Chapter Text
The armor was not just of metal. It went deeper than that. It was a shell that hid him from the world and it poured into his skin. It made him blossom into it, his body changing to meet it, to be what others wanted him to be. He had no idea who he even wanted to be, just strong enough, and this made him stronger, helped him reach his ideals, but it locked him away as well.
After all this time he still felt like a little boy, someone who didn’t know what to do, where to go, how to act. He didn’t know anything, every step was wrong. Then he came upon Mundus and he made the wrong step, another mistake, and he was dragged down.
As a child he knew that there was something different about him. His skin didn’t feel right. He looked at himself and he didn’t know who he was looking at. Just a boy who was expected to be something different than he was, given expectations that he couldn’t meet but in the wrong way. He was supposed to be stronger but also meeker, take up a room and also be small, display violence and yet also restraint and mercy. As a half demon he was too much. As a half human he was too much. He didn’t know about the demon part yet though.
He had grown up and he had taken the form of a man of great standing, had slid into his strength in spades, had carved out a space in his own body for him to hold onto and gain comfort. He learned to love the lack of humanity. He learned to love his claws and his scales and his horns. He didn’t need anyone else. He didn’t need anything else. He just needed to prove that he was in control and that all he was was true.
Arkham was a fool and a liar and he was disgusted with himself for being so easily manipulated. Arkham was the first to see him as he was and claim that he cared about him, said he’d help him, pushed him to be everything that he could be. Arkham had his plans for him and they ran deep, he saw the potential in this young man and he fostered them. He was pushed in ways he never expected, grew faster than he ever had before, and he was convinced that he was loved, cherished, that this was right, that nothing bad would happen to him as long as he obeyed.
He wanted Arkham to love him but he didn't. He loved an idea and he wanted him to fit into that idea. He was never the man Arkham wanted. He was never the demon Arkham wanted. And when he realized all that, it was too late. There was only one person who was like him and even he didn’t get it, even he thought to change him.
He cut Dante’s hand. He abandoned him. Better to be in Hell, alone, than to have to live up to someone’s expectations again, to hope for a love he didn’t require or deserve. The person that Dante wanted to save wasn’t him, anyway, Dante didn’t even know him. It was, yet again, a projection of him, an expectation that he did not fit. He would never be what Dante wanted. He was better off alone.
He had found himself in this place, with another who had plans for him. These plans were the ones that fit. These were the plans that took root and wrapped around him and snuffed out the potential he held, the man he wanted to be. He was changed into this, this suit of armor, this gray skin, this great demon. He was the strongest, physically, he had ever been. He was whole and he was good and he was everything he needed to be, as long as he was quiet and obedient and swallowed himself.
It had taken ten years but everything of himself that was abhorrent, everything that was wrong and thought it had any worth in his body, everything weak and holding him back, had been removed. He no longer had to worry about that wretched thing inside of him that had caused him so much pain. He didn’t have to worry about anything at all. He was lovers, so much more, like this. His name had been taken, as were his individuality, and he was made worthy. Humanity made him weak. Desires made him weak. Personality made him weak. He was better without it all. He wasn’t happy but he was safe and he was strong. His body felt wrong, it was too big, and there was poison in the hole where his heart had been. That was fine. He got used to it. He didn’t need a voice, he would only disappoint with it anyway. He didn’t need a pulse, it would only hurt him.
He didn’t need a heart.
He didn’t need anyone aside from Mundus. No one else would ever be proud of him, would ever love him.
He pulled out everything that made him undesirable.
And then there was him, the man with the white hair, so much like his own, with the scent like his own, with the thick skeletal sword that cut through him, with the amulet that matched his perfectly, that, when together, was one. The man who he was half of.
Dante.
Something from deep within him reached out and cried, touched the armor, tried to get to Dante. Part of him knew that this thing that he had become was wrong. Part of him hoped that Dante would understand, that Dante would love him as he really was, that all wasn’t lost. Part of wanted to prove to the rest that there was a real him, that he was capable of receiving affection as he really was, even though he had been shown time and time again that that wasn’t true, that this false shape was the closest to what could ever earn love.
But Dante pushed through. He should have delivered a final blow, should have struck him down, should have killed him. He thought it would be better that way. He thought that a lot. Dante did not strike him down. He threw himself in the way, caught the bolt of lightning that was meant for him with his own body, allowed his skin to bubble and burn as he took the punishment that Mundus gave his failures. For that was what he was. He had failed to beat Dante. He had failed to please his maker. He had failed to do anything with himself. And Dante had to suffer for it.
After, Dante had dragged him, body unwilling, to a decrepit biplane. He could hardly fit inside of it. He didn’t fit anywhere. Trish, who he knew well, his tormentor, the torturer that Mundus had crafted from his memories, sitting in his lap.
They had brought him to a building, large for some, small for him, and they had taken him in.