhelmingly aware of how Butcher was dressed. Or, rather, how he wasn’t dressed.
With that motion, Homelander was reminded of the hunger he felt in the back of his mind, craving what he had come here to see. The parasite. It had been there all along, but mixed with the nuisance of his remaining human lust, it had become overwhelming.
An almost unnoticeable flicker of his eyelid later, and he was staring right through William’s tan skin, and letting his eyes feast on the shrine inside his body. It was even more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. It thrashed and fought nothing, attacking its own body, swollen and growing and darker than anything he’d ever seen before. It was like it was sucking the light out of his body, greedily consuming it and giving every useless bit of energy a use — to worship their true God. All of it was for him. Every particle on that disgusting fucking parasite was for him.
“It makes sense. How could you sleep with something like that rattling inside you?”
John was so utterly consumed by the beauty of it all, and the pleasure swirling inside of him because of it, that he didn’t notice his face slowly getting closer to Butcher’s, leaning with his hands behind his back and every little part of his face twitching. He didn’t notice, and more importantly, didn’t care. He deserved a closer look. It belonged to him, anyway.
“Oi!” Butcher called, and John flinched in annoyance at the interruption. “If you’re gonna break into my place, at least have the manners to ask before lookin’ all up inside me.”
Homelander moved even closer, intentionally, this time— and he was looking directly down at William. He placed a knee on the bed and put his hand on the pillow, shifting his body weight until he was almost completely on the bed, right on top of Butcher. He took sick joy in how he heard the man’s heart rate increase. Especially because it wasn’t from fear.
Now John was looking directly into his eyes, fluttering his lashes — and in a breathy, deep tone, he asked, “May I?”
Butcher smiled. “Go on.”
A boundary had fallen, bowing to its God.
John flashed a subtle smile and tilted his head, his eyes locking on Butcher’s face — the disease’s nursery. He could feel his breath hitting Butcher’s cheek. It grazed his skin gently. It was funny, in a way. It was such a gentle thing on the outside, so silent, the tension relaxed in the air and the warmth of their bodies intermingling. No one else could see the war and the torture that was happening inside of William. No one else could really see the disgusting things he’d done, all for Homelander. It shook and raged and whispered, just for his ears. There really was nothing that compared to the ecstasy of that kind of devotion, there was nothing like it in the world.
“Creeeepy bastard, you are.” Butcher whispered, fascinated. Of course he was fascinated. The one he had done everything for was finally seeing it, he was borderline eyefucking it, all the pain and effort and struggle. His God was blessing him. How generous.
With the sound of Butcher’s voice, Homelander sank into it, pushing his face closer. They were now as close as two people could be without merging into each other. His nose was touching Billy’s cheek, his eyelashes grazing against his forehead. John breathed in through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, where the smallest whimper escaped him. The parasite squirmed and breathed, it was looking directly at him, growing for him, eating Butcher alive from the inside out. All for him. It felt so good. So, so, so fucking good.
“William,” He breathed, trying to find his composure in the middle of the word. He didn’t even know what he was going to say, or what he wanted. He didn’t care — as long as he got a response out of that diseased fucking mouth. A prayer. “William, you…”
“You sick fucker.” Butcher cackled, and his breath was too much to bear — hot and musky on the side of Homelander’s face. “You’re practically coming in your fucking pants, y’twat.”
He had crawled fully on top of him without even realising it, without moving his eyes once, just staring through Butcher’s skull, watching the worship writhe. He wanted more. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to become Butcher’s everything. He wanted to be the whole goddamn Universe to him. The Earth and the Heavens.
Butcher’s heart beat faster. Every beat made him more aware of the waves of pleasure that washed over him.
Homelander sensed William thinking a bit before he spoke, “D’you pinky swear you won’t laser my brains out if I do something?”
The virus danced with the beat of Butcher’s every word. He couldn’t reply. His whole body felt like it was on fire. He nodded, a little more excitedly than he wanted.
William slowly picked up his hand and placed it right on Homelander’s crotch, so carefully — like he was Michaelangelo carving David. He rubbed in slow and delicate strokes. John humped that hand through the thick padding on his suit, desperately grinding for all the touch he could get. He could sense the vibrations of the disease in every one of Butcher’s blood vessels. He was consumed by it all, riding the high, falling from the heavens after bathing in rivers of Eden. Grinding on the hand of this devilish serpent, Lucifer suddenly didn’t seem like such a villain. God, how sweet that apple was.
His dick was already sensitive and painfully erect. It was such amazing attention, the most perfect act of prayer. He could hardly breathe. He didn’t even think he needed to. Gods didn’t need to breathe, or think, or speak. They just needed to be believed in, and worshipped, and honoured.
Shuddering, John came— every human nerve in his body firing. His blue eyes flashed a bright red, as subtle as a blink. Let there be light, he thought — and after an embarrassing twenty seconds of panting and phasing back into reality, Butcher very politely and caringly informed him, “You can fuck off, now.”
And fuck off he did, taking one last look into Butcher’s head and flying into the night sky, looking down at the New York cityscape. From all the way up here, all the lights looked just like little stars, pretty yellows and whites and blues that bring to light all the disgusting human imperfections in the world.
But tonight, he had one final perfection. A perfectly placed stain, the essence of worship.
Like the wax of a prayer candle on a Church’s floor.