Work Text:
Doors rattled as the wind picked up, howling through abandoned hallways. His Writer was here—his light, his Alan—scurrying about like a rat in a maze. Running, hiding, flinching from every wayward shadow. He masked himself with the presence of others, those unworthy of his Champion.
What did Zane have that he didn’t that caused Wake to seek the Poet out but flee from him? It’s not like the Diver’s intentions were any purer than his own.
Scratch crashed against the wall, all shadow and loss and bitter fury, shredding the faded wallpaper where he landed. He had no heart, and yet still it beat and burned for Wake, still it pulled him inexplicably towards the man whose life he’d longed to steal. A life that belonged to him, everything that was Wake’s was his; his writing, his wife, his face, his heart. All belonged to Scratch, whether either of them liked it or not.
Shadows tore lights from the walls and ripped the carpet from the floor. This place was not his or Wake’s domain, and yet still it seemed to favour the Writer, the architect of the world outside, leading Scratch in loops with no end, no Alan to be found. Now he knew how the Writer felt. Some part of him, some inhuman mix of what was once Wake and Shadow and the magic that created him, that writhing fragment craved his Writer’s presence. It wanted to crawl inside the Writer’s chest and wrap itself around his heart, to finally feel warm and whole and content. It demanded his hands on his skin, his teeth in his neck and his cock buried within him; as close as two beings could be.
The rest of him, the monster, the cloud of hate and rage and darkness, that screamed for the Writer’s blood under his fingernails, his hand around his throat, to finally, finally, snuff out Wake’s light and drag whatever remained into the very darkest depths of this place. The overwhelming urge to rip and tear the skin from his bones, that if he just dug deep enough, he’d find whatever broken shard of Wake would make him feel whole.
Nothing haunted his mind like the thought of his Writer dead by his hands. A final ecstatic moment of victory—an eternity alone. No more chases or fights or fingertips turned white as they claw at clothing. He could only kill him once after all, properly at least. Wake’s many deaths in his eternal spiral didn’t count, the world resetting before Scratch could ever truly enjoy himself. It wasn’t the same knowing Wake would come back—even if he didn’t want him gone. Those deaths were never enough to satisfy the bloodthirst, the animal instinct that snarled and thrashed within him.
Cold, damp breaths panted against the wood of door 665. His Writer’s favourite refuge, for all the horrors he experienced within. What did Zane have that he didn’t? A mirror pair of mercurial, violent doppelgängers that craved the Writer’s attention. Why did Wake shun his knife, but allowed the bite of the Filmmaker's blade? Why wasn’t he good enough? He wanted acceptance, to be one, to be together. To not be all that Wake rejected, held together with blood and spite.
Scratch slammed his palm against the door, music growing ever louder from within as if to drown him out. Claws and tendrils both dug into the wood, scratching and rending the polished surface. Some unholy power stopping even his fury from allowing him to breach Zane’s domain.
A ping from the elevator, doors opening in his peripheral vision.
Scratch’s head turned slowly as the darkness writhed around him. A blood-stained grin across his face as he saw the one thing he treasured above all. Wake’s panic-struck face as he slammed his fist into the elevator buttons, trying to flee once more. Scratch’s once elegant words now stopped in his throat, only the snarls and growls of a beast remained.
“Found You.”