Chapter Text
Hughie clutches at the back of his neck, fingernails threatening to break skin. Emotions that aren’t his own crash over him with unrelenting aggression, vitriol and adoration in equal measure.
There’s a reason Hughie avoids Homelander, even if he used to see the hero as one of the best.
For a Christian convention, the people are rabid. If he didn’t have to do this, didn’t desperately want to prove himself to Butcher, Hughie would turn around and leave. As it is, he forcibly uncurls his fingers from his neck before they break through, transferring that panic to his jacket.
There's nothing he can do to calm the people around him down if he himself is upset, and loud crowds have always upset him. The music in his ear is a desperate relief, made better by the emotion the singer feels, an imprint that's faded and yet Hughie clings to.
Annie’s upset is a sting across his body, a pressing need to fix it that’s drilled into his mind. He can’t though. Not until he’s done. It burns under his chest, though, a sharp thing that grabs him. Normally Hughie would do anything to get it out, to alleviate the tension until he can’t taste their displeasure within him. He can’t.
The joy and celebration upon Homlander’s arrival almost sweeps him off his feet, almost engulfs him whole. Hughie thinks of Annie’s displeasure and Butcher’s determination and doesn’t move.
The Homelander, famed for his smile, the hope he spreads, is poison.
Desperation is the first thing that Hughie feels, and feeling is too mild a word. It hits him with Homelander’s own strength, tears at his heart until he wants to drop to his knees, to promise Homelander anything so long as he doesn’t feel it anymore. The desperation is a twisted thing, happiness trailing over it like a smoke trail, unable to hide anything behind it.
The only thing that even seems to register at first against it is the distaste. Even this is sheer fabric, colouring the desperation. It never changes the other’s shape. Disgust is perhaps a more apt description. Hughie can’t tell who it’s for, but the attitude the other supes hold gives him some idea.
His hand is clutching his jacket now, stronger than Hughie would have thought possible.
Hughie is a little surprised that he doesn’t flinch at the idea of The Homelander, America’s greatest protector, feeling this. Maybe he’s a little bit numb. Maybe it’s the fact that the adoration hasn’t ceased, and Hughie can’t feel anything over it.
At least the hatred has been lessened somewhat, even if it will no doubt swing right back around, strengthened by Homelander’s presence.
Hughie waits his turn for the baptism patiently, cursing the fact he couldn’t get to Ezekial sooner. It didn’t really matter. He’d make it work.
Homelander’s hand on him only bolstered the weight. Whatever he had felt out there was made worse with Homelander touching him. The desperation was still the strongest, the one Hughie was most confused about, but there was an edge of protectiveness there too. Perhaps territorial? Hughie couldn’t parse it out. There was desire, but Hughie wasn’t sure what for. Just that the edge of desperation had tilted slightly, a piece changing colour while the rest stayed the same.
Ezekiel’s desire is a different type of desperation, and Hughie has always been good at using that against people. That part of it feels easy. Part of Hughie wants to try to talk to Homelander, to dig inside his brain, see if he can fix it. He doesn't. He turns. He leaves.