It was a fundamental misunderstanding that people had about him. It was something that annoyed him, that tugged at the edge of his mouth and gave tension to his hands, fingernails digging into his thighs through his pockets. People couldn't understand them and he would never, ever bother trying to explain it to them. They were two in a sea of millions, set aside and different. Untouchable.
The goal was never to become Virus, though that's how everyone seemed to perceive it. They had commented often at first, asked why his hair had changed, why his style had changed. It was childish, they'd said. He'd grow out of it, they condemned. His fists responded where words would surely fail.
The goal was never to be imperceptibly similar, for people to have to memorize the small details to tell them apart. Their style echoed each other, complimented each other, but was still separate. It wasn't hard to tell them apart. Not really. They looked alike only on the surface, through things easily changed and mirrored, through clothing choices and hairstyles, through colors and patterns.
Why, was the question. Why did he seek to emulate, to resonate. That was harder to quantify, and easier to dismiss, which he did freely without hesitation. He sought to silence them, to ignore them, to use it as proof that they could not and would not be part of their nation of two.
Virus was all that mattered. He was the sum of all the world had to offer him. He was the deity that moved flawlessly through the shit, protected by his halo of purity and integrity. He was the god of his world, beautiful and terrible, clever and cruel. There was no falseness about him, and he had sought to remake himself in his image. To pay tribute and celebrate that which moved him. To be lead and to follow in his example.
Those words were true, but he could never give them voice. No, that would sound like idolatry. It was idolatry. It was what no one else understood, what no one else knew as Truth. If he had to, was forced to, he could say them. It was a far, far easier admittance than any other, even unto himself.
He caught himself sometimes. Caught his own gaze in the mirror, electric blue seeking in kind, trained and effortless. In the mirror, he looked more like Virus, when the part in his hair reflected back in reverse, when the angle of his eyes changed, when his lips pursed and drew together until they better matched his master.
He tried in those moments, infrequent as they were. When they were apart. When he was alone. There was a certain amount of unease the set in when they weren't together. A hole that he needed to be filled. A restlessness that was banished with proximity. Like saying a rosary, like reciting a prayer, his mouth moved in the words of his lord, ghosting over phrases and making quiet intonations that he would never, ever match in person.
He needed it sometimes. Needed the grounding. Needed the strength in knowing he was not trapped within himself. That he was not without salvation. That he had not imagined this creature's movements into his life. That he had been, and was, real. He would concrete him, watching his own eyes and mouth for the proof that his effects had been felt.
He would watch his reflection critically in those moments. He would look for the divergence, the exact moment that his reflection was no longer his. The subtlest movements that would betray the reflection for Virus himself. He would allow small signs of himself to leak through, to reveal that it was truly him, and hoped that perhaps, just this once, that his reflection would cease to move in perfect sync.
Then he was gone. His bored, listless expression replaced the sharp, cunning effigy, his slight slouch drawing his shoulders down. He was himself again, no more and no less. The moment had passed where he could suspend his disbelief, when he could emulate and empower himself with the promise of duplicity and structure. When he could trust that he would not be lead astray. That he would never be alone again.
He would send a careless message as he left, a vague plea of permanence. The response was always swift and sure, an equally inconsequential string of words. But he existed. He was not alone, no matter how the uncertainty pulled at him, raced his heart, unsteadied his hands. This murky world of sepia had light in it, even when he couldn't see it. He had to trust that.
Sometimes faith was blind.