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Pure Vanilla never knew.
To be fair, he wasn’t supposed to know. Shadow Milk never wanted him to know. He wished for him to just remain stupidly oblivious for the rest of eternity, as silly as that sounded.
Had hoped he was, literally, blind enough not to see the obvious signs that he so desperately tried covering up.
And he had tried everything, and he means everything, to stop him from finding out. He always wore the comfy, loose clothes he had grown, irritably, used to while living out his reluctant habitance in the Vanilla Kingdom. When not in them, he would be seen in his sleepwear, or his iconic jester outfit. He would never admit how much he enjoyed them to Pure Vanilla's dumb face, though; he'd rather be caught dead.
Even on the hottest of days when the sun beat down on his dough, or when he was flushed a dark blue with fever, he refused to undress even the slightest bit. It was nothing less than hell to deal with both an overwhelming fever and the Beacon fretting over him. But, to his luck, the Ancient just passed it as Shadow Milk having low body temperature.
Shadow Milk even refused to go past the kissing and clothed touching stage, as tempting as it was. As soon as he felt slender hands dipping below to peel off his clothing, he'd practically freeze. He’d smack said hands away and tell him he needed to earn it, that he wasn’t worthy, or whatever lie he could pull out of his ass. Thankfully, he wasn’t pressed about it from the saintly cookie, who was always vaguely disappointed, but stupidly understanding.
But, no, this time the discovery was all to blame on Shadow Milk’s sloppiness, as much as his fragile ego hurt to say it. Maybe Pure Vanilla being a light sleeper, as well.
Faint moonlight covered their figures in a silhouette as tender hands smoothed over Shadow Milk’s arm. He could only remotely feel it; he was trying his hardest to ignore Pure Vanilla at the moment. Instead, he looked outside their balcony where the moon stood proud in the sky, glowing and dancing amongst the stars.
If he squinted, he could just barely see the shadowy figure of the Lady of the Moon watching the world from above. She lounged comfortably on her back, which stirred up jealousy in Shadow Milk. Maybe she was softly smiling at the sea, or maybe she was grinning at him with a taunting glance.
He couldn’t get a wink of sleep tonight, no matter which way he turned and twisted.
Usually, in Pure Vanilla’s arms, he could be whisked away to the quiet darkness of sleep. The healer was practically the embodiment of a heater, as he was always frozen like a statue at night. It always balances out nicely when close together, though. He cooled Pure Vanilla down, the Beacon warmed him up, like the sun rolling over icy planes. Almost every morning, they found the blankets kicked off, hanging off the bottom of the bed and brushed against the floor. It could've very well been either of them, but he always blamed the other. Why? Cause he could.
But, tonight, the heat seemed to burn his dough, thoughts flooded his mind and filled it to the brim. It almost felt as it did when he was a Fount when he had sleepless nights and stacks of paperwork as tall as himself, all due the very next day. Some forms, few letters, couple disputes; all hated by Shadow Milk’s whole. He faintly remembered the way his hand would ache through the day after from scribbling so fast.
The scars which were hidden under his sleepclothes itched. It felt like they were bulging beneath his dough, coming alive only to beg to be multiplied.
Methodically, he slipped out of Pure Vanilla’s arms, the cookie snoring softly with each breath. The sleeping healer had shifted, made a small whine of protest as his arms closed around nothing, until he had settled once more. The Beast only allowed himself to breathe once he had.
Shadow Milk hadn’t even bothered to go into the bathroom, didn’t have the patience or the mindset to consider it. Instead, he had just opened the nightstand on his side, digging through the useless trinkets before the sharp gleam of a knife shone like a gem beneath rubble.
Staring at it, he ran a clawed finger up the blade’s edge; not enough pressure to cut, but enough to feel it. The coolness against the pad of his faded black finger, the way it beckoned him to make his golden jam spot on his skin, a sharp contrast from his blue.
As Shadow Milk cradled it, his eyes flickering with an ounce of rare doubt. His gaze shot between the weapon, rich with violence, and Pure Vanilla’s sleeping face, lips slightly parted and long hair mussed, thrown in about every direction.
But, with each tick of the clock hanging above on the wall, the thin white lines on his dough, now luminous in the light, grew insistent to be reopened. They were ready for the show to begin, standing by behind the stage's curtains.
Pure Vanilla was asleep; he’d never know.
The first few cuts of his jam ran down his arm, glowing with the buzz of immortality, angry and vibrant. He dipped a toe in, but then quickly sank more into the depths of the endless cavern of his mind. A sour stench waded through the room, one of iron. One of fresh jam.
It was far from the first time. The faded, century old scars practically painted the picture for themselves.
The Beast must’ve been pretty out of it, or just plain reckless, when he went just a little too deep – and hissed, unmediated. In the quiet of the room, it sounded as if a mic had dropped–
“Shadow Milk?” A hushed voice whispered next to him, trying to catch his attention. Shadow Milk was yanked out of his thoughts, his head whipping around to Pure Vanilla who, in the present, was running his hand up fresh wounds. A burning sensation to flared up before it was replaced with the coolness of White Magic.
It was gruesomely satisfying to watch his skin pull itself back together, slowly, as if by invisible stitches. They never even left a mark afterward, just left clean, unharmed dough, as if it was newly baked.
He hated it. His gashes did as well, with the way they seemed to protest.
His gaze turned up to look at Pure Vanilla, whose expression was concerned, eyes sorrowful and brows pinched together. Pure Vanilla opened his mouth to say something, maybe a soft reassurance, maybe a question. He butt in before he could find out, “I don’t want your pity.” Shadow Milk bit out.
The healer blinked a few times, voice catching and mouth faltering shut, before resuming his work. “And you won’t get any,” Pure Vanilla consoled quietly, his hands moving skillfully as they did many times from long years of healing many, many cookies. But he never used it on Shadow Milk before, and his body pushed back more from his stem of magic being the opposite. His voice was steady, concentrated, but strained in a way that you know he’s holding something back. “I’m only healing you.”
Shadow Milk scoffed, rolling his eyes. His head was being propped up by his already mended arm, eyes downcast. Silence overtook the room once more, only the gentle, cold thrum of magic pulsing in his veins.
He had an intense urge to cover himself, but there wasn’t much in reach other than the blanket, but he knew Pure Vanilla would only tug it back down to finish helping him if he tried pulling it over himself. Annoying, truly.
His scars just felt… too exposed in the open. Defenceless to the air nipping at it and eyes, considerate and loving, yet inspecting.
If his blade wasn’t already long disposed of by Pure Vanilla, he could cut through the awkwardness in the room with it. Shadow Milk could feel the healers gaze lingering on him, a pondering thought just waiting to roll off of his tongue. He huffed, “Spit it out, you fool.”
Nothing came. He took an angry breath–
“You could’ve told me about them…” Is the response that came. It caught him off guard, his limbs stiffening in his hold. “It’s not like I’m in a position to judge, and I wouldn’t, even if that wasn’t true.”
It wasn’t untrue. Right on character for the Ancient. All the times he had caught Pure Vanilla just before he healed himself rose to his mind, the memories bobbing above the rest. Shadow Milk had refused to let him do it until a day later after he bandaged the cuts; as a punishment or out of annoyance for his persistent tendency to heal them, he didn’t know.
Still, he let out a bitter snicker, “Yeah, right.”
“Why not?” Pure Vanilla gently pried, head tilting. “You know I would’ve listened. Plus, you’ve told me things about yourself you’ve never told anybody else.” The hands stopped their ministrations, the magic’s sensation slowing, then coming to a halt. The chilling sensations diminished, and with it, so did his stage. The curtains fell shut. “There you go.”
Almost instantaneously, Shadow Milk yanked his arm away and into his own lap, away from Pure Vanilla’s, or, well, his staff’s sight. The cookie himself didn’t have much of his own other than undefined shapes and colors. He ran a lanky, clawed hand over his refreshed, untainted dough.
A part of him urged to rip them open again with his bare hands, but he didn’t wanna overdo that entire process.
Shadow Milk snorted, “I only told you those things because you wheedled your way into my head and snatched them from me like a fish on a hook.” The Beast could tell by how Pure Vanilla’s face was strewn tight that he was growing a touch frustrated. Seeming from how it was the dead of night, it did hold sense to it. The jester huffed, exasperated already. “I’m not saying you wouldn’t have listened, ‘Nills. It’s just not something one wants to discuss. I know you don’t.”
The Beacons’s gaze hardened, brows pinching together. “We’re not discussing me.” He retorted, hands clasping together, anxiety and distress visible. “We’re not talking about my scars this time. Bluebird, I’m only saying that you could’ve come to me–”
“That’s a lie.” Shadow Milk snarled, shrugging off the last words. “You don’t have scars cause you heal them before they can form. Because you don’t want anyone seeing their ‘oh so regal’ hero with scars he himself implemented.” A low blow, but he felt like a wild animal being provoked with a stick; cornered.
”What’s that supposed to mean?” It came out in a whisper, but there was hurt lining the syllables. A dull feeling of regret swelled in Shadow Milk’s chest, but it was quickly cast aside and overridden.
Their eyes finally met, Shadow Milk’s narrowed with animosity, “It means you’re a hypocrite.” He sneered, “If I didn’t already know about yours, I know for a fact you wouldn’t have told me.” Pure Vanilla’s pupils contracted when Shadow Milk leaned towards him accusingly, “So don’t blame me for something your righteous ass wouldn’t do anyway.”
Fresh disdain bled through the calm of Pure Vanilla’s features, “I’m not blaming you.” Trying to keep his voice low; disgustingly understanding. “I only want to help you if I can.” The healer’s hands flexed; an angry tic of his that he widely kept hidden.
Oh, as tired as he was, Shadow Milk was just craving an argument.
“Help?” He jeered, “What? You wanna tame the Beast, ‘Nills? You wanna rearrange me and fix me up to be presentable and docile for your little friends’ approval? Free of any marks or flaws like this?” A wound filled arm was practically shoved in Pure Vanilla’s face, Shadow Milk’s lip curled in a wicked smile, taunting and condesending. “Is that what you wanted to do this whole time?”
“Shadow Milk–” Pure Vanilla tried cutting in, sharp stare melting into a look equivalent to guilt. Shadow Milk wouldn’t allow him to interrupt.
“No one else thinks you can do it, you know. Not your wretched little friends, not your kingdom, not even you do, do you? You can’t help a problem that’s eons old, no matter what your little saviour complex says–”
This time, Pure Vanilla cut him off. A gentle but firm hand grasped his wrist and tugged it towards the healer, who was running his thumbs up and down both the old scars and the new ones that had disappeared, but still left their presence.
The Beast’s hand brushed against Pure Vanilla’s face, which was now heavily leaning in his grasp. Shadow Milk’s sharp retaliation sputtered in his throat, dual-colored eyes no longer hiding away.
“I’m not trying to change who you are. I haven’t, and never will, try to force you to be someone you’re not.” Tender hands guided Shadow Milk’s palm up to meet soft lips, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, it is enough that you, by your own will, are here with me.” His eyes were filled with undeniable and sickeningly sweet care. “I try to help because you, Shadow Milk Cookie, are dear to me. You’re my other half, my dearest friend and my partner. Why wouldn’t I try to help?”
Emptiness filled the room where their irate voices just were. A soft dusting of navy brushed Shadow Milk’s cheekbones, spreading over the splattered freckles that found home on his body. He looked away, saving his dignity, or, what was left of it.
“You’re a sap. A stupid, boring sap who never learns to shut his mouth.” He says, though his voice has a quieter tone to it. One less filled with anger and more with a sighing defeat.
Pure Vanilla’s lips curved into a soft smile, frustration gone after losing the battle against sentimentality. “I know.” His thumb soothes over Shadow Milk’s jaw, then landing just under his eye, roaming in an arch-like movement. “And yet you still stay with me.”
“Against my will.” He groans dramatically, “I’m being tortured with your corny affections and monologues. I think I’ll crumble soon. ‘Nilly, you’re gonna kill me, how could you?”
A warmhearted laugh reverberated through their chambers, bouncing off the cream colored walls and making Shadow Milk’s spiked ears twitch with recognition. “Oh, how evil am I?” Pure Vanilla played along, mouth shaped in a cheeky smile. “How shall I survive without my moody partner?”
“You won’t.” The corners of his lips twitch into his own grin, “You’ll be miserable; that’s the punishment for my torment.” Without thinking, his hand flattened against Pure Vanilla’s cheek, talons careful to not pierce his dough. A surprisingly considerate act. He supposed that’s the aftereffects of being locked away for eons; your body yearns for affection, even when your mind avoids it.
Pure Vanilla hums, happily accepting the reluctant affection with open arms. His own eyes opened to look at the blurry, dark figure that is Shadow Milk, wrinkled around the edges. Patient eyes watched the jester carefully, as if contemplating.
Tentatively, he lowers Shadow Milk’s hand so that he can run his own gently over the ravages on his forearm. He had tried to heal them already, but they resisted, and rejected it. He won't ask, though. Maybe another day, if the other is comfortable.
Shadow Milk tensed instinctively at the graze, brows furrowing in the decision to trust him or to push him away. His mind preferred the latter, but his body forced the former, not letting him pull away in its immobilization.
“...why?” Was the careful question that came from the healer. His lips barely moved, but he felt the word burning into his mind.
Why?
Such a messy question. A idiotic, messy question.
One he was never in a mood to answer.
“It–” Shadow Milk’s voice fell, cracking open to reveal something deeper, something never seen, before he quickly raised his walls once more. “It doesn’t matter. Plus, you never tell me about it when I ask that question~ How is that fair, ‘Nilly~?” He drawled, grin wide, but it was lined with tension and unease.
Nobody would’ve been able to tell.
Anyone, well, except for Pure Vanilla, who knew Shadow Milk’s tendencies and habits like the back of his hand.
“Shadow Milk.” Pure Vanilla’s voice was almost disturbingly calm, “I didn’t tell you because you and I both know that you already found out the answer long ago. I get stressed, and it helps relieve it; it makes me realize I’m… not unbreakable.” A murmur, filled with regret and shame, but also truth, though harsh. The Ancient’s eyes darted away before resuming their earlier position, fixated on the jester.
The hand over Shadow Milk’s scars moved down to gently caress his palm. Pure Vanilla continued. “You’re deflecting, Bluebird. I only want to help.” He cooed. “I understand you like no one else can, right?” Eyes soft, words rang true; Shadow Milk was the opposite; eyes turned hard and untrusting, retorts on his silver tongue ready to fire at will.
Understand.
Understand?
He thinks he understands?
A laughing matter. Well, not really, but laugh he did. Shadow Milk pulled away harshly, as if he had been burnt. “Oh, you think you understand, do you? Oh, how silly you are, ‘Nilly~! Very silly indeed!” The unkind tone progressed with each word, each letter. His arms flared in a dramatic stance. “You, who has all~ the choice in the world, can understand the life of a being with none?”
Pure Vanilla looked baffled by his statement, but did not interrupt, knowing that he would not get the answer any other way. If he did butt in, Shadow Milk would only deflect, clam up and never speak of it again.
“You can do anything your gushy little heart desires. You live with unlimited privilege, and that privilege is the world. It’s at the tips of your fingers and you don’t utilize it!” He exclaimed, “I never had that freedom when I was the Fount!” A grimace formed on his lips when he mentioned his old title, “I was trapped long before that stupid tree. I never had a single break, had stacks of paper that doubled–maybe even tripled–yours and certainly couldn’t just abandon my position as you did!”
“I was made for one purpose and that’s it. It took them merely a few thousand years to replace me when I disobeyed it. And, when I did, I was locked away!” Shadow Milk sounded deafening in the echoing space. Though, he never did like the quiet. “Even now that the weight on my shoulders has been lifted, I am now known as a Beast. All the good I did was just–poof!-forgotten in the wind! I can barely be here without being feared, and, though at times is useful, wraps me in the same limitations!”
A venomous laugh, “I–I’m not even a person! I’m a purpose, a tool for The Witches to exploit and use to their will. Cursed with immortality to continue said goal for decades, eons, to come while other cookies had lives, real ones. I was then berated and looked down upon for doing what I was created for!” His smile faded into a snarl. “Then I was blamed! I, who never chose that life, I, who could never experience a life of my own, I, who wasn’t even a real person. I, who never had a cursed choice!”
Cookies, yelling and protesting against The Fount’s answers during lectures. Getting angry at him for doing his job, his only reason for living his immortal godhood. Why were they mad at him? What was he doing wrong?
In a jerked, quick motion, he pulled Pure Vanilla closer from the collar. The latter fumbled, gripping the arm that held him. “You don't get to say you understand when you have a life–a real one. You don’t get to say that when you have freedom and the opportunity to be a person!” He let go, hands raising to cover his face with his clawed hands. Mismatched eyes were barely visible from the gaps. “I ‘lived’ because I had no choice, I breathed, but it was not a need, I had thoughts because my mind would not turn off.”
A short period of a deepening calm washed through the room until Shadow Milk’s voice finished with a croak, “The only thing I truly had control over was my pain. It let me pretend, even for a little bit, that I was a person when I bled as they do.”
“That’s why. You have your answer, happy?” Shadow Milk’s words hushed into a whisper, muffled behind hands that were barely, ever so slightly, trembling. All he can hear is the shallow breathing of his own intertwining with Pure Vanilla’s quivering ones. He didn’t look up to see what his face beheld; almost didn’t dare.
One.
Two.
Three beats of his heartbeat in his ears, pounding like a gong.
Until smooth hands grasped his own. An invitation, a request to see his face. Not forcing him to, just an offer. A choice.
He thought, two more heartbeats passed before he let his hands be eased away from his face. Immediately met with worried eyes, his own didn’t meet them, preferring the bedding underneath them. Stitch by stitch, crack by crack, he tried to reform his mask, but it seemed to break faster than repair. He scorned himself for allowing this to happen; to be this vulnerable, this open with another being.
“You…” Pure Vanilla’s voice was shaky, unsure at first, as if not knowing how to respond to this new side of his other half. “Your pain isn’t what makes you a person. What makes you, you, is your habits, your feelings, your likes and dislikes.” A soothing but firm statement, “It’s your memories, good and bad, your opinions, your tendencies.” He insisted.
Shadow Milk released a low chuckle that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Most of them are just uncontrollable, forced upon me by fate. You think it was my choice to put up with a goody-two-shoes like you?” A poor attempt to veer off the conversation that he just knew was about to happen, but an attempt nonetheless. He said too much in his spiel and now Pure Vanilla was gonna get all touchy-feely. Great.
He saw it wasn’t working and huffed, mumbling, “But, yes, it is. Pain I can control, those other things are just flaws I– what– what are you doing–?” Form going taut, his eyes grew wide as he saw–and felt–what Pure Vanilla was doing.
He was kissing his scars. Even if they don’t deserve to be, he’s doing it because he can and nothing less than that.
“Proving you wrong.” The healer says simply, taking his sweet time to kiss each and every cut and imperfection at his own pace. He started down at his forearm, where they were most prominent, before trailing further upwards, towards his shoulder where they faded only slightly.
Shadow Milk’s skin crawled at the raw devotion, the fact alone that someone is touching–kissing–his scars. His face flushed a deep hue, crawling down to his neck in an ombre of embarrassment and–ugh–love. Humiliation filled him to the brim, leaving him egging to slip away into the shadows. To hide away and sulk on his own time; away from those moronic, compassionate eyes.
“Kissing my arm isn’t gonna make me any more of a person, you fool.” Said arm of his is trembling, only slightly, but only seen if you pay the closest attention. “You’re only making yourself look exactly that–a fool.”
A smile formed against his skin in the midst of kisses, “You can feel loved, can you not? You may not be able to control it, but nor can any person. If you are not one, how could that be?” Blonde hair tickled his forearm as he moved back down it. “And don’t say you can’t feel it. I can see how flushed your face is getting.” He teased softly.
A fierce retort, a dismissal, or even a bantering poke usually makes its way to Pure Vanilla after poking fun at Shadow Milk. It was a natural thing, like clockwork to their conversations.
Silence was not.
Instead, an unfamiliar quiet filled the room to the brim. The shakiness in Shadow Milk’s arm stilled in Pure Vanilla’s hands. A complete 180 to Shadow Milk’s usual restlessness. Pure Vanilla’s gaze upturned to look at him, lips disconnecting from the worn skin–
“Malfunctions.” Shadow Milk’s mismatched eyes held unease, mind whirling unpleasantly. “That’s–That’s what The Witches called these kinds of things, feelings, or whatever. Said they only got in the way and obstructed our purpose. That they were useless and had nothing to offer.” He muttered under his breath.
The Fount held his tears back after long, terrible days, even as MoonCrowns grew at his feet as he failed, tears slipping past the barrier beneath his lashes. Scared he'd be looked down upon, scared his Creators would be disappointed in him by allowing himself to feel, not give.
Hesitation rose beneath his dough and in his veins, making the discomfort, that had recently settled rent free in his chest, rear its ugly head. He opened his mouth, to deflect, to laugh it off, to change the subject, to reassure, he didn’t know. With how much of a whirlwind his mind was being, he couldn’t decide on a solid choice.
“Do..Do you believe that?” Was the quiet question that filled the room from the healer. Shadow Milk didn’t know if he was relieved or not that he himself didn’t have to butt in.
Still, a hard question. One he didn’t completely know the answer to.
“I–I hate The Witches–despise them, but…” His voice waned, eyes darting around the room. “I…I don’t know.” The words held a rare, exposed undercurrent which Pure Vanilla hadn’t heard before, making him pause. Shadow Milk almost immediately cursed himself for it.
“You don’t know what to think.” Pure Vanilla finished for him. He held onto Shadow Milk’s hand, never letting go, dainty fingers a contrast to the other’s cold, clawed ones. The healer searched every feature, every reaction on the Beast’s face, but never forced him to return the look.
“Yeah.” Shadow Milk breathed, a touch of solemness beneath it.
A scoff echoed through the cold air, emanating from Shadow Milk’s lips. “It’s stupid though, right?” A smile, acidic with harsh truth, “Centuries–Eons–have gone by, I’ve even corrupted myself and fled my purpose to get away…but they still have their talons in me.” His hand curled in Pure Vanilla’s lap, and he laughed, which had a wet, wavering edge to it. “Stupid, right?”
Pure Vanilla’s form froze, fumbling over his next words. He hurriedly shook his head, “No. No, it’s not stupid, it’s never stupid.” He squeezed Shadow Milk’s hand in a soft reassurance. He wanted Shadow Milk to feel, to allow himself to be genuine with him freely, and without being withheld. So he didn’t hush him, didn’t tell him to stop; he just let him say what he needed to. Just listened.
“It is though, isn’t it…?” Shadow Milk finally, truly, looked at Pure Vanilla and what the latter saw made him halt as a brand new feeling of worry, dread, filled him at his core. The Beast’s eyes had a glaze over them, glistening in the soft glow. The beginning of tears that the healer’s never seen before. Shadow Milk laughed quietly, voice thickening like syrup. “I’m just a failed purpose, aren’t I? A Beast to be locked away which has no real feelings or-” His voice broke, cutting himself off. “They–they’re not real, are they..?”
The question wasn’t only one of Shadow Milk’s. It was uprooted from the voices of a Fount, an ex-teacher and a Beast, all ripped from their free will and forced into a godlike immortality with a purpose that couldn’t ever be fulfilled. Into a world where they rather tirelessly worked for approval that wouldn’t be given, or be cast away and forgotten.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened; never did he think he'd ever see Shadow Milk be this way around him, not with the countless façades the Beast had up at all times. Even if the latter knew that Pure Vanilla would always welcome him to, he never let his guard down. On some days, it was only when Shadow Milk was asleep beside him that he was the most genuine. Now that he’s been let through the path into his other half’s mind, he was stunned that there was so much pain lying beneath those arrogant smiles and witty retorts.
The healer was quick to jump to action, releasing the jester’s arm to cup his face instead, as if holding something precious. “No. No, that’s not true…” Pure Vanilla whispered, voice almost inaudible, yet firm with resoluteness. “They are. They’re not a lie, they’re not fake; you’re not either.” He leaned towards him, pressing their foreheads together. “You are more of a person than half of the people I’ve met because of those feelings. If they weren’t real, you wouldn’t be as affected. You wouldn’t even be bothered, but you are.”
Wetness, which gathered and fell, stained Shadow Milk’s own cheeks and grazed Pure Vanilla’s own at their proximity. The corners of his lips pulled up in a lopsided, wavering smile, eyes thinning into crescents, much like the Moon which illuminated them. His carefully crafted dam, built over centuries, cracked and chipped.
A low chuckle echoed. It wasn’t Shadow Milk’s cackle, nor his sarcastic snicker, it was a real, genuine, but broken laugh. One that came from a deep place in his heart that not even Pure Vanilla has seen. “Haha…Isn’t that funny…?” Gaze distant, stuck in his own loud head, he mumbled, “I’m malfunctioning again…haha…”
Pure Vanilla’s eyes saddened, then softened in concern. At the words, the laugh, and the fact that he can’t do anything other than be here until his other half calms. Do nothing but comfort him, hold him. He raised a hand to caress Shadow Milk’s jaw, wiping a tear, even as it was swiftly replaced. “No, you’re not malfunctioning. You’re feeling.” Shadow Milk’s head relocated to his chest when he tugged him close, running a hand through the curled, tangled locks. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel. Always.”
No. No, he…he shouldn’t be allowed to do this.
His lip found itself between his teeth in a desperate attempt to keep his dam intact. To hide the flaws in his foundation. It throbbed with protest, his sharp fangs threatening to piercing the sensitive skin. The tangy, bittersweet taste of his immortality fell on his tongue and seeped into his taste buds in an intoxicating sense.
Purposes aren’t supposed to feel. They aren’t supposed to cry. It’s unnatural, it’s wrong, it’s–
A careful thumb pulled Shadow Milk’s lip from his teeth, golden jam staining them in a light sheen. “Don’t.” The tone was still kind, careful, but stern and unwavering. “You’ll only... hurt yourself more.” Pure Vanilla’s other hand smoothed up and down his arm, over the building little lines, in lazy strokes.
The dam broke.
Tears flowed freely, face scrunched up and eyes shut. A rare expression to see on him, truly; such authenticity. He must look ridiculous, but Pure Vanilla still cradled him. It confused him to no end. The upturn of the liar’s untruthful lips, however, didn’t cease. “Ha…Haha…sorry…” The words were muffled by Pure Vanilla’s sleepshirt, which was beginning to dampen thoroughly. “I’m...ha…I’m such a crybaby…haha…”
It wasn’t something Shadow Milk would say, not at all. He would rather die than saying those words, in front of someone, no less. But, at this moment, the words weren’t Shadow Milk’s. They were words of a Fount that, even with unlimited knowledge, never learnt how to feel. The words of his past seeped into his speech and rolled off his tongue.
Pure Vanilla never thought, or showed, malice as The Witches had. He didn’t scold him or was disappointed, even if he should very well be. He just held him as if he was precious, and needed care, like none of this was wrong at all. “It’s okay…It’s alright…” They rocked back and forth in a slow, soothing rhythm. His touch was a firm one, a grounding one.
Shadow Milk released a shuddering breath and his laughter quieted, then vanished. Soft nothings filled his ears in a reassuring comfort, blonde hair tickling them, making the pointed ends twitch instinctively. His eyes fluttered shut–not to sleep-but to allow himself to regain composure.
To feel.
To, for once in his life, be vulnerable.
The healer continued to hold him for as long as needed. He held him as long overdue sobs racked his body, as he clung to him like a lifeline, as his tears dried and only labored breaths were left in their wake. His features lost their tensity, smoothing out, calming.
Pure Vanilla knew he finally was back to himself when his hair was tugged on; not harsh, but just enough to send a stab through his scalp. “If you speak of this again,” Shadow Milk’s mismatched eyes narrowed at him, though the bite was lost to the puffiness surrounding the area. “I will strangle you.” He rasped with a dangerous lilt.
The blonde wasn’t fazed, only smiled gently and pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of the Beast’s head. “There you are.” He whispered, resting his chin atop the Beast’s head. “I won’t, don’t worry. Not unless you want to.”
A roll of the eyes before Shadow Milk mumbled a simple, “Good.” He didn’t move away from the warm embrace, not yet. Instead, he opted for just draping two loose arms around Pure Vanilla’s waist.
The hold only tightened, securing him to the Ancient’s chest as kisses were being peppered to his hair. “Clingy.” He commented, but it was more of a wheeze. But, if he could bet on it, he would say that his extra eyes’ pupils were shaped like hearts, even against his will. A soft laugh vibrated in Pure Vanilla’s chest, the sound interrupting the deep heartbeats that filled his eardrum.
Shadow Milk soon disconnected himself, pulling away and irritably wiping his sore cheeks to rid of the stains of sorrow. His arms crossed, only releasing a hand to accusingly jab a clawed finger in Pure Vanilla’s direction. “You, Pure Vanilla Cookie, are a fool for loving a purpose. A Fool’s King, you are. That should be your new official title.”
“I’d be okay with that, dear.” He chuckled, taking in every nook and cranny of Shadow Milk’s face. The jester’s lashes, crowded with spare beads of tear residue, his curled bangs that flounced this way and that. The way his face was splotched and puffy, but beautiful. He also took in the things he did regularly, rather when Shadow Milk was asleep or occupied. The straight nose of a scholar, the eyes that looked as if they sucked their color straight from the sky, his sharp cheekbones, sprayed with freckles.
Underneath the annoyance, the sarcasm that tugged at his features, there was an underlying fondness that was resonating; knowing.
Shadow Milk scoffed, retracting his finger and returning it to the crook of his elbow. He could still feel the swollen blotches on his cheeks, pulsing on his dough, making themselves relevant. Gross. Revolting.
Real.
A soft laugh erupted from his lips, upturned in a grin. The dough around his eyes were creased, his bangs falling loose over his forehead, curtaining it. It wasn’t panicked, not manic, but a quiet, true sound. “A Fool’s King and a Failed Purpose. Haha… what a duo, huh?” A clawed hand ran itself over Shadow Milk’s face, pushing his hair out of his line of sight. “A public scandal.”
Pure Vanilla couldn’t help but snort at his words, “We are a public scandal, dear.” He mused, light and warm. He shifted to sit from a kneeled position to one with his legs crossed; more comfortable. His legs agreed with that earnestly. The healer watched from his staff’s vision when Shadow Milk leaned over to the nightstand to his right, plucked a hair tie and situated it in his mouth before gathering his hair together.
“Exactly~” Shadow Milk drawled, muffled by the band in his mouth before he removed it from between his fangs with a now free hand. He reached behind him, beginning to maneuver his hair into a high ponytail. “You bring the calm, patience and overall dull stuff to this soul-bond and I bring the much needed chaos. It’s a balance, a win-win.” He shrugged his shoulders, voice now much clearer.
The curls resisted, bouncing out of place and avoided his attempts to pull it into place. His hair was half sentient, which meant it sort of had a mind of its own, like Pure Vanilla's staff did. It doesn’t have its own soul or anything, it’s just like an extra appendage, an extra limb.
An unneeded one, in his opinion. It always showed how he was truly thinking, feeling, even if he doesn’t want it known. His whole deal is lying for Witches sake!
After many, many tries over the next few minutes, the delicate peace of their bedroom was broken when he groaned, chucked the tie onto the mattress and fell back in both frustration and dramatics. His arms spread out wide, taking up half of the queen sized bed, as he looked at his hair’s eyes with a glare.
Pure Vanilla covered his mouth to stifle anything that may have him smacked upside to head as he watched him whine in defeat. He nudged his shoulder gently, a small grin present which was a severe opposition of Shadow Milk’s scowl. “Here, sit up. Lemme do it.”
A huff left Shadow Milk when he was guided up and seated himself in front of the healer, brows furrowed in irritation. His unruly hair now faced Pure Vanilla, who was taking his sweet time running his fingers through it. The latter hadn’t even picked up the hair tie yet, which was still lying on the bed about a foot away. “This is you repaying me for doing your Witches Forsaken hair every morning.” He bit with no real venom, at least not towards Pure Vanilla.
The Ancient let out a content sigh, despite the sharp reply; “You don’t have to do my hair if you don’t wish to, you know.” He murmured as he finger brushed through it. “I always thought you did it out of your free will, or am I incorrect?”
“Free will my ass! I do it because you obviously can’t do it correctly since it’s in mats every morning.” The Beast exaggerated. Sure, there were knots; it was only natural for almost floor-length hair. But mats were a stretch.
Shadow Milk fully expected his hair to jump and dodge out of the healer's grip, to avoid captivity in the prison of a hair tie it knew it was going to be trapped in. But, to his shock (and slight offense,) it complied perfectly to Pure Vanilla’s dainty hands, not once trying to move away. Not a strand.
A growl formed in his throat, “It always listens to you, must like you better or something. Witches know why.”
Pure Vanilla’s touch remained gentle, brushing through it with a tenderness that would put the word itself to shame. He pulled apart the little tangles, as they always seemed to unravel themselves, without pulling. “Maybe it just likes me more because I treat it better.” He teased, words lined with playfulness.
Shadow Milk’s head whipped towards him, upending the soothing actions with his hair. He could practically hear it protesting sadly. Good. But, it stayed in Pure Vanilla’s hands anyways, at least one of them. “Ha–ha.” He snided, voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s my hair, and I treat it just great. You spoil it.”
A chuckle escaped the Ancient, using the hand that wasn’t holding his hair to coax Shadow Milk’s head back around by the cheek.
The latter promptly batted him away, but still turned back around. “Yes, yes,” The playing continued through the Beast’s hair, “But, perhaps it just appreciates a more… gentler approach?”
A wounded, offended noise replied. “Ah–it loves my tough love, thank you very much.” He re-crossed his arms, “It can’t even feel pain, it’s not even–” The Beast’s voice tapered off suddenly.
Shadow Milk’s eyes hardened just a fraction before he cut himself off. A beat of silence rolled before he took a silent, long breath. He schooled his features swiftly and continued in a dismissive tone. “It’s just stupid.” He muttered, irritated.
Pure Vanilla didn’t notice the falter, and if he did, he didn’t mention it. Probably the latter, if Shadow Milk had to guess. “Yes, because you’re tough love did wonders for it earlier. Or ever.” The healer grinned, continuing to tease, even if his tone grew warm in the end. “Maybe it’s not that it’s feeling pain. Maybe it’s trying to tell you something, Bluebird.”
“Like what? That it hates convenience or is a pain in my ass?” Shadow Milk grumbled, pulling one of his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around it to keep it upright and close. Whatever residue of panic from earlier had long been disbanded from soft strokes and soothing words, though it didn’t stop him from leaning into Pure Vanilla’s hands. “It mimics basically everything I think and do. What could it possibly have to tell me that I don’t already know?”
Feeling Shadow Milk relaxing under his touch made his grin fade into a soft smile. His tone, as well, changed into a low mumble. “Maybe… maybe it’s trying to tell you that you’re too hard on yourself. Like today.”
Pure Vanilla felt Shadow Milk still once again under his deft fingers, “Perhaps it’s reacting negatively to you because you’re hard on yourself. It is a part of you, is it not? If it’s even partly sentient, it can probably tell.”
It…it wasn’t wrong, actually. That angered Shadow Milk to no end.
During his early years, before corruption, his sole focuses were plain. Fulfill his duties, don’t anger The Witches, share his knowledge with the people. Straightforward ideas, stressful doings. Between all three (and more) of the things he had to focus on, he didn’t have much time to focus on himself or his own needs.
That ended up in sleepless nights, ones that stretched to days–weeks–on end, magic being the only thing keeping him upright. It ended in missed meals, along with the endless ache that lingered in his abdomen. It resulted in him not getting to know himself, only his flaws.
Cause The Witches never saw the good, never praised The Fount for it, never acknowledged it. So neither did he.
The Fount wasn’t anything more than a painting to perfect, a machine–a tool–to use at will and dispose of when it breaks. When something that’s needed fractures, you desperately tape it, glue it, to make it work again; to stop the cracks from spreading. But it always falls apart in the end–it’s inevitable.
How can you grow to know yourself, to like yourself, if you don’t even know who you are?
Over time, during his stay at the Vanilla Kingdom, he’s grown to marginally like Pure Vanilla more and more. It felt like reading a novel, studying every word, every phrase.
He knew Pure Vanilla’s every habit, every like and dislike. Every corner of his personality, Shadow Milk has searched. When new things are revealed, he tucks them into a file in his ever-growing mind. He’s grown to stupidly like of every piece of it.
Even if he was the most irritating person ever.
“That’s ridiculous.” Was what Shadow Milk opted for instead, though his voice was far off. Not entirely there, in the room with Pure Vanilla.
Shadow Milk’s arms cross over his knee, the pads of his fingertips brushing against his scars. He ran them over each bump and ridge, every imperfection implanted forever onto his immortal dough. They were his first performance, his debut as a starring actor in the show of life.
His life, the one he took back for himself.
“It was only an observation, Bluebird.” The Ancient’s soothing voice coaxed him gently out of his own head, one of the former’s hands brushing against his cheek. Shadow Milk blinked thrice, regaining himself as the hand pulling loose strands into the beginning of a ponytail. “Sometimes we don’t realize it when being hard on ourselves.”
“You’re speaking from experience, aren’t you?” Shadow Milk inquired, eyebrows furrowing.
“Yes. As you would know, hm?” Pure Vanilla teased softly, but his tone held a knowledgeable note.
His head turned toward him again, a glare that could level Earthbread being sent his way. “Scratch my earlier words.” He snarled, “You’re ridiculous.”
But, right as Shadow Milk uttered the insult, a long piece of his bangs blew directly into his eye, as if it had been cursed at. It was punishing him for speaking ill of Pure Vanilla. His fucking hair was rebelling against him; the one whose head it was attached to!
He yanked it away from himself, “I will cut you off.” He growled. A bluff, but one that came from true intent.
An infuriating giggle was pulled from Pure Vanilla behind him, who had just tied his hair up and was now braiding it, slow and deliberate. The strands intertwined and flowed with ease through Pure Vanilla’s skillful hands. “I don’t think your hair quite agrees with that statement, dear.” He suppressed a light taunting tone, but it seeped in around the edges. “Or maybe you don’t agree, since it mimics you.”
Shadow Milk swore at him under his breath, scoffing. “I don’t care about what it agrees on. I care if it behaves and listens.” He huffed, “Just put it up so it quits nagging me. And you, shut it, both your laughter and your incessant prattling, or I’m sleeping elsewhere.” Also a bluff, but an effective one, at least. The bed in the guest room (that used to be his) is currently collecting dust down the hall.
Pure Vanilla, though his smile remained, ceased his laughter, just reducing it down to an amused hum. “Of course, of course. Sorry.” He ended the braid with his own tie, which he had taken from his locks moments before. His own hair tumbled down his back and across his shoulders, curtaining his face.
Once finished, he placed a quick, loving kiss to the back of Shadow Milk’s ear. A deep navy blue flushed at the tips as he felt him stifle a shiver. Pure Vanilla wrapped his arms around the Beast’s waist, pulling his back into his own chest.
Surprisingly, Shadow Milk let it happen. “There, better?” Pure Vanilla’s cheek pressed to the side of Shadow Milk’s head in affection. The scent of vanilla mixed with blueberries, interweaving together in a dazzling performance; a dance.
He sighed, “Yeah.” Shadow Milk’s head reluctantly turned towards him, causing Pure Vanilla’s face to detach from his head. But, despite all that, and how stupidly late it was, the healer’s face was just as joyous as ever. Fool. “Thanks.” Shadow Milk muttered bluntly, averting his eyes to save the last of his pride, when Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened just a tad. “For…I dunno, tonight, or whatever.”
Such gratitude was scarcely expressed, for Shadow Milk, at least.
But that meant it was genuine. No tricks.
Silence fell for another few heartbeats. Eight (yes, he counted, sue him) in total, until his face was taken hold of and inclined to look at Pure Vanilla once more.
A thumb brushed his bottom lip, making any retorts die out and wither in his throat.
“You’re welcome.” A peck to Shadow Milk’s cheek. “You know you can come to me anytime, right? I don’t pity you–or judge you. I just wanna help.” Another to his nose. “I’m your partner, it’s my job to care about you, and I would, even if you didn’t want it.”
A bloom of blue travelled from his cheeks down to his neck, dusting across his cheekbones in a soft shade. Witches curse this man.
He batted away his hand, raising his own to push him away by the forehead to stop the grossly domestic actions. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head.” Despite his words, his ears lowered ever so slightly.
Before he could stop it, or even realize it was happening, his curls rose above his head. The braid happily twirled and swayed in the air above his head, tilting in Pure Vanilla’s direction.
It wasn’t an abnormal thing–it did this whenever he was happy, or–ugh–flustered. It was something he had always loathed because he could barely control it and it happened without fail unless he manually pulled it down. Only reason it didn’t bother him earlier that night was because it was overtaken by a disgusting sorrow instead, making it droop instead of float.
He didn’t bother trying to manhandle it, he knew it wouldn’t listen anyways. It didn't, however, stop him from mumbling curses at it, canines bared in the night. Though, while he was, his eyes found themselves drifting towards Pure Vanilla, who was smiling and laughing quietly like the little gnat he was.
Shadow Milk’s glare relocated to the Ancient’s dopey face. “I guess you really don’t want me sleeping here tonight if you’re mocking your darling lover.” He placed a hand to his chest in feigned offense. Pushing Pure Vanilla’s chest, he pulled away; if not to spite him, then to make him desperate for his presence. “Well, if you insist–”
“Sorry, sorry.” Shadow Milk was met with an infuriating apologetic smile and two arms that encircled his waist. He was pulled flush against him, the scent of vanilla invading his senses. Despite the impulse, he didn’t protest. “I won’t laugh anymore. I promise, Bluebird.”
Pure Vanilla cupped and angled Shadow Milk’s face towards him, who let out a scarce huff. “You’re lucky I’m so nice.” The latter said, voice laced with sarcasm, before his words were then swallowed by the distance closing between them.
It was quick at first, before a single kiss multiplied into many, which deepened with each time they held one another. They weren’t lustful, nor heated, just fond and tender in a way which made their SoulJam’s hum pleasantly. Shadow Milk’s arms draped over Pure Vanilla’s shoulders as the healer held his waist, rubbing it gently with his slender fingers.
Shadow Milk could feel his hair defy gravity behind him. He internally groaned.
When finally pulling away for air, Pure Vanilla chuckled and lowered them down to meet the plush bed, which sunk beneath their bodies. They landed on their sides, facing each other, breaths mixing from the proximity.
A snicker was pulled from Shadow Milk as the same lips that were just on his own dotted down his jaw.
They searched over his dough at a slow, caring pace. It felt as if he was being worshipped, though, instead of want or fear being the reason, it was, instead, a love. One that was interwoven into their souls, bringing them together by fate. It drew them together, longing filling their SoulJams when apart too long.
Finally, they reached the scars that trailed from Shadow Milk’s shoulder down to his forearm, almost nearly forgotten about. Stiffening out of instinct, he decided to intertwine his claws in Pure Vanilla’s hair instead; not pulling, just playing with it to ward off his thoughts. “You already did that, y’know. Or did you forget that in your old age?”
“I didn’t forget.” Was hummed against Shadow Milk’s dough, making him shiver involuntarily. The Ancient didn’t stop for a second, not missing a single mark, a single reminder of the god’s suffering. In Shadow Milk’s opinion, they should just be hidden away for his own eyes only; that he should just cover them up now and never let them see the light of day again. “I was only unfinished.”
But a feeling swelled in his chest when they were loved instead of despised. It was warm, like a kindling fire on the day of a snowstorm. It was kind, like a caressing hand in your darkest moments. It filled him from the ends of his ears to the tips of his toes, embracing him like the jam that ran through his veins.
And Shadow Milk let himself, for just this once, to sink into it. To let it consume him.
To let himself feel it without constraint.
A soft breath escaped him, releasing the air trapped in his lungs. His eyes fluttered closed, darkness clouding his vision and lashes brushing his cheeks. The blonde locks were smooth and unknotted (for once) in his hands, gracing his palms like a kiss of their own. His limbs softly ached as they always did, a constant thrum in the back of his mind.
The distant feeling of the transferring to his other arm tapped at his conscious, but he quickly ignored it.
The soft fabric of their duvet brushed against his feet from where they had been kicked off in their sleep. Sleepwear, loose and airy, stuck to his dough ever so slightly in the aftermaths of lingering sweat which stuck to him. The beginnings of early morning breath invaded his mouth, his taste buds. His scalp only burned ever so slightly at the pull of the braid, snug and firm, but grounding as well.
What snapped Shadow Milk out of his stupor was when a hand patted his face, light, but cautious, in case he was asleep. While he could certainly act like it and get away with it, he ended up deciding against it and peeling open his eyelids.
A smile was what Shadow Milk was gifted with, small and welcoming. “You okay?” Pure Vanilla whispered, cheek now flattened against the pillow, mimicking Shadow Milk’s own, like a mirror.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was just–” Feeling? Taking it in? No, that’s stupid. “Yeah. Just being mauled by your unnecessary endearment.” He finished, a smirk pulling at his lips with a hint of genuinity. He really did feel better, but he would never outright say that. It’s better to just let the healer figure that out himself.
Pure Vanilla smile widened to a grin, then pulled him impossibly close and tucked his chin on Shadow Milk’s head. The former's body went lax, carelessly drooped and twined around Shadow Milk’s in a sea of limbs, leaving little room for privacy.
Snickering, realising Pure Vanilla wasn’t getting up anytime soon, Shadow Milk used the smallest ounce of magic to levitate the covers to cover them to their chins, warmth sighing contently between their bodies. This time, it wasn't overwhelming, didn't scorch him; just held him in a comforting sense that made his eyes struggle to stay open. Soon, Shadow Milk could hear soft snores from the man above him, who supposedly 'doesn't snore’. Right.
After minutes of quiet and contemplation passed, he let out a barely audible whisper against Pure Vanilla’s throat. “I–” He hesitated, eyes slipping closed once more. “I feel more of a person when I’m with you.”
A quiet confession. A simple one.
One that fell on blissfully deaf ears, but one nonetheless. One that made embarrasment flood him whole, one that made the discomfort in his stomach coil tight.
But not once did his scars whine or complain. Not once did they try to coax him to the familiar stage he found a disturbing comfort in.
Because right now, they felt content. They felt real and they felt seen. They felt warm and they felt understood.
Not today, but maybe, someday, he won’t have to pretend anymore.