So Far So Fake

by Anonymous

Summary:

After stealing the Void Star, half of Noli’s body begins to rot. With nowhere else to go, he turns up at his ex-friend’s situationship’s doorstep like a stray cat.

(Written before Noli lore update.)

Chapter 1

There’s a knock on Elliot’s door at 1 a.m.

 

At first, he thinks it’s a sleep-induced hallucination—some phantom sound from the echo chamber of a restless dream. But then it comes again. Louder. Harder. A rapid, jarring rhythm that rattles the wood like it’s seconds away from splintering.

 

“Hey! I know you’re in there!”

 

The voice is distorted—metallic, like it’s coming through a busted intercom or an old tape recorder left too long in the sun.

 

Elliot’s breath hitches. He’s already out of bed, barefoot on cold tile. Every horror story he’s ever heard runs laps in his head.

He doesn’t have a peephole.

He doesn’t have a weapon.

He’s regretting not replacing that flickering hallway light.

 

Slowly, he inches toward the door, heart pounding so hard it echoes in his ears. His legs don’t want to move, but adrenaline keeps dragging him forward step by step. The breeze leaking through the cracks of the doorframe brushes cold against his skin, makes his knees knock a little. His hand trembles on the doorknob.

 

Still, he opens it.

 

A stranger stands there, hoodie up, hands buried in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.

 

“Finally,” the stranger huffs, like he’s the one inconvenienced. “Took you long enough. So uh… what’s up, Elliot?”

 

Elliot stiffens. His whole body coils with fear.

 

“Who are you,” he demands, voice thin and shaking, “and why do you know my name?”

 

The breeze sharpens against his bare arms, making him shiver. The shadows outside stretch too long in the dim streetlight. He half-expects someone else to lurch out from behind them.

 

The stranger shifts again, dragging a shoe on the ground.

 

“007n7. Sounds familiar to you?”

 

Elliot squints, narrowing his eyes like that’ll help him see the threat more clearly. “Yes,” he says slowly. “And you are…?”

 

“His friend. Noli.”

A grunt. Then a shrug. “Well, not anymore, but whatever—can I crash in? He fucked me over, he fucked you over. Sounds like we’ve got something in common, right? You’ve probably heard of me through him.”

 

“I’ve never heard about you. Not even once,” Elliot says flatly. His lips press into a thin, hard line. His foot stays firmly planted behind the door, blocking the entry.

 

“Oh.”

Noli looks momentarily thrown off. “Well, uh… can I still come in?”

 

“You’re a stranger!” Elliot snaps. “Why would I let you in!?”

 

Noli lifts a hand halfway in surrender, the other still buried in his hoodie pocket. “Because…” He gives a lopsided, half-hearted smile. “You have a big heart?”

 

Elliot glares at him. There are a dozen reasons screaming in his head not to let this guy inside: he could be lying, he could be dangerous, he could be anyone. And the mention of 007n7—the man who’d turned Elliot’s workplace into a waking nightmare—only twists the knife deeper. If Noli really was his associate, even a former one, then that was the worst possible reason to trust him.

 

And yet, curiosity gnaws at him. If this man knows something about 007n7, shutting him out might mean losing answers. (Though really, he'd rather not hear about him ever again. He's gone now, thank the Heights above.)

 

With a grimace, Elliot loosens his grip on the door. “…Fine. But only for a moment.”

 

He pushes it wider.

 

Noli grins behind his mask. Though when he walks in, Elliot almost vomits.

 

“I—eugh! You stink!” Elliot yells, recoiling back. His stomach twists violently, bile stinging the back of his throat. The stench is overwhelming, sharp and sour, like garbage rotting in the summer heat mixed with something far worse.

 

“I’ve been homeless! Cut me some slack! Y’think I’m gonna take a bath at the nearest river where everyone pisses in!?” Noli snaps back, though he does shuffle a few steps away as if sparing Elliot from the worst of it.

 

“Just—just go! Go take a bath! Come on before I change my mind!” Elliot covers his nose, trying not to gag. He rushes to the bathroom and points, his voice rising with urgency.

 

Noli merely strolls over, unbothered.

 

There’s a bathtub. Expected from a rich guy. That’s the first time Noli’s seen a bathtub, if he’s being honest. He whistles at the sight before his eyes drag lower.

 

His fingers twitch at his jacket zipper. He tugs, but the fabric snags at his bad arm. The sleeve scratches against something raw, festering. He winces, jaw tightening.

 

Elliot notices.

 

“Did you get stabbed or something?” Elliot furrows his brows, concern overriding his disgust. His hands are already half-reaching toward the sleeve before he stops himself.

 

“I—fuck! It’s fine!” Noli grits his teeth, face scrunching behind the mask. “Just sensitive. Let me just…”

 

He tugs at the fabric again, wincing, then slowly peels the jacket sleeve down his arm like he’s ripping off a bandage.

 

The cloth drags against skin with a faint, wet sound.

 

When it finally slides free, Elliot’s eyes widen.

 

Noli’s forearm isn’t just injured—it’s decaying. The flesh is mottled in sickly shades of gray and purple, stretched too thin in places where bone and tendon threaten to show through. Patches look eaten away, like something has been gnawing at him from the inside. The skin bubbles and cracks with faint lines of infection, oozing dark, tar-like fluid that clings to the fabric of his shirt.

 

The smell hits Elliot next—sharper, fouler than before, sour-sweet rot that makes his stomach seize.

 

It looks impossible, inhuman, like a corpse that never finished rotting but somehow kept moving anyway.

 

Noli yanks the rest of the sleeve down quickly, jaw clenched. “See? Told you. Sensitive.”

 

“Heights above—you don’t need a bath, you need a hospital!” Elliot blurts, panic cracking his voice. The volume spikes higher than he means it to, and the sound makes Noli cringe, shoulders hunching.

 

“No! No hospitals!” Noli snaps, clutching his discarded hoodie like a lifeline. His breathing quickens, ragged under the mask. “If you so much as call someone over, I’m gone!”

 

Elliot freezes, torn between horror and helplessness.

 

“Just let me take a bath,” Noli mutters, glaring at the floor, his voice hoarse with something that sounds too close to desperation. “Mind your own damn business.”

 

“At least let me help you with your clothes,” Elliot says, brows still drawn tight. His voice is steady, though his eyes linger with worry. “Here, come on.”

 

He reaches for the hem of Noli’s shirt, fingers brushing the fabric.

 

Noli stiffens immediately, shoulders snapping up like a startled cat. “Wh—hey, wait—what are you doing?” His voice cracks sharper than he means, the tips of his ears burning.

 

Elliot just tuts, unbothered. “Relax. I’m not stripping you for fun. You need help.” He gives the shirt a light tug, testing. “See? It’s stuck to your arm. If you keep pulling on it yourself, you’re going to tear more skin.”

 

Noli makes a strangled noise in his throat, looking anywhere but Elliot. “Y-yeah, but you don’t just—touch a guy outta nowhere like that.”

 

“Stop overthinking it,” Elliot cuts him off gently, as though scolding a stubborn patient. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just let me take care of it, alright?”

 

Noli mutters something inaudible, but his posture loosens—if only a fraction. Elliot’s calmness leaves him no room to argue without sounding ridiculous.

 

Elliot steps closer, fingers reaching for the hem of Noli’s shirt.

 

Noli tries to lift his arm, but the motion tears a hiss from his throat. His body jerks, face contorting behind the mask. “Fuck—! Don’t—don’t pull it like that, it hurts!”

 

“Sorry! Sorry,” Elliot blurts, hands instantly freezing midair. Guilt knots in his chest. “I didn’t mean to—does it hurt everywhere?”

 

Noli breathes through his teeth, half a laugh, half a groan. “You’re asking the wrong guy—I’ve been hurting for months.”

 

Elliot chews his lip, scanning the shirt. The fabric is clinging too tightly to the wound, the skin beneath already raw and sticky. Trying again would only rip it worse. His gaze flicks toward the drawer by the sink. “Wait. Maybe… I should just cut it off.”

 

Noli’s head snaps toward him. “What? No! This is my only good shirt!”

 

“It’s practically fused to you,” Elliot argues, gentler than before but firm. “Don’t be stubborn, you’ll make it worse. I’ll lend you one of mine after. Okay?”

 

Noli glares, breathing uneven, but the fight drains out of him by degrees. His shoulders sag in defeat. “...Fine. But it better not be some preppy button-up shit. Or your uniform.”

 

Elliot almost smiles at that, but his heart’s still pounding too fast. “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty.”

 

Elliot pulls away and crosses to the sink. He rummages in the drawer until he finds the pair of scissors he usually uses to cut his hair short. Not ideal, but better than tearing at raw skin with his hands.

 

When he returns, Noli’s still standing stiff as a statue, clutching his hoodie. Elliot kneels slightly in front of him, bringing the scissors to the bottom hem of his shirt.

 

“Hold still,” Elliot murmurs. “I’ll be careful.”

 

Noli flinches when the cold metal touches his stomach through the fabric. A shiver runs up his spine. “Shit, warn a guy…” he mutters, trying to cover the reaction with a scowl.

 

Elliot only hums, steady as ever. He presses the blades together and begins sliding them upward, the metal sawing through fabric with uneven snips. The scissors aren’t meant for cloth, and every few inches they snag, forcing him to pause and adjust.

 

Noli’s breath stutters each time the blades jerk too close to his skin. His hands twitch at his sides like he’s about to grab Elliot’s wrist and stop him, but he doesn’t.

 

“Almost there,” Elliot says softly, more reassurance than progress report. His brow furrows with concentration, lips pursed as he inches higher.

 

The shirt parts reluctantly, the rip of thread loud in the bathroom’s quiet.

 

“There we go,” Elliot says, hushed, like he’s coaxing a wild animal. Relief softens his features, though Noli can’t bring himself to look at him. He presses his lips together, gaze skittering anywhere but Elliot’s face.

 

Elliot slips the scissors aside and carefully takes hold of the loose fabric. “Alright… nice and slow.”

 

He peels the shirt apart inch by inch, guiding it over Noli’s shoulders with painstaking care. The sound of fabric sliding against skin fills the silence, punctuated only by Noli’s uneven breaths. Every time the cloth brushes his rotting arm, he flinches, a low hiss escaping between clenched teeth.

 

“Sorry,” Elliot murmurs each time, voice steady but threaded with concern. His hands move gentler still, fingertips grazing as little skin as possible.

 

The shirt clings in damp patches, forcing him to tug carefully, but he never rushes. He works like someone dismantling a fragile thing, patient, deliberate, whispering again under his breath, “Almost off. You’re doing fine.”

 

By the time the shirt finally comes free, Noli’s face is turned hard toward the tiled wall, ears red.

 

“You’re making this shit weird,” Noli blurts, voice sharp to cover how hot his ears feel.

 

Elliot’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Huh? What!? How!?”

 

“Why do you talk like that?” Noli huffs, refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s like you’re—you’re luring me in with your homoerotic bullshit! Is this how you got Seven!?”

 

Elliot nearly chokes. “Homoerotic—what!?” His voice cracks, face burning. “I’m literally just helping you get a shirt off!”

 

Noli crosses his arms tightly over his chest (well, as tightly as his ruined arm allows) and mutters, “Then stop sounding like you’re narrating a damn romance novel. It's so cringe.”

 

“Okay, damn.” Elliot huffs, throwing his hands up for a second. “I’m sure you don’t need help with your pants too—or is half of your body literally rotting?”

 

“The latter. Unfortunately.” Noli grimaces, glancing down at his denim like it’s already become an enemy. The thought of peeling the rough fabric off his legs makes his stomach twist.

 

Elliot watches the flicker of pain cross his face and sighs, resigned. “I’ll help you with it, then.”

 

Noli’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

 

“And before you say anything,” Elliot cuts in quickly, pointing at him with a firm look, “I’m not doing whatever you think I’m trying to say. This isn’t some kinky setup. You’re in pain. I’m being practical.”

 

Noli scoffs, “Yeah, practical. That’s what all the suspiciously gentle guys say before—” He cuts himself off with another wince as his leg shifts wrong.

 

Elliot just shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “You’re the one making this weird…” He takes a steadying breath. “I’m taking it off now, okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just do it. No need to announce it to the whole of Robloxia.” Noli shifts stiffly, wincing as the denim rubs against his legs. “And stop talking.”

 

Elliot shoots him a look, then drags a finger across his lips in a zipping motion before leaning down. With deliberate care, he unclasps the button of Noli’s jeans. The metal pops open with a sharp click, and Elliot works the zipper down slowly, fabric loosening around Noli’s hips.

 

He grips the waistband and eases the denim downward, inch by inch. The jeans catch almost immediately against Noli’s thighs, the rough fabric scraping over inflamed skin.

 

Noli hisses, knuckles whitening where his hands grip the edge of the sink. “Fff—god, it feels like sandpaper,” he grits out, sweat prickling along his temple.

 

“Sorry,” Elliot murmurs, voice quiet but focused. He tugs again, careful to angle the cloth away from the worst patches. “I’ll go slow.”

 

Noli grimaces at the wording.

 

The denim drags with resistance, clinging to him like it doesn’t want to let go. In places, the fabric is darkened with seeped-in fluids, stiff and sticky, pulling free only with an audible tear. Each sound makes Noli’s jaw tighten, his breath stutter.

 

“Almost there,” Elliot says softly, concentrating on sliding the jeans past his knees. His face is set in determination, though his stomach twists at the sight underneath—skin marbled with bruised purple, patches of rot chewing deep like an infection gone unchecked.

 

By the time the jeans finally fall in a heap around Noli’s ankles, he’s trembling with the effort of staying upright.

 

“…I told you not to talk,” Noli mutters lowly, voice rough. His dignity feels as frayed as his body, stripped away with every inch of fabric.

 

“I’m just reassuring you!” Elliot shoots back, a little defensive, his hands hovering uncertainly near Noli’s legs. “I’m sure you need it.”

 

Noli barks out a humorless laugh. “Whatever, dude. Move over.”

 

In only his boxers now, he steps awkwardly into the bathtub, his movements stiff. The cold porcelain makes him wince, a shudder crawling up his spine. He settles back against the curve of the tub, grimacing like the chill’s sinking into his bones.

 

But then he stares at the faucets, two knobs gleaming under the dim bathroom light. His brows knit together. “…What the hell. Why do you even need two of these?”

 

Elliot, standing over him with his arms crossed, tilts his head. “…For hot and cold water?”

 

Noli blinks, then glares up at him like he’s just been insulted. “Tch. Fancy-ass luxury. Where I’m from, you’re lucky if the pipe isn’t spitting brown sludge.”

 

Elliot fights the urge to roll his eyes, crouching down to twist the knobs. “Yeah, well. Welcome to civilization.” He lets the water run, testing with his fingers until it’s warm.

 

The sound of rushing water fills the silence, steam beginning to rise.

 

Noli shifts uncomfortably, clearly unused to the idea of waiting for a bath to fill. “…Feels like I’m about to get cooked alive in here.”

 

“Too hot?” Elliot asks, dipping his fingers into the stream to double-check.

 

“No, I’m just saying words,” Noli snaps, throwing him a glare from the tub. “Because why are you still here? Get out!”

 

Elliot blinks at him, then folds his arms. “Excuse me? You barge into my house at one a.m. smelling like a corpse, and now I’m not even allowed to make sure you don’t pass out in the bathtub?”

 

Noli looks away. “I’m not gonna pass out.”

 

“You were about to fall over just taking your pants off.” Elliot raises a brow, unimpressed. “Are you not gonna take off your…uh, crown?”

 

“…Shut up,” Noli mutters, sinking lower against the porcelain. His shoulders hunch, water rippling around him. “Also, I can’t. The crown doesn’t come off. Ever.”

 

Elliot blinks, taken aback. “Doesn’t… come off?”

 

“Nope.” Noli taps his temple with one finger, the motion dull against the jagged shape of the crown. “Stuck to my skull. Like it grew there. You could take a chainsaw to it and it’d still be here.”

 

Elliot swallows, unsettled. “…That’s—”

 

“Yeah, don’t finish that thought.” Noli cuts him off sharply, then gestures at his mask. “And this? This just stays on ‘cause I want it on. Don’t like people staring.”

 

Elliot studies him, lips pressing into a thin line. He almost says something—asks what’s under there, asks why Noli sounds like he’s hiding more than just a face—but then he sees the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands grip the porcelain edge of the tub like a lifeline.

 

“…Fine,” Elliot says at last, exhaling through his nose. “The crown can’t come off. The mask won’t. Got it.”

 

Noli relaxes fractionally, sinking further into the rising water. “…Glad you catch on quick.”

 

“I’ll grab the soap,” Elliot says, pushing himself to stand. He hesitates a moment at the doorway. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you something.”

 

“Sure,” Noli mutters, shifting in the tub. Then, after a beat, he adds with a pointed glare, “Just… get out. Not used to bathing with men in the room.”

 

Elliot snorts, half amused, half exasperated. “You think I’m used to this? Don’t flatter yourself.” He sets the soap on the ledge of the tub and turns away, muttering as he leaves, “Yell if you faint or drown.”

 

“Not planning on it,” Noli grumbles, though his voice carries after him, muffled under the mask.

 

Elliot rushes into his bedroom, the door creaking faintly on its hinges. He flicks the light switch by the door, casting the room in a pale amber glow. His wardrobe groans when he pulls it open, a mess of old hangers and clothes he hasn’t touched in years tumbling against one another.

 

He rifles through the pile, muttering under his breath. His hand pauses on an old high school shirt, the fabric stretched and faded but still intact. He holds it up against the light, squinting. Noli’s taller. Lankier. He might squeeze into this—but the armpits are gonna suffocate him.

 

With a huff, Elliot shoves it back onto the shelf and digs deeper, determined. After a minute of rummaging, his fingers brush against something softer: one of his more worn-in shirts, loose around the arms and chest. He pulls it free, a faded band tee, the logo cracked and peeling from too many washes.

 

It’s not stylish by any stretch, but it’s comfortable. Baggy enough that Noli’s sharp elbows and bony frame won’t rip a seam the second he raises an arm.

 

Elliot folds it once, holding it to his chest as if weighing the choice. Then he sighs, grabbing some shorts, tucking it under his arm before heading back toward the bathroom.

 

Elliot knocks, once, twice. “Still alive in there?”

 

There’s a splash, then Noli’s curt reply: “Yeah. Don’t sound so hopeful.”

 

Elliot rolls his eyes. “Use the towel hanging in there. I was gonna throw it in the wash tomorrow anyway.” He pauses, balancing the folded clothes in his arms. “I’ve got clean clothes for you too. Mind if I come in to set them on the sink? I’ll be quick.”

 

Silence stretches, broken only by the faint slosh of water. Then Noli mutters, reluctant, “Fine.”

 

Elliot eases the door open, careful not to look too long in Noli’s direction, and sets the clothes neatly on the sink’s edge. The bathroom now smells faintly of citrus. He stops himself from commenting on it and slips back out, shutting the door quickly behind him.

 

In the kitchen, the quiet feels heavier than usual, broken only by the low hum of the fridge when Elliot pulls it open. He scans the shelves: half a carton of eggs, some tired vegetables, leftover chicken from yesterday’s dinner. Nothing fancy, but enough.

 

He gathers carrots, onion, and the chicken, setting them down with a soft clatter on the counter. A pot comes next, filled with water from the tap, and soon the flame under the stovetop flickers to life. The sharp sound of the knife against the cutting board fills the room as he dices vegetables, the rhythm steadying his thoughts.

 

Soup. Simple, warm.

 

He glances toward the closed bathroom door once, then quickly looks away, stirring the pot as steam begins to rise.

 

The soup simmers gently, steam fogging the edges of the pot lid. Elliot tastes it once, then adds a pinch of salt and lets it settle, the savory scent filling the small kitchen. It’s not gourmet, but it’s warm and easy on the stomach. Exactly what Noli probably needs.

 

By the time he ladles a portion into a bowl, a sound catches his ear: the faint creak of the bathroom door, hinges dragging like they haven’t been used in years. Steam spills into the hallway, curling and dissipating into the cooler air.

 

Noli steps out slowly, water still beading down the sharp line of his collarbone. He’s wearing the faded band shirt Elliot left for him, though it hangs a little awkward on his lanky frame, clinging in some places and loose in others.

 

Elliot blinks, realizing with a start just how long it’s been—almost an hour since he’d slipped into that bathroom.

 

“Come over here. Sit.” Elliot points to a chair without looking up from the table.

 

Noli, of course, drops himself into the seat directly across instead, like it’s some kind of silent rebellion. Elliot notices, but lets it slide. He’s not wasting energy on whatever petty game that is.

 

He sets the bowl of soup in front of Noli, steam curling between them. “Enjoy.”

 

Noli eyes it skeptically, spoon clinking as he pokes at the surface. “…Soup? You should’ve just made instant cup noodles. Would’ve been quicker.”

 

Elliot exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Yeah, and then you’d just vomit it all back up. Heavy, salty crap like that isn’t good when your body’s already shot. Soup’s lighter. Easier to keep down. You need something that’ll actually help you, not just fill your mouth for five minutes.”

 

Noli looks up at him, caught off guard by the sheer earnestness in his voice. For a moment, the usual sarcastic retort doesn’t come. He shifts in his chair, spoon pausing midair. “…You say that like you’ve done this before.”

 

Elliot shrugs, fiddling with the ladle still in the pot. “Doesn’t take a genius to know what the body can handle. Just eat before it gets cold.”

 

He pours himself a smaller portion (barely half a bowl since he already had dinner) and sets it on the table across from where Noli sits. Before sliding into the chair, he steps over to the pantry, rummages through a shelf, and pulls out a bottle.

 

Without ceremony, he tosses it across the table. The plastic rattles against the wood as it lands near Noli’s hand.

 

“Painkillers,” Elliot says, finally sitting down with his own bowl. “Don’t worry, not expired. Figured you’d need them more than me.”

 

Noli’s brows twitch together, his fingers brushing the bottle like he’s debating whether to actually take the gesture at face value or to throw it back in Elliot’s direction. “...Thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it.” Elliot yawns, lazily sips from his spoon. “You can sleep on the couch after. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

 

Noli doesn’t answer at first. He stirs his food idly, letting the vegetables drift and spin. Finally, he speaks.

 

“Y’know, when Seven first mentioned you, I thought you were a really boring guy.”

 

Elliot perks up. “Really? What about now?”

 

Noli pauses, pretending to think hard. “Still boring.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“But I can see why he latched on to you.” Noli smirks when Elliot glares at him.

 

Elliot crosses his arms, but his shoulders loosen. “Do tell me why. I’m also curious why strange people like you two keep showing up at my door.”

 

“Easy answer.” Noli leans back, looking almost comfortable. “You’re too fucking nice. You’re bait for losers who got zero attention as a kid. I’d be holding someone hostage and you’d still let me in.”

 

“I’m not ‘too fucking nice.’ I have boundaries. I know how to say no. I can be mean when I need to.” Elliot huffs, then softens. “I just… get where you came from. You know? Empathy.”

 

“Empathy?” Noli repeats, like the word itself is absurd. “See? Too nice. You could’ve just kicked me into the street and let me rot there. I would’ve done that if I were you.” He lifts his decaying hand, studies it for the first time without rushing to cover it. The skin peels in strips. “…Glad people like you still exist, I guess. Too many evil motherfuckers in the world.”

 

“Does that also include you?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Elliot goes quiet, fingers tapping against his bowl.

 

Noli breaks it first. “I’ll be leaving once you call up an admin and tell them my location. Tit for tat. I get rest, you get to be the noble citizen of Robloxia.”

 

“I’m not calling up an admin.”

 

“Doubting that, honestly.” Noli grabs the bowl, discarding the spoon before tipping it straight to his mouth, his mask raised just slightly to allow it. He drinks like a man who hasn’t eaten properly in weeks, each swallow rough, audible, disregarding how hot it still is. When he finally comes up for air, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and mutters, “At least do the snitching tomorrow and let me sleep.”

 

Elliot presses his lips into a pout, spoon clinking against ceramic as he stirs what’s left of his own portion. The silence stretches again, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. Appetite gone, Elliot tips his soup back into the pot, rinses his bowl and spoon at the sink with practiced efficiency. “Just leave your dishes here. I’ll take care of it.”

 

Noli’s only answer is a low grunt, half-dismissive, half-exhausted. Elliot glances back just in time to catch him slouched in the chair, bowl still in hand, steam curling up past the sharp angles of his mask. He’s quiet—too quiet—but Elliot can tell by the slackness in his shoulders that he’s only holding himself together by a thin thread.

 

Elliot almost says something—about the bath, about his arm, about the way he can’t even bother with utensils—but he swallows it down and lets the quiet settle instead. He’s sure if Noli had the energy, he’d have shot back some smart remark about never planning on washing his own dishes anyway. Ungrateful brat. He supposes it's expected from a guy 007n7 is friends with. You are what you surround yourself with.

 

Elliot sighs, the sound slipping out heavier than he means. Tomorrow, Noli will probably be gone. That’s fine. He’s not planning on snitching unless the guy pulls something dramatic—like setting his house on fire. Until then, he’ll just let it be.

 

Morning comes, and the apartment feels strangely hollow. No damp footprints by the couch. No bowls left out for him to clean. No sign of someone ever having sat across from him at the kitchen table. As expected, Noli is gone.

 

So Elliot folds the night into the pile of things he doesn’t talk about. He carries on—work routine, everyday routine, more grocery shopping. Nothing unusual. By evening, he tells himself he imagined most of it.

 

But when the clock ticks past 1 a.m., just as he’s setting his phone aside and rubbing at his eyes, the sharp rap rap rap of knuckles against his door jolts him upright.

 

Elliot freezes. The sound comes again—three knocks this time, drawn-out, almost playful. He already knows who it is before he even moves.

 

And sure enough, when he cracks the door open, there he is. Noli, half-hidden under the dim light, Elliot’s old band shirt clinging to him and now caked with mud, his skin damp with sweat, the grin of his mask sharp despite the bruised look of it. He raises his good hand in a lazy wave.

 

“How’s it going?” he drawls, like no time has passed at all. “Mind if I crash?”

Chapter 2

Summary:

Before I forget, Noli's anatomy (specifically the black goop thing I describe of) is inspired (but not too accurately) from this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68203161/chapters/176455001

Anyways...hell yeah thank God we went on an Eldritch route with him.

The Void Star is a fucking curse.

 

Noli’s already a messed-up-looking Robloxian… if he can even still be considered one. He’s definitely stranger than the ones with tentacled arms or prism-shaped heads. Is he even a man? He could be a woman for all he knows.

 

Half his body rots, split perfectly down the midsagittal line. Would’ve been nice if it were just half his torso—at least then his dick would still be intact.

 

Everything hurts. Every movement, every breath. He might as well be dead.

 

The rot eats at him slowly, cruelly, like it’s savoring the process. His nerves fire at random, sometimes numb, sometimes screaming. Even resting feels like lying on broken glass. The stink of himself clings to him, acrid and sour, a reminder that his body is betraying him inch by inch.

 

Every step is a gamble. Every inhale scrapes his chest raw. Sleep barely comes, and when it does, he wakes wondering if a piece of him has sloughed off in the night.

 

Sometimes he thinks death would be cleaner.

 

He knows he should blame 007n7 for this. Noli never planned on getting that damned crown in the first place. But, as always, he gave in to the bastard’s peer pressure—because deep down, he still wanted to look cool.

 

He’d relied on that guy for too long—and look where that got him. Then again… can you really blame someone who never had a family? (Now look where THAT got him. Who the hell he's gonna turn to now?)

 

At least 007n7’s got a close cousin. Noli barely has anyone in his bloodline to rely on. He swears he was probably born from scraps—some glitch in the system, some accident spat out of bad code and left to rot. No parents, no siblings, no ties. Just him. And the crown. And his mask.

 

Well, he’s grown wiser now. Even just a little.

 

Currently, he’s got no plans. Maybe revenge (Kill 007n7? Take his limbs off? Let him live with his guilt? He doesn't know.)

What else is there for him? It’s not like he can slip back into normal life, not when his face is plastered across every wanted board in Robloxia. Civilization shut its doors on him for good. Even if he tried, even if he begged, they’d hunt him down before he could say a word. Straight to Banlands. So what’s left? Lay low, rot slow, and maybe—just maybe—make the bastard pay before he finally falls apart.

 

Ugh. He misses the days where he’d just skip classes and pay tuition with stolen money.

 

“Hey.” A hand waves in front of his face, trying to catch his attention. “You okay there? You’re zoning out.”

 

“Hm?” Noli blinks, absentminded, before his gaze flickers around. Right. He’s back in Elliot’s bathroom.

 

“Seriously, where do you even go when you’re not here?” Elliot sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did you participate in the Bacon War or something? Why are you so dirty?”

 

“Nana.”

 

“…What?”

 

“Nana your business.” Noli sniffs, deadpan.

 

“I—” Elliot’s mouth gapes. “I’m being serious here!”

 

Noli lets out a long, exaggerated groan, like some petulant teenager caught sneaking out past curfew. “Stop being nosy. I’m just here to take a bath, then I’m out of your hair. You don't gotta know what I'm up to. We're. Not. Close.”

 

The words hang heavy in the air after, heavier than he meant them to. The silence that follows almost makes him want to say something else—lighten it, take it back—but it’s too late. It’s already out there. Whatever.

 

Elliot just stares at him for a moment before sighing, scratching at his head as if weighing his options. “…Fine. I’ll grab you some clothes, then. Are you hungry?”

 

Noli hesitates, lips pressed thin, before giving the faintest of nods.

 

Honestly, he half expects Elliot to finally kick his ass out for being so rude. But no, of course not. Instead, Elliot does this. Total pushover. There are two kinds of nice people in the world: the ones who do it to please, and the ones who do it to get something out of you.

 

Noli doesn’t know what to make of him, really. 007n7 talks about Elliot like it’s some teen romance, but it’s never about him as a person—never deeper than his paycheck, or how his brain works, or whatever use he has at the moment. Maybe 007n7 is just possessive of that information.

 

Well, whatever. Not like he cares. He never did in the first place. He’s got bigger things to worry about then and now. Like revenge, not getting caught, and figuring out how the hell he’s supposed to scrub his skin with soap without it feeling like he’s pouring alcohol straight into raw wounds.

 

Noli stares down at the soap bar. Light yellow, lemon-scented. Back when he was still in college, he’d just grab those two-in-one shampoos and use them on his body too. Elliot’s… a sissy, it seems. Got a whole shelf full of skincare BS too. He almost snorts, but the thought dies on his lips—no energy for levity tonight.

 

He lays his back against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, letting the rising water lap against him. Finally, he takes a proper look around. He hadn’t gotten a proper look last time—too frazzled, and the crown had been acting up like it had a mind of its own. Now, with the chaos behind him for a moment, he notices the small details: the chipped edges of the sink, the way Elliot’s hand towels are neatly folded, and the subtle clutter of everyday life that somehow feels impossibly alien to him.

 

Well, at least one of them is well put together.

 

Noli tries to imagine himself as a normal Robloxian citizen and almost bursts out laughing—from frustration more than anything else. The idea is absurd. He’s nothing compared to Elliot! It’s like comparing a dead man to a newborn—hydrogen bomb versus coughing baby type shit. 

 

Normalcy isn’t in his cards; it never was. He’s been on the run for Robloxia knows how long, surviving on stolen shit, paranoia, and spite. The thought of slipping into a “citizen’s” life feels more like a cruel joke than a daydream.

 

Noli sighs and slowly dips his head lower into the water, letting it rise above his nose. He should spare himself, honestly. Spare himself the pain of a body that’s already betraying him, rot eating away piece by piece. It should be simple, clean—but of course, he can’t stop adding his own flair of misery. Even in this, he’s petty, thinking about how dramatic it would look if someone walked in mid-act, or how the crown would somehow ruin the whole thing.

 

He slowly lifts the mask from his face, black goop clinging stubbornly to the material as he peels it away. Noli swats at it, hoping it will break free, but it doesn’t. With a sickening slap, it hits the water… and instead of dissolving, it creeps back up, crawling across his skin until it’s firmly back where it started.

 

Eugh. He’s still not used to this. He had the goop even before the crown. (Says a lot about a guy.) It feels like pulling thick snot from your nose every time he removes the mask, the black sludge clinging stubbornly to it.

 

Noli lets the mask float on the water and raises a hand to his face, poking where his cheek should be. His finger sinks into nothing, and before he knows it, his whole arm plunges deeper—into his face, into… ah, he doesn’t know. The void? It feels like cool liquid flowing over his skin, simultaneously unsettling and almost soothing.

 

He removes his arm; the sludge clings a moment before retracting back. He then looks down at his mask. When was the last time he even removed this thing?

 

With a resigned sigh, Noli dips the mask into the water, hands lathered with soap, carefully scrubbing into its crevices. Bits of blood flake off, swirling lazily in the water. Particles of dirt and grime—random, insignificant debris too small to name—drift alongside them, turning the bath into a murky mix of decay and neglect.

 

How do people even bathe in a bathtub? It’s like swimming in your own shit. God.

 

Noli stands up, water sloshing around him, and unplugs the drain. He gropes along the wall for the shower head and finally grabs it, twisting random knobs to see which one turns it on. Water sprays out—cold as hell. Where’s the damn heater here? It's like rocket scientists were made for this thing.

 

Giving up, Noli rinses the last of the suds and grime from his skin, then points the shower head at the mask that's right next to the drain. The force of the water hits it with a sharp plink, a sound that makes him flinch.

 

A knock comes from the door, and Noli panics. He bends down instinctively, snatching the mask and yanking it onto his face. Never mind that his dick is hanging exposed—anything but his face.

 

“What is it!?” Noli sputters. Can’t even have some alone time in this damned place.

 

“Just making sure you’re still breathing in there,” Elliot's voice calls from the door. “It’s been an hour.”

 

“Really? Didn't notice.” Noli raises his brows, stepping out of the tub. He grabs what he assumes is a freshly washed towel. It’s uncomfortably soft as he wipes himself slowly, wrapping it around his waist—and realizes Elliot still hasn’t given him any clothes.

 

He walks toward the door and opens it… only to find Elliot bent down, placing the clothes in front of the doorway. Noli jumps back instinctively. He was way too close to his crotch! Seriously, how does he always end up in situations like this!?

 

“Oh! Hey, here.” Elliot grabs the clothes from the floor and holds them out to Noli. Noli clutches the towel around his waist like a scandalized woman. “I never asked you, but do you have a favorite food?”

 

Noli reluctantly takes the clothes and drapes them over his torso instead. “Why do you ask?”

 

“So I can cook it.”

 

Noli snorts. “Doubt you can cook it. It's from RFC. I like everything from there.”

 

Elliot furrows his brows. “...RFC?”

 

He looks at him in disbelief. “It's from another realm. Are you that sheltered?” He purses his lips before finally giving him an answer. “It's Roblox Fried Chicken. Ring any bells?”

 

Elliot’s eyes widen in recognition before he quickly pulls out his phone. “Ah, sure. I’ll just call for delivery. You want the chicken meal, right?” he asks, already scrolling through the menu.

 

Noli gives a reluctant nod, trying not to look too eager.

 

“Got it,” Elliot says simply, tapping at the screen without a second thought. No lecture, no sigh, no remark about greasy food. Just… agreeing.

 

Noli watches him walk away, baffled. That easy? Really? Elliot really is a pushover.

 

Noli’s stomach growls, betraying him. Damn, he really is craving that chicken meal. Elliot’s soup from yesterday hadn’t been enough to sate him. Even if he’d emptied the whole pot and scraped the burned bottom.

 

Shaking his head, Noli ducks back into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He inspects the folded clothes left behind. Another shirt—though the fabric’s thinner than the band shirt Elliot had lent him yesterday—and a pair of plain shorts with star prints on them. Nothing special, a bit embarrassing to wear but… good enough. Better than the ones caked in dirt.

 

By the time Noli finally wriggles into the clothes (a process that embarrassingly takes him twenty whole minutes), a knock rattles the front door.

 

“Noli, can you get that? I’m talking to someone right now,” Elliot calls from the bedroom.

 

“Yeah?” Noli squints, following the sound of his voice. He spots Elliot standing by the bed, phone pressed to his ear. “Let me guess—an admin?”

 

“What? No. My sister. She couldn’t sleep, so she called.” To prove it, Elliot angles his phone toward him, the screen showing his sister’s picture and number glowing underneath. Noli looks at it in dissapointment of getting proved wrong (and also relief because he really wants to eat RFC) “Money’s on the dining table. You can eat first.”

 

“Right…” Noli lingers in the doorway, eyes drifting around Elliot’s room. For a second, he half-expects to catch a stash of porno magazines crammed under the bed—but no. Everything’s spotless, right down to the top of the shelves. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

 

Turning on his heel, Noli heads straight to the dining area, scoops up the cash, and meets the delivery guy at the door. The poor bastard nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of him, but Noli doesn’t care—he snatches the heavy paper bag and slams the door shut. By the Heights, it’s packed. How much did Elliot even order?

 

Trotting into the living room, Noli drops onto the sofa and hauls the bag onto the coffee table. He rifles through it: two chicken meal boxes, a double-patty burger wrapped in grease paper, a tub of gravy, coleslaw, fries spilling out of their carton, two biscuits, and—oh, holy shit—mashed potatoes with corn. And sitting in the corner like a prize jewel: an ice cream sundae, the lid fogging with condensation.

 

He doesn’t hesitate. He rips open the first chicken box, stabs into it with the flimsy plastic fork and spoon, and devours it piece by piece. Fries vanish next. Then the biscuit. He alternates bites of burger and mashed potatoes like he hasn’t seen food in weeks (he hasn't). By the time he’s polishing off the second chicken box, his breathing’s heavier but his hands still move fast, like he’s scared the food might disappear if he slows down.

 

Finally, his eyes lock on the sundae. He picks it up, spoon already poised to break the soft-serve swirl—

 

“Hey, hey—that one’s mine!” Elliot scrambles over, nearly tripping on the rug as he snatches the sundae right out of Noli’s hand. The condensation makes it slip easy, the cold cup sliding free of Noli’s fingers.

 

“This one’s my midnight snack. You can get the rest—” Elliot cuts himself short when his eyes drop to the coffee table. Empty containers, grease-stained paper, biscuit wrappers torn like wild dogs got to them first. What’s left is just crumbs, gravy smears, and a graveyard of plastic cutlery.

 

“You ate it all? Already?” His voice is somewhere between disbelief and horror. “Those were supposed to last you until you leave. Y’know—tomorrow’s lunch?”

 

Noli wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaning back into the sofa like he owns the place. “What? You expected me to ration like some orphan in a charity house?”

 

“You’re gonna get sick!”

 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m already sick.” Noli waves him off like brushing dust from his shoulder.

 

“Don’t blame me, then.” Elliot huffs, dropping onto the couch beside him. He leans forward, rifling through the wrappers for a clean spoon. Every single one’s greasy, bent, or licked to death. With a resigned scratch to his head, he picks the least disgusting one—just a faint smear clinging to it.

 

“Can’t you just get a clean one?” Noli grimaces. “That’s got my saliva all over it—”

 

Before he can finish, Elliot scoops a chunk of ice cream and pops it into his mouth without flinching. Cold sweetness mixed with the lingering ghost of fried chicken, and yeah—he can taste it. He makes a face, but swallows anyway.

 

“Mm.” Elliot wets his lips, then takes another slow bite, savoring it just to be a brat. “How hungry were you, dude? Didn’t you eat anything before this?”

 

“The soup,” Noli grumbles.

 

“Just the soup I made? That was last night!” Elliot raises his brows, glancing over at him. Noli’s eyes are fixed not on him, but on the ice cream cup in his hand. “Jeez, you’re acting like you’re one step away from the grave.”

 

“Technically, I am.” Noli scoffs, though there’s no bite behind it. He crosses his arms, careful with the rotten one. His eyes dart anywhere but the cup—at the crumpled paper bag on the table, at the half-empty soda can, even at the bland wallpaper. He shifts once, twice, jaw tightening like he’s chewing the words down before they slip out. His pride itches against his ribs.

 

Finally, with a reluctant glance back, he clears his throat. “…Can I have some?”

 

“No.”

 

Noli does a double take, blinking at him. “What!?”

 

“I said no! This one’s mine! You had your fill!” Elliot hugs the sundae cup closer like it’s a treasure. “I was thinking of at least getting half the mashed potatoes, but you pilfered through all of it. For a skinny guy, you eat so much.”

 

“I…” Noli’s mouth gapes. “You think I got unlimited buffet just free by the sidewalk? Of course I’m starving!”

 

Elliot just gives him a look, calm but clearly thinking, before scooping up another spoonful and slipping it into his own mouth. He chews slowly, smug on purpose. Noli’s eye twitches.

 

“Say the magic words,” Elliot says, twirling the spoon in the cup like he’s savoring the moment, “and maybe I’ll let you take a bite.” His grin is maddening, smug and deliberate.

 

“Magic words? What am I, five?” Noli scoffs, throwing his hands up. “Forget it. I don’t even want it.”

 

“Mm-hm.” Elliot hums, all too pleased, before scooping a generous bite and slipping it into his mouth with exaggerated satisfaction. “Oh wow. RFC really makes good ice cream. I should take notes for the pizzeria. We only got like, what, four options?”

 

Noli narrows his eyes. He leans back into the couch, arms crossed, but his gaze keeps flicking toward the sundae. He tries to ignore the way Elliot keeps eating, slow as if on purpose, lips wet from each bite. Noli's stomach’s heavy from all the chicken and burgers—but the craving digs in, sour and sharp. Something sweet, just one mouthful.

 

Finally, Noli groans, dragging a hand down his mask. “Fine. Please.”

 

Elliot pauses mid-bite, smugness radiating off him like a heater. “Did you say something?”

 

Noli groans again, louder this time, glaring at him like he’s the biggest nuisance alive. “You’re such an ass, y’know that? Making me beg for ice cream—ugh, fine. PLEASE. Happy?”

 

Elliot tilts the cup toward him, eyes glittering with mischief. “…Good boy.”

 

The words land like a slap. Noli suddenly shoots to his feet, face burning hot behind the mask. “I don’t want it anymore!” He rudely jabs a finger toward Elliot’s face. “I knew you were up to something! You gaslit me into thinking your mouth isn’t dirty!”

 

Elliot nearly chokes on his spoonful. “What!?”

 

“Back in the bathroom—you kept saying all that weird crap while cutting my shirt! Like, ‘nice and slow’—who the hell talks like that!?” Noli’s voice cracks with outrage, but it only makes Elliot’s shoulders shake with laughter.

 

“I was reassuring you!” Elliot protests, half laughing, half flustered. “You were in pain, man! What was I supposed to say, ‘suck it up, loser’?”

 

“Yes!” Noli snaps, crossing his arms. “Anything but your… your homoerotic bullshit! I’d report you to the admins for inappropriate behavior if I could!”

 

“There you are again with that word.” Elliot huffs, deliberately scooping another spoonful of the sundae. “Just take a bite. Nothing homoerotic about two buddies sharing ice cream.”

 

“We’re not buddies, nor are we sharing ice cream.” Noli’s face scrunches beneath the mask, like Elliot just asked him to give him a kiss.

 

“Oh, don’t want it anymore? Sorry if I made you uncomfor—” Elliot starts, tone softening—only to be cut off as Noli suddenly lunges forward, snatches the cup straight out of his hand, and bolts.

 

“Hey—!”

 

The bathroom door slams shut, lock clicking into place.

 

Elliot stares, dumbfounded, spoon still dangling in his fingers. “What in the—!? Hey! You thief!”

 

Inside, Noli leans against the bathroom door, chest heaving like he just outran a horde of zombies, sundae cup clutched protectively to his chest. “…Worth it,” he mutters before jabbing the spoon he picked up from the coffee table defiantly.

 

Elliot stands outside the bathroom door in disbelief. “At least leave me one bite! I paid for that!”

 

Inside, Noli drags the spoon through the last of the sundae, slow and deliberate, letting the softened ice cream melt on his tongue. He hums low, smug. “Tastes better when you’re not the one who paid for it.”

 

“Unreal,” Elliot groans, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. “You’re seriously going to eat all of it?”

 

“Yes.” Noli snorts, scraping the cup clean with loud, deliberate strokes of the spoon, like he’s doing it just to spite Elliot through the door. He tips the cup back, tongue itching to lick the sides, but stops himself—too undignified. Instead, he glares at the lone spoonful clinging to the bottom, practically begging to be devoured.

 

He hovers there for a long beat, spoon trembling faintly in his grip. If he eats it, Elliot will never shut up about it. If he doesn’t… well, then Elliot wins. And Heights forbid that. (Not that he’ll admit it’s really about the fact he knows he should be grateful.)

 

With a long, suffering sigh, Noli trudges to the door, muttering curses under his breath. He twists the lock and cracks it open just enough. Elliot’s expectant face is waiting right there, bright and eager—like a dog begging for table scraps. (As if Noli isn’t acting like one himself.)

 

“…Fine,” Noli mutters, extending the spoon out with the last bite balanced on it. “Don’t make it weird.”

 

Elliot blinks, thrown off. “Wait, you’re—”

 

“Just shut up and eat it before I change my mind.”

 

So Elliot leans in and does just that, lips closing around the spoon still in Noli’s grip. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, Noli stiff as a board, Elliot chewing slowly.

 

“…Thanks,” Elliot says softly.

 

“Whatever,” Noli grumbles, yanking the spoon back like the whole exchange never happened. “Also you could've just grabbed the spoon. Weirdo.”

 

“Says the guy eating MY ice cream in my bathroom…” Elliot says to himself.

 

Noli merely gives him a grimace.

 

The rest of the night goes as normal—whatever “normal” is supposed to mean. Noli wouldn’t know. It’s only his second time crashing here, after all. Elliot goes to bed, belly full from a few spoonfuls of ice cream, while Noli paces the living room like a caged animal, ticking off a mental list in his head.

 

He showed up at Elliot’s doorstep at 1. By 4, he’ll be gone again. That leaves the entire day stretched out in front of him, long and heavy. A whole day of scouring the endless realms, chasing down 007n7 just to beat the life out of him. But that’s easier said than done. Robloxia’s sprawling—billions of little worlds stitched together. Too many places to run, too many places to hide.

 

Some realms are loud and overstuffed, crowded with neon pets and squealing traders—like that one realm, with its endless cycle of eggs and toys, where Noli would stick out like blood on snow. Others are gaudy slices of pretend suburbia with the plastic houses and fake pools. He can almost picture 007n7 lounging there, pretending to be normal for once, while the rot eats through Noli’s chest like a countdown clock.

 

And that’s the problem. By the time he finds him, will there even be enough of him left to throw a punch? If his arm rots off before then, he’ll just use his teeth, sink them in, and gnaw until 007n7 is nothing but chewed-up flesh. A mangled mess in his jaw—that’d be worth the pain.

 

The thought makes his lips twitch into something that might’ve been a smile, once. Now it’s just hunger mixed with spite. He paces tighter circles, fingers flexing as if testing how much rot he still has left in him. His joints crackle, his nails scrape against his palm, and he wonders if even the bones in his mouth are strong enough to get the job done.

 

Noli visits one realm, which then turns to two, then to ten.

 

Every realm he corners at least two citizens, demanding after a man with a burger bob hat and pink glasses. And every shake of the head, every blank stare, is another tick on the clock of his growing anger.

 

How dare he. Really—how dare he think he could just slip away, vanish into another world, and pretend the slate is clean? How dare he leave Noli mangled on the side, clutching the wreckage of what was done, and walk free without so much as a glance back? Responsibility abandoned, like it was never his to carry.

 

Noli’s wounds may have scarred over, but they burn anew with every fruitless question. The hunt is no longer just about finding him—It’s about dragging him back, shoving the weight he abandoned straight into his chest, and watching him choke on it. If the realms themselves must quake under the pursuit, then let them.

 

But to Noli’s expected disappointment, 007n7 had learned too much from him. Every trick, every dirty little art of staying unseen. His own lessons turned against him, perfected and sharpened.

 

And really, who else to blame but himself? Noli had made him good at this. Too good. Now he’s chasing his own ghost, a mirror image of every escape, every evasion he once bragged about teaching.

 

This is what he gets for trusting—for relying on him.

 

In some random realm, Noli sits slumped on a fallen log that must’ve been flung across the map by a tornado. Around him, the ground is uneven and torn apart, glass panes and broken structures jutting out at awkward angles. Citizens are already scrambling for the next disaster, their laughter and panic blending together like it’s all just a game.

 

The crown that sits on his head buzzes numbly, a low, constant hum that gnaws at the edge of his skull. Noli can feel it—draining, leeching, eating away at whatever scraps of life are still clinging to him. It’s merciless, pulling from the same half of his body that’s already rotting.

 

His fingers are stiff, his ribs ache when he breathes, and the skin along his arm looks more like peeling wallpaper than flesh. The only part of him that seems untouched are his toes, absurdly enough. He wiggles them inside his shoes, just to check, but even now there’s a faint tingling spreading through them. Numbness.

 

Under his mask, his skin bubbles, liquidizing, the form of his face melting but never separating. Crown’s grip tightens, pulling the strings of his body as if Noli were just a vessel. But what puppets him more than the crown is the unbridled rage and disappointment that had always been festering.

 

The crown only peels back the layer of hesitation, stripping away the excuses he used to make for himself—the cowardice, the restraint, the endless clinging to second chances. The destruction pouring from him isn’t foreign; it’s the same wrath that simmered when 007n7 walked away, when forgiveness tasted like ash on his tongue, when he told himself he was too weak to act.

 

The sky folds in on itself. Clouds bruise purple, rolling heavy and low, their weight pressing against rooftops. A storm brews fast. too fast. Winds shrieking down alleys, tugging at doors and windows. The citizens murmur in mild alarm, but not panic. Natural disasters were not uncommon in this realm. It's the whole purpose of its existence. Another storm, another quake, another flood—they always endured.

 

But this is different. The storm howls with a voice. The ground doesn’t just shake, it convulses, as though the realm itself is choking. Cracks split through cobblestones like veins, heat bleeding from them in pulses. Lightning doesn’t strike downward but curls upward, writhing like snakes.

 

Still, the people cling to reason. It’s just another disaster. The realm always survives.

 

But the storm tears through faster than their faith can catch up. Wind rips bodies from the ground, flinging them against walls like ragdolls. Waves rise where no sea exists, swallowing streets whole. The earth heaves upward in jagged slabs, crushing those unlucky enough to stumble.

 

Screams pierce through the thunder. A mother’s grip slips from her child’s wrist; a man vanishes beneath shattering glass; another is dragged under by a sinkhole that yawns like a hungry mouth.

 

They don’t see Noli in the eye of the storm, Crown’s power unfurling in tendrils that weave the chaos together like a puppet show of death. The truth slithers past unseen: this is no storm, no quake, no accident.

 

The system recognizes the carnage too late. Reality flickers, the realm’s code locking down in frantic failsafes. The gates creak and slam shut, sealing tight before the body count rises higher.

 

And Noli slips out just before everything goes dark.

 

That’s another headline waiting to flash across today’s news channels: Natural Disaster Realm Shuts Down—Casualties Unknown. They’ll debate it on the broadcasts, argue whether the system is failing, and shake their heads at another “unfortunate tragedy.” None of them will question why the storms grew teeth this time, or what shadow moved beneath the chaos.

 

The Void Star is a curse.

 

But not in the way most imagine. It didn’t twist him, didn’t poison his morals or rot his thoughts. Noli was always like this—vindictive, reckless, simmering with grudges that could level worlds. The Void Star simply peeled back the restraint, tore off the mask he forced on himself.

 

It didn’t change him. It only revealed the disaster he’d always been capable of, if he hadn’t spent so long being a coward.

 

Noli stands between realms. The middle ground, the void. He’s not here, nor there—caught in the seam where reality frays thin.

 

It’s quiet here. It's the kind of silence that presses into the skull until thoughts start sounding like screams. A rare thing, to slip into this nothing, and rarer still to linger.

 

Sometimes he wonders if he belongs here more than anywhere else. The void doesn’t reject him. Its emptiness feels familiar, almost warm. He thinks—no, he knows—this is where his blood runs. Black, untethered, rootless. His mask-less face blends seamlessly into nothingness.

 

No citizens, no buildings, no rules to choke him, no betrayals. Only a flat hum stretching endlessly, swallowing even the sound of his own breath.

 

For once, the crown doesn’t pull. The place itself welcomes him. Noli almost laughs.

 

Maybe he should stay here, where he could no longer be hurt. Where no one could abandon him, or lie to his face, or look at him like he was something broken that needed fixing.

 

Here, there’s no one to disappoint. No one to prove himself to.

 

Just him. Just the endless dark that against all odds feels more honest than anything the realms ever gave him.

 

His laughter dies in his throat. The void swallows even that.

 

And for the first time, the idea of never leaving doesn’t sound like defeat. It sounds like peace.

 

Though even as much as Noli wants to stay here eternally, he misses the feeling of cold porcelain, the sharp bite of it against his back as he sank into a bathtub with more knobs than he could count.

 

And food. The warmth of it, the grease on his fingers, the way the smell clung to his clothes. His non-existent yet endless hunger gnaws at him, always dragging him back toward the tangible, the messy, the human.

 

The void can cradle him, whisper that he belongs, but it cannot feed him. It cannot drown him in water or warmth or flavor. It offers nothing but silence, and silence, for all its honesty, is empty.

 

That is the curse of it—peace without life.

 

So he finds himself right back at Elliot’s doorstep.

 

The clothes Elliot had given him last night are dirtier than the last. Mud crusted along the hems, damp patches clinging cold against his skin, and a tear near the collar that wasn’t there before. The faded print on the shirt is nearly lost beneath smears of grime, as if the day itself had wrung him out and discarded him.

 

His knuckles hover over the door for a beat too long before he finally knocks, sharp and impatient. The sound echoes in the quiet night, and Noli shifts on his feet, jaw tight. He hates being back here. Hates it more that this is the only place left to return to.

 

Elliot opens the door with a wide yawn, rubbing at his eyes, clearly too tired to bother checking which bastard decided to grovel at his doorstep this time.

 

Noli’s sharp gaze snags on him immediately—not on his face, but on the bare skin of his arms. For once, Elliot isn’t hiding under long sleeves. The porch light spills across his yellow skin, revealing what Noli almost mistakes for shadows at first—until he realizes. Burn marks. Old, twisted, and mottled scars winding up his forearms, branching higher toward where the sleeves of his shirt should’ve covered them.

 

Almost as grotesque as Noli’s own rot.

 

For a beat, the crown’s buzzing in his head quiets, drowned out by the ugly mirror standing in front of him. He isn’t the only freak on this doorstep it seems.

 

Elliot wordlessly pushes the door open wider, stepping aside without so much as a question.

 

Noli slips inside, almost sheepish despite himself, and heads straight for the bathroom like it’s routine. The familiarity of it scratches at him in all the wrong ways. By the time he shuts the door behind him, he can hear Elliot already rummaging through his wardrobe, the sound of hangers scraping and drawers sliding open.

 

It irks him. Really irks him. Elliot’s acting like this is his fiftieth time here, like he’s some stray mutt that needs feeding and a clean place to piss before being sent back out into the night. Does he look that pathetic? Noli grimaces at the thought, shoulders stiffening as he catches his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Maybe he does.

 

Elliot pushes the bathroom door open when Noli doesn’t bother to respond to his knocking. He steps inside and stops, catching the sight of Noli leaning heavy against the sink, staring dazed into the mirror as if it might give him answers.

 

“Checking yourself out or something?” Elliot asks, voice tinged with teasing curiosity.

 

Noli flinches at the intrusion, snapping back, “Yeah. So what?” His tone is sharper than he intends, but it covers the jolt of unease just fine.

 

“Been aching to know what’s under that mask, to be honest,” Elliot mumbles, walking over to set clean clothes on the counter beside him. He doesn’t quite meet Noli’s gaze in the mirror. “Maybe I’d understand why you’re staring at yourself so hard.”

 

Noli scoffs, tilting his chin in mock arrogance. “You wish you could see it.” The words drip with derision, but the grip he has on the sink tightens just enough to betray how much weight hides behind them.

 

“Need help with your clothes?” Elliot asks lightly, almost sing-song, as if trying to provoke him.

 

“No.” Noli’s answer is immediate and flat. “Get out.”

 

Elliot grins, unbothered, and gives him a mocking little salute. “Yes, sir.” With that, he turns on his heel and slips out of the bathroom without another word, leaving Noli alone.

 

Noli finishes his bath an hour later—as always. Steam clings to him like a veil as he steps out, leaving a wet trail across the floorboards. He doesn’t even bother to apologize.

 

By the time he makes it to the kitchen, Elliot already has something simmering on the stove. The air smells faintly of garlic and oil, sharp but warm, filling the small space. Elliot, spatula in hand, doesn’t even glance back.

 

“Can you grab the chopping board? I can’t leave this alone or I’ll burn it.”

 

Noli raises a brow, then ambles over to the cupboard Elliot points at. He pulls it open and peers inside curiously. To his surprise, it’s neatly stacked—rows of boards, cutting knives, and even some oddly specific kitchen tools he doesn’t recognize (granted he could barely name the common ones. All he knows is the knife, and well, the chopping board.) He mutters under his breath, “What the…” before grabbing for the first board in sight.

 

“No, not that one—the bigger one,” Elliot calls without missing a beat, wrist flicking the pan so its contents hiss.

 

Noli scowls, dragging out the heavier board. “Who the hell needs this many chopping boards?”

 

“One for meat, one for veggies, one for bread, and one spare in case I mess one up,” Elliot explains matter-of-factly, still focused on his cooking. “Cross-contamination is no joke, you know. Unless you want to risk salmonella.”

 

Noli grumbles but sets the chopping board down on the counter beside Elliot.

 

When Elliot gestures toward the sink and tells him to rinse the vegetables, Noli does it—though slower this time, deliberately dragging his feet. Halfway through, he catches himself, stiffens, and scowls.

 

“What the hell am I doing?” he mutters, shaking water from his hands. “I’m not your little housemaid. Stop ordering me around.”

 

Elliot just shrugs like it’s nothing. “Fair enough. Don’t then.”

 

The casual dismissal throws Noli off more than he wants to admit. He expected pushback, maybe even a smartass remark, not just… nothing. That pisses him off more than anything. Out of sheer spite, he goes back to the sink and rinses the rest of the vegetables with unnecessary force, splashing water on the counter. Elliot stops himself from laughing.

 

The kitchen settles into a strange rhythm—just the hiss of water running, the scrape of the bowl, and the steady sizzle in the pan. Neither of them speaks, and the silence stretches taut like a wire.

 

“Y’know,” Elliot cuts the silence short. Noli is hunched over the counter now, knife in hand, slicing carrots with uneven strokes—some pieces thin as paper, others thick as his fingers. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me to lend you some money.”

 

The knife stills mid-cut. Noli doesn’t look up at first, just narrows his eyes at the board. He’s got money. Plenty of it, stolen from the wrong places. But what good’s cash if every time he tries to use it, his face is practically plastered on the menu, the wanted boards, the whispers of every world?

 

Finally, he lifts his gaze, sharp and tired. “I technically do,” he says, voice dripping with mockery. His lips twitch into something caught between a smirk and a grimace. “I’m eating your fridge empty. You should be sad about it. I leave you scraps. Hah.”

 

“I’m actually glad that’s what you’re doing.”

 

Noli gives him a sharp look, brow raised. “Say that again? Just admit straight up you like getting dragged around.”

 

“Obviously no!” Elliot huffs, cheeks puffing in annoyance. He stirs the pan with a little more force than necessary. “It’s hard living alone, you know. I’m used to being around my family, and I usually buy a lot of groceries out of habit. Now that it’s just me, I keep overbuying. All the food ends up rotting.”

 

He pauses, shoulders loosening as he lowers the heat. “…It’s a good change. I like it. Like you said—tit for tat. You eat yourself healthy, and my fridge gets cleaned out before stuff goes bad. It works.”

 

Noli doesn’t know how to respond to that. He settles for glaring at the counter like it personally offended him.

 

“Speaking of groceries,” Elliot continues, “tomorrow’s my day off. Wanna come with me to restock?”

 

Noli scoffs, folding his arms. “What makes you think I’ll join you?”

 

“You can buy stuff you want while we’re there.” Elliot says it so easily, as if it’s already decided.

 

And that’s how Noli ends up standing awkwardly in a grocery store the next day, skulking behind aisles in the biggest hoodie Elliot could dig out of his closet. The hood hangs low, shadowing the mask, but it doesn’t stop him from tugging the fabric forward every other second as if it’ll make him invisible. He looks like a wanted criminal trying to blend in—and in a way, he is.

Notes:

Noli almost loses himself into the void but remembers the joy of eating RFC so he didn't

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 11 of Elliot brain worms by Anonymous aba