Archive of Our Own

Pure Vanilla Cookie is used to waking up alone.

He hadn’t been, at first. His childhood had always been spent in the company of others, curled up safely between his parents in their shared bed or nestled among his flock on sunny afternoon days. During his days at the Blueberry Academy, the rough snorts and snores of the other boys in the dormitory had served as an odd form of reassurance, a comfort to be found in the presence of others whenever homesickness plucked at his heartstrings. Even his years spent travelling with his companions, far from civilization and buried in the thickest depths of the woods, the solid form of Dark Cacao Cookie sleeping beside him in their tent had been grounding in the blackest of nights.

The first time Pure Vanilla Cookie had ever slept alone had been in the first room of his very own he’d ever had. It was a simple, yet comforting space the architect of his castle had carved out just for him, brimming with books and hanging lights to guide his way. He’d had trouble sleeping that night, then week, then month until the familiarity of absence became the norm; adjustment had not come easy, but he’d mastered it nonetheless.

For a time, at least.

The problem with familiarity is that it can be disrupted; as used to sleeping alone as Pure Vanilla has become, all it takes is a single spark to relight that feeling of longing within him. It had started simply, a few occurrences here and there, nothing more than a slight pause when settling in and noticing a gathering of shadows making its home in his bed that night. Yet as the occurrences became more frequent, as Pure Vanilla finds himself dozing off again and again with another heartbeat keeping time with his own, he finds his restlessness on the nights he sleeps alone all the more apparent.

Pure Vanilla doesn’t sleep well without.

Pure Vanilla doesn’t sleep well tonight.

When morning breaks, it’s with a chitter of birdsong and the slant of the sun’s rays right across his cheek. Pure Vanilla’s eyelids flutter weakly at the disturbance, cracking open and falling shut thrice in fighting the inevitable. The covers feel extra stifling, hot and heavy as if weighed down by some unseen force pressing against Pure Vanilla’s chest. His hand reaches out, blindly feeling the pillow beside him; his palm smooths across the fabric as he lets out a heavy sigh.

Cold. Empty.

To be expected, he supposes.

There’s a sound itching at the back of his mind, a soft repetition that’s forcing Pure Vanilla’s eyes back open with its unfamiliarity. He mumbles a groan, pushing himself up in bed as he brushes back the hair from his forehead and reaches for the staff beside him. As his hand finds purchase, he lifts it up high and scans the room around him.

Pure Vanilla’s vision may still be blurred from blinking back sleep, but there’s a familiar blue form seated at his dresser.

“Shadow Milk Cookie?”

The form turns; bright white hair sways from the movement, spilling over slender shoulders and adorned with a large blue bow. Sharp eyes peer at him, framed by an unkind smile curved in a smirk.

“Aw,” is all but sneered. “Miss him already?”

Pure Vanilla blows out a slow, steady stream of breath, his eyes briefly slipping shut.

Well. Perhaps this is to be expected too.

“Where’s your bag?” The woman’s voice is thick with amusement, yet heavy with disdain. “I want to go to the markets.”

Pure Vanilla shifts in bed, swinging his feet over the side of the mattress as he rubs at his face. “Why?”

“Because I want to.” The Maiden rolls her eyes as she lifts the brush in her hand, stroking it through her long locks and continuing the soft, repetitive sound that had roused Pure Vanilla in the first place. “Is that a crime?”

Another sigh leaves Pure Vanilla’s chest; it probably will be, when the day is done. “Where is Shadow Milk Cookie?”

The Maiden perks a brow. “Where’s your bag?” she counters back.

There’s a beat of silence before Pure Vanilla simply gives in and waves his hand at the closet. “In there.”

There’s a happy little hum as she skips across the room, throwing open the door and snatching his satchel from its hook. Pure Vanilla’s coinpurse is swiftly plucked from its contents; the rest is dumped to the ground, her dress swaying elegantly as she steps over the discards and makes for the door.

“Wait,” Pure Vanilla calls. “Where-?”

A scoff interrupts him as the Maiden yanks open the door and flashes him a discourteous smirk. “Find him yourself.”

The door slams shut, rattling the room with its force.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes flutter shut; his grip on his staff tightens even as he falls backwards, hitting the mattress with an exhausted groan.

It’s going to be a long day.

--

The tap of Pure Vanilla’s staff echoes as he makes his way down the castle halls.

Preparing for the day had not gone as badly as he anticipated; rather than being given time to wallow, the Maiden’s departure had been swiftly followed by the Neapolitan sisters bursting in right after. Whether they’d been waiting by the door or simply perfected their timing, Pure Vanilla had been promptly yanked out of his budding melancholy and shoved into the shower. A brisk wash and a set of clean clothes had marginally improved his mood, and sitting at his dresser while Fresa brushed his hair and rattled off the news of the day had given him some small sense of normalcy.

“Has anything strange happened while I’ve been asleep?” had been asked, accompanied by a wince as the brush bristles snagged on a knot. “Any – oddities?”

A sniff, a knowing glance at the empty bed before Fresa had simply replied back:

“There’s been reports of a disturbance in the kitchen. And the library.”

Hardly a surprising development; neither is it an ideal one.

Stalling had only gotten him so far; while there had indeed been a blue-doughed figure resting on a stool while Pure Vanilla breakfasted, that encounter had netted him very little. The old woman had simply blinked serenely at him, sipping at her tea and offering neither a word of comfort nor chastisement – in truth, Pure Vanilla isn’t sure she’d heard his queries at all. The only sign of cognizance had been the moment she’d reached into her pocket, producing a wrapped hard candy that she’d deposited into his palm with a smile.

Pure Vanilla knows far better than to taste it, but he’d smiled politely and taken it just the same.

With no other distractions available, Pure Vanilla’s steps lead him towards the library with both steadfast resolve and a budding sense of dread in his chest. He knows what to expect; that is the easy part. It is the navigation, the careful dance with steps that must be taken with slow, methodical thought that he anticipates with utmost wariness.

Shadow Milk Cookie has ever been the jealous type.

As Pure Vanilla opens the library doors, the sight that greets him is one of organized chaos. Books and scrolls are piled every which way, absolutely covering the floor yet confined to neat, precise stacks. The sheer amount of literature choking the area reaches nearly the ceiling, a ceiling that Pure Vanilla’s gaze lifts to as a flicker of motion catches his eye.

There’s a familiar blue figure gliding about near the top shelves.

Pure Vanilla squares his shoulders, taking in a steadying breath before he calls out:

“Sage?”

The figure stills; in an instant they disappear from sight, only to abruptly reappear with their face mere inches from Pure Vanilla’s own. Pure Vanilla recoils on instinct, but there is only a laugh of delight from the other as he floats backwards, grinning ear to ear.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie!” The Sage of Truth beams at him, arms spread wide in elation. “There you are! You know, you’re seventeen minutes behind my projected schedule. Dawdling, were we?”

“Hello, Sage,” Pure Vanilla says politely, inclining his head in greeting. “Are you re-organizing my library?”

“I am!” The Sage flicks his staff upwards; a pile of scrolls goes flying upwards before neatly slotting into the right shelves. “Whoever audited it last did such a slapdash job; you’ve had fiction and non-fiction mixed for seven months! I’ve been meaning to get around to it for ages, but you know how he is about letting me out.” A smile, a careless shrug. “Ah, well! One must make use of the time given!”

“I see.” Pure Vanilla keeps his voice pointedly neutral, his expression schooled into one of tepid amusement and nothing more. “Do you, perhaps, know where Shadow Milk Cookie is?”

The Sage hums; another flick of his wrist and several books lift, separate, and re-shuffle themselves. “A curious question. After all, I am he, and I’m right here in front of you, aren’t I?” A smile, bright and gleaming. “How many of us have you come across so far? Two, three?”

“You’re the third.” Pure Vanilla shifts on his feet, hands tightening briefly around his staff. “The first two weren’t much help.”

“No, they wouldn’t be, would they?” The Sage floats upwards, pulling his attention from Pure Vanilla briefly to scan the shelves. “Such a sensitive soul. One little fight and he just falls into pieces.” Sage’s smile is punctuated by a quick laugh. “Or should I say, falls into persons?”

“It’s not a fight,” Pure Vanilla corrects. “We’re not fighting.”

“No?” Sage’s head swivels like an owl, peering down at him with a perk of his brow. “Shall we call it a squabble, then? A tiff? An impasse of ideals, perhaps never to be bridged?”

“Sage-”

“He’s quite upset.” Sage places a book on the shelf, then immediately pulls it out with a click of his tongue. “We wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

“Which is why I’d like to speak with him.”

The Sage sighs – loud, dramatic, a tad familiar. “Oh, why bother?” He discards the book with a wave of his hand, returning his attention to Pure Vanilla in full. “Come. You and I so rarely meet. Why not spend the afternoon with a fellow truth-seeker instead? There’s plenty of tea and fine discussion to be had.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Pure Vanilla says politely. “But I must decline. I need to find Shadow Milk Cookie.”

“So careful,” Sage hums. “So reserved. What’s the harm in an hour or two in good company?”

Pure Vanilla levels a steady look at him; Sage meets his gaze, perking a brow in reply. Finally, Pure Vanilla replies:

“You know perfectly well what the harm is.”

Sage cocks his head – then smiles, an amused glint in his eyes. “I do,” he says airily. “But you cannot blame me for trying.”

“I care for him.” Pure Vanilla’s words are calm, precise. “I have no desire to-”

“Yes, yes,” Sage interrupts, waving his hand as he floats back out of reach. “Yet, do you not find it natural to loathe the circumstances thrust upon me? Crafted in your spitting image, just to be discarded.”

Pure Vanilla’s gaze softens, just for a moment.

“Don’t think I don’t know what manner of insecurity I was born from. I witnessed it firsthand, remember?” A glance back, a flash of an odd smile. “Now that was a fight.”

Yes, it was.

“Sage,” Pure Vanilla says quietly. “Please. Tell me – where is Shadow Milk Cookie?”

There’s a tilt of the other’s head, a considering sound. “I can’t say for certain,” Sage replies after a moment. “But, perhaps you should check his favorite place. It’s where I’d look.”

“His favorite-?” Pure Vanilla muses aloud, but his words are lost. Sage is already trailing upwards, books in hand and attention shifted in full. Their discussion is over - the meeting, concluded.

Pure Vanilla lets him go.

Stepping back outside the library leaves Pure Vanilla with a pang in his chest and a slump in his shoulders, his apprehension turned to uneasy uncertainty. While Shadow Milk has several spots around the kingdom he likes to visit, Pure Vanilla isn’t certain he can call any of them his favorite. The other’s moods are fickle, his whims shifting like the wind he floats effortlessly upon. There have been weeks where Pure Vanilla can scarcely pry him away from the local theatre establishments; there have been others where he spends entire nights without cessation bent over some sculpture or recipe that’s caught his interest. Foods that he eats nightly are refused and a source of disgust mere days later; others he calls a marvel to debate are demoted to troglodytes before Pure Vanilla’s even learned their names.

However, there is some stability in their lives Pure Vanilla can count on – and a singular location that springs to mind first when ticking through the options.

The Crow’s Nest Inn is rather special to them, after all.

--

The Vanilla Kingdom’s markets are bursting with life, a cacophony of booming voices and bustling Cookies swelling the streets with their numbers. Pure Vanilla’s own steps are steady, moving forward through a crowd that greets him every which way he turns. Each smile flashed is sincere; each hand that grasps at his own, squeezed gently before being released to its owner. Eager shop owners call out to him, trying to wave him over with wares and trinkets that gleam in the afternoon sun – Pure Vanilla merely smiles back, nodding at them before continuing along his path.

He’ll return again, once this is over. He always does.

As Pure Vanilla makes his way through the crowds, flashes of blue draw his attention from a single glance. Often it is nothing more than a painting, a ribbon, the gleam of some glass bauble hanging from a hook. Once it is a bonnet, piled high with daffodils that makes him sneeze – another, the glint of steely blue eyes belonging to a blacksmith brushing by him on the streets. Each false alarm stutters his heart, swooping with hope that fades just as quickly –

The Maiden’s shoulder collides with his own; her scoff echoes in his ears.

She brushes by Pure Vanilla without a second thought but his gaze follows her, tracing her form swiftly disappearing back into the crowd. She’s on the arms of a young man he doesn’t know, resting her hand in the crook of his elbow. The poor fellow looks absolutely besotted, eyes shining with adoration even as several shopping bags swing around his forearms.

The pair is gone in an instant, swallowed up as quickly as they’d come. Pure Vanilla forces back a sigh, turning back around as he continues forward and forbids the pang in his chest.

The Maiden always twists her knife with precision, it seems.

The door to the Crow’s Nest Inn creaks audibly as Pure Vanilla pushes it open; the tavern’s already bustling with the afternoon crowd, its occupants turning to welcome him with a wave of their mugs and chorus of greetings. A quick scan of his surroundings does not provide Pure Vanilla with any familiar flashes of blue - he does, however, spy Black Raisin Cookie seated at the bar with a drink in hand. She meets his gaze and nods at him; Pure Vanilla nods back, making his way towards her.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie,” she says, tipping her drink slightly in greeting before taking a quick swig. “Surprised to see you here this early. Don’t you usually have meetings right about now?”

“Usually,” Pure Vanilla agrees, taking the empty seat beside her. “Today’s priorities have… shifted.”

Black Raisin’s drink instantly lowers. “Are you two fighting again?”

“We’re not-” Pure Vanilla swallows a sigh. “We’re not fighting. It’s not a fight.”

There’s a hum, like she doesn’t completely believe him. “Sometimes you fight.”

“Sometimes.” Pure Vanilla motions to the barkeep; without a word, a tall mug of something tan and frothy is slid right towards him. “Not this time. I don’t want this to be a fight.”

Black Raisin perks a brow, tilting her head slightly. “Does he?”

The familiar ache in his chest is back; Pure Vanilla ignores it, lifting his drink to take a small, tired sip. “I don’t know,” he admits, wiping at the foam left on his lips. “I don’t think so. He’s upset, but…”

“It’s difficult,” Black Raisin supplies gently. “He’s difficult.”

A prickle of defensiveness as Pure Vanilla lifts his gaze. “Not always.”

“Not always.” There’s a graceful shrug of her shoulder, even as her eye glints with amusement. “Put that face away. I’m not picking on him, I’m just saying you two are… tricky. But I do think he’s good for you.” A small quirk to her smile. “Good for the kingdom, really. I can’t remember the last time I saw a Cake Monster within five miles of our perimeter.”

“Yes,” Pure Vanilla murmurs. “Though, I suppose the kingdom is sort of what our… not-fight is about.”

“Well,” Black Raisin replies easily, swirling her mug, “that sounds like something you should discuss with him, not me.”

The corner of Pure Vanilla’s lips twitch with a smile. “Am I not allowed to trouble you with my relationship woes?”

“You know my rules. You two are way too complicated and I am currently far too sober.” Black Raisin sets her drink down, nodding towards the makeshift stage in the corner of the room. “Besides – I just spied a familiar face getting ready for a show.”

Pure Vanilla’s attention immediately snaps over, his hand swiveling his staff to peer across the room –

Sharp, black heels. A ruffled cream shirt and long, dark hair pulled up in a high ponytail. A familiar face bent over a box of props, a child or two milling about his heels excitedly as they impatiently wait their turn.

The previous rush of anticipation deflates; Pure Vanilla’s disappointment must be palpable, judging by Black Raisin’s look of surprise. “What?” she asks. “Didn’t you want to talk?”

“I do,” Pure Vanilla sighs, lowering his staff. “That’s just not the Shadow Milk Cookie I’m looking for.”

Still, the Actor may provide some new glimpse of insight. It’s worth a conversation, at least.

“Not the…” Black Raisin repeats back, before her eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, the Shadow Milk Cookie? Are there more than one?”

Pure Vanilla Cookie slips off his stool, leaning on his staff as he straightens up. “I’m going to speak with them. Thank you for the company, Black Raisin Cookie.”

Black Raisin reaches for his arm, voice pitched with concern. “Pure Vanilla Cookie, are there multiple Shadow Milk Cookies in the kingdom right now?”

Her grip misses him narrowly; Pure Vanilla merely steps to the side, offering her a comforting smile and small shake of his head. “Don’t worry,” he says gently. “It’ll be alright.”

“You did not say no.”

“It’ll be alright,” Pure Vanilla repeats, already tapping his staff against the floorboards as he makes his way through the crowd.

Black Raisin Cookie’s strangled noise of displeasure is noted, but cannot be helped.

The Actor raises their head at Pure Vanilla’s approach; their hands still in their work, even as a child tugs at their cuffs. The warm smile of welcome that splits their face seems genuine as they step forward, arms extended – Pure Vanilla matches the smile with a smaller one of his own, accepting the embrace as he’s wrapped into a hug.

Two quick kisses, one pressed to each cheek that Pure Vanilla accepts with grace.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie.” The Actor’s eyes sparkle with warmth as they step back and clasp Pure Vanilla’s hand in their own. “Well, well, well. To what does my stage owe the honor?”

“Hello,” Pure Vanilla replies politely – his gaze flicks momentarily downwards to the two small children staring wonderingly up at him. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Nonsense.” The Actor taps their heel twice; the children start to attention, immediately scrambling to pick up the box of props before disappearing behind the curtain. “We’re only just setting up for the evening crowd. Berry Twist Cookie’s been begging us to let her act out her new experimental abstract piece for ages now, and I thought, why not today?”

“Why indeed,” Pure Vanilla muses, already imagining Shadow Milk’s horrified gasp of affront. “I look forward to her show.”

“But surely you did not come down here for a play I’ve yet to announce.” The Actor’s smile is dazzling, glinting brightly beneath the stage lights. “Looking for a certain someone, are we?”

Pure Vanilla nods, allowing his hand to remain grasped in the other’s. “I was led to believe he may be in one of his favorite spots. So I-”

“Thought of me?” The Actor’s eyelashes flutter amorously. “I’m touched! Truly. I had no idea you thought so highly of my work!”

“Do you know where else he might be?” Pure Vanilla’s voice is calm and composed – while the Actor’s flirtations lack the touchy past of the Sage, caution is still prudent. “Any other places come to mind?”

The Actor hums; they release Pure Vanilla’s hand, one of their own coming to rest on their hip as they massage at their chin. “The tragic romance,” they sigh. “So complicated and intriguing – yet so tediously dull at the same time. Feels like a bit of an encore performance, no? Repeating the same lines, but you don’t know your mark?”

“Any help would be appreciated,” Pure Vanilla replies neutrally.

A sigh, heaved with exaggerated exasperation. “You poor thing,” the Actor hums, resting their cheek against their palm as they look Pure Vanilla up and down. “The role of a scorned lover is never easy. Are you sure you want to progress such a miserable scene? No one would blame you for bowing out.”

Pure Vanilla inclines his head in a small nod. “I would.” A steady gaze, tinged with fatigue yet steeled with resolve. “Please.”

The Actor gives him another sweeping glance before simply shrugging one shoulder. “Very well. Then I’d say, perhaps try a location that’s special to both of you. I may trod the boards of the bards as my calling but you…” A smile, sharp and familiar. “Well, you were always a bit more captivated by my figure than façade, hm?”

There’s a light dusting of pink threatening to bloom on Pure Vanilla’s cheeks; he forbids it, simply dipping into a polite bow before straightening. “Thank you. I will… keep your words in mind.”

“Don’t dwell on it too hard, now.” The Actor reaches up, poking the crease of Pure Vanilla’s brow. “Wrinkle lines. You’re getting up there in years, you know.”

At least some jabs remain consistent.

By the time Pure Vanilla excuses himself, his mind is buzzing with possibilities. Even Black Raisin’s call does not break his reverie as he steps back through the inn doors; his hand comes to rest against the wooden beams of the porch as he furrows his brow in thought.

A place that’s special to both of them… a tricky question, compounded only by the number of possible solutions. There’s certainly several restaurants in the area the pair of them have enjoyed, but none stick out any more than the other. A few well-adored date spots across the continents spring to mind, but none of them are remotely within Pure Vanilla’s means to reach without use of portals. It’s unlikely Shadow Milk would be holed up in Black Raisin’s house, as pleasant as their cheat-ridden game nights may be. The only other constant in their life is their strolls, their long, meandering walks through –

Hm.

Perhaps…?

--

The sun above the royal gardens has already begun to set by the time Pure Vanilla makes his way to the entrance; an evening chill accompanies the dusk that’s creeping along the edge of the horizon, sending a small shiver through Pure Vanilla’s dough. The high hedges escort him down the cobbled paths, the air filled with the heavy scent of pollen and fragrance carried off by another gust of wind that rustles his cloak. The tapping of Pure Vanilla’s staff against the cobblestone echoes loudly as he walks; it is the only sound that can be heard, ringing hollow in his ears.

Each turn down a new path nets Pure Vanilla little – his disappointment mounts with each step, longing mixing with frustration into something sour and cold. A headache is beginning to form, bitterness acrid on his tongue as he forbids yet another sigh from leaking past his lips.

The role of a scorned lover is never easy.

The Actor’s words weigh heavily on Pure Vanilla’s shoulders, ache in his dough with every step.

Are you sure you want to progress such a miserable scene?

Does Shadow Milk even want to talk? Had this been a hint, some indication that Pure Vanilla’s pursuit across the kingdom had been pointless from the start?

No one would blame you for bowing out.

Frustrating him, sending him in circles. Never giving him a straight answer. Is all this a trial of fortitude, or a measly distraction to keep him occupied while Shadow Milk stews? Does the man he loves truly feel the need to test Pure Vanilla’s patience again and again, after all this time?

“You may as well come out,” Pure Vanilla announces stubbornly to the empty air. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

A single word. A word that causes Pure Vanilla to freeze mid-step, a word that brings his staff down onto the stones with an audible clack.

A word carried by a tone colder than the air sucked from Pure Vanilla’s lungs.

It takes a moment. It takes a steadying breath, a steeling of resolve and smothering of new, uncomfortable alarm crawling through Pure Vanilla’s dough. When Pure Vanilla finally summons the will to shift, to slowly turn his head towards the voice, he finds that all light has been sapped from their surroundings.

Before him, haloed in the darkness, floats the Fury.

Pure Vanilla exhales a slow, careful breath.

It’s been a long time since they’ve crossed paths like this, since Pure Vanilla has seen the wraith of Shadow Milk’s resentments out in full force. The Fury is a creature of light and shadow, formless and sharp in all the wrong places, hair billowing out and hands carved into claws with wicked points. A myriad of eyes stares icily down, all locked onto Pure Vanilla’s own carefully neutral gaze – they do not blink, not even once.

“No?” the Fury repeats, tone sharp and clipped. “You’re not going anywhere, Pure Vanilla Cookie?”

Pure Vanilla tightens his grip on his staff as the Fury descends, floating closer to him as it circles its prey. “No,” Pure Vanilla echoes back, keeping his voice steady. “I’m not. And you can’t-”

“How odd,” the Fury interrupts; it cocks its brow, tilts its head in mock consideration. “That’s not what you said before.”

Its tone is bordering on curious, but Pure Vanilla knows better. The absolute darkness surrounding them oozes with malice; danger pulses from each casual flick of its claws, in the way every eye tracks the smallest twitch of Pure Vanilla’s dough. This is the moment before the pin drops, nothing more.

Pure Vanilla meets the other’s gaze with a careful look. “I never-”

“Never what?” is cut in with a hiss. “Never threatened to leave me? To abandon me, forsake your promise, just like all the others?”

A swallow, thick and tight. “That’s not-”

Pain. The prick of a claw digging just below Pure Vanilla’s chin as the Fury forcibly tilts his head up, eyes frighteningly wide as it stares down at him.

“You can’t.” The words come softly, but there is no trace of warmth behind them. “I won’t let you. You know that, don’t you?”

Pure Vanilla’s eyes flutter, struggling to maintain his composure even as the ache in his chest clenches like a vice.

“I’ll tear it apart.” An eerie calmness, a certainty laced through each brush of the claws at Pure Vanilla’s throat. “This world and the next. Every life, every timeline. I will take the life of every soul that ever has been or will be and carve it into you. Cut the reaper’s throat with my own claws and drag you from the depths between my teeth.” The Fury leans in; Pure Vanilla can feel the heat of its breath ghost across his cheek. “Do you understand?”

There’s a moment of silence, a taut stillness as the darkness swells with a chill that bites at Pure Vanilla’s dough. Slowly, methodically, he lifts a hand – it comes to rest above the Fury’s heart, palm flat against a chest that draws back with sharply inhaled breath.

“It’s true that I made a promise,” Pure Vanilla says softly, eyes slipping shut as he rests his forehead against the Fury’s own. “And it’s true that it’s one I intend to keep.” His palm smooths over the Fury’s chest, feeling tension held taught within. “But that would never be something I’d want.”

The Fury’s gaze narrows; its claws find purchase on Pure Vanilla’s chin yet again, forcibly yanking it up. “So what?” is hissed through bared teeth. “You think that changes anything? You think I’d let you abandon me, spare them for the sake of your feelings? You think I care at all about what you want?”

Pure Vanilla meets the furious gaze with steady resolve. “You don’t,” he replies quietly. “But he does.”

A snarl rips through the air; Pure Vanilla braces, staff whipping up to defend –

Brilliant, shining light blooms in the darkness.

Pure Vanilla’s released in an instant; the Fury throws itself backwards, an angry screech echoing as it recoils in mid-air. The darkness shatters, cut apart by streaks of light that crackle and burst open the illusion in a blinding display – Pure Vanilla throws up his sleeve, shielding his eyes as he clenches them shut.

By the time his arm lowers, the darkness has faded in full – Pure Vanilla stands back in the garden, surrounded by a sea of familiar flowers and a calm, star-speckled sky. The Fury is gone, vanished without a trace, and in its place a simple golden staff is held aloft by a figure shining with soft, sparkling magic. It takes a blink, then another for Pure Vanilla’s vision to fully clear – by the time his vision clears, the magic is dissipating and the familiar clunk of a staff hitting stone echoes through the gardens.

It is a difficult thing not to stare.

Pure Vanilla, to his credit, has the grace to avert his eyes before too long; decorum, drilled into habit has him lowering his head in greeting, his long hair brushing against the path as he bows.

The Fount merely watches, a small, tired smile on his lips.

They have only met once before, a fleeting moment that had been over before it began. Pure Vanilla had scarcely known what to say then - now, even less. The Fount is something ethereal, a presence and past remarked upon with idle reminiscence or open scorn depending on Shadow Milk’s mood. Even now, he remains nearly a specter, shimmering with magic along dough tinged with translucence that ripples in the fading evening light. He is beautiful, features blessed by starlight and an otherworldly grace to his movements as he turns his head to the side, long hair drifting through the air at the slightest of movements.

“There is a bench nearby,” the Fount says softly, gaze returning to Pure Vanilla so naturally that it sends goosebumps up his arms. “If you would like to rest a moment.”

Pure Vanilla nods after a moment; he’s certain he’s still staring, but the Fount doesn’t seem to mind.

It is a strange thing, to meet a god.

It is stranger still to sit beside him and not know what to say.

Night descends around them gently; the lamps in the garden flicker on as a more comfortable sort of darkness blankets their surroundings. It is still chilly, a crisp autumn wind blowing through and sending shivers through Pure Vanilla’s dough – his cloak helps, if only a little. His companion – celestial, ethereal, luminescent with gentle light – does not seem to mind in the slightest; the Fount merely sits on the bench beside him, hands in his lap and gazing calmly up at the stars winking back overhead.

It’s nice. It’s strange.

It’s melancholy, in a way Pure Vanilla can’t quite place.

“You know,” and oh, how gently the Fount’s voice caresses the air. “This is the longest another has sat beside me and inquired nothing in return.”

Pure Vanilla swallows; he’s being addressed, yet he still cannot bring himself to fully meet the Fount’s steady gaze. The moment feels too fragile – the presence at his side, delicate enough to shatter if viewed directly. It is a side he has never been allowed to get near, a permission he is not certain he has been fully granted.

He has never spoken to a dead man before.

“You’re quiet,” the Fount continues softly. “Please, don’t be afraid.”

Pure Vanilla’s heart clenches instantly. “My apologies, my – my Fount.” Another swallow. “Is that… is that what I am to call you?”

“Some have.” The Fount sounds contemplative, nothing more. “You may, if you wish.”

“And what of you?”

The Fount blinks; Pure Vanilla tracks the motion from the corner of his averted gaze. “Hm?”

“What do you wish?” Pure Vanilla folds his hands, one on top of the other as he stares down at his lap. “What do you want? What will…” A pained catch in his throat; Pure Vanilla forces it down, choking out:

“What will make you happy?”

The Fount, in all his shimmering glory, graces Pure Vanilla with another soft smile. “There is only one thing I have ever wished for,” he replies after a moment. “The same thing that each of us have dreamed of since before we ever truly began.”

Pure Vanilla’s eyes flutter shut, unable to bear the weight of the other’s gentle gaze. “Which is?”

A touch – a hand brushing against his forehead, tucking a loose strand of hair back into place.

“You have already given it.”

“Have I?” It feels improper, speaking like this; frustration and fatigue have eaten away at what feels like the last, fraying threads holding back his grief. “Then why do we keep ending up in these battles? Why is he, them, all of this so-”

Difficult.

Pure Vanilla’s head lowers, hands coming up to press against his eyes. “I didn’t want us to fight.” His voice feels strained, threadbare of the last gasps of decorum. “I never meant to upset him. I was just-”

“Thinking of me?”

Pure Vanilla jolts, barely – still the motion is enough to draw a tiny, fond huff as the Fount continues gently tucking hair back into place. “It’s alright. I am still a part of him, even if he denies it.”

“He claims he killed you.” Pure Vanilla keeps pressing his palms into his eyes; it feels like it helps, somehow. “That you died by his hand.”

A hum; the hand brushing against Pure Vanilla’s forehead grazes his birthmark before finally pulling back. “And whyever should the Master of Deceit lie?”

This is enough to pull a small, tinny laugh from Pure Vanilla’s throat; though he can’t see him, he knows the Fount is smiling. “Why indeed?”

The Fount settles back on the bench; slowly, Pure Vanilla lifts his head again and finds the other gazing back up at the sky. “Mortals,” the Fount says softly, “live differently than you and I. Their thoughts are to finite futures, on what-ifs, and what will be. They make plans for when they inevitably pass, to protect who will be left behind.”

“I know,” Pure Vanilla replies quietly. “I was born mortal.”

“I know,” the Fount echoes back. “He wasn’t.”

Pure Vanilla’s hands clench in his lap.

“It is an easy thing,” the Fount continues, “to hate. To hold nothing sacred, to dispose of anyone and anything without regret. We lived like that, freely and without fear, for a very long time. Never giving any thought to what value a life could hold that wasn’t our own.” The Fount’s gaze lowers back down, eyes softened with fondness. “Until we found you.”

 “I’m sorry,” Pure Vanilla rasps, with nothing else to say.

“There is nothing to apologize for. After all, our first interactions were hardly pleasant.” The Fount extends a hand; Pure Vanilla instantly takes it, palm resting in the other's own. “But,” the Fount murmurs kindly, “you have become someone so, so precious to us. The companion we have longed for, the silent prayer we thought would never be answered. You are someone who loves us, who we wish to stay beside beyond the end of eternity.”

“Then why,” Pure Vanilla whispers, voice tight with pain. “Why does he keep running?”

The Fount smiles, eyes softened by sadness.

“Because we could lose you.”

Pure Vanilla makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“You terrify us,” the Fount continues simply. “We love you so fiercely, so devotedly in ways we may never be able to say. You are everything we’ve ever wanted. You make us happy beyond anything we could ever dream of - but that also means that happiness can be taken away.” The Fount’s hand gently squeezes Pure Vanilla’s own. “He can no longer imagine a world without you – and that thought, the realization he has been so thoroughly, irrevocably changed only frightens him further.”

“I don’t want to leave him.” Pure Vanilla’s own grip on the Fount’s hand feels too tight; he prays it is not painful. “I don’t want to scare him.”

The Fount’s smile gentles; he leans forward, brushing the softest of kisses against the curve of Pure Vanilla’s temple. “I know. He knows this too. You are not in the wrong to worry for your people, Pure Vanilla Cookie. You ask, as you do of all things, out of love. For him, and for them.” A small huff, the barest hint of a laugh. “It is simply a topic that is…”

Pure Vanilla, despite everything, finds a small smile twitching at his lips. “Difficult.”

“Indeed.” The Fount’s hand gently releases Pure Vanilla’s own, folding primly back atop the other. “We have been through many hardships together. There will no doubt be more to come. So I ask you – is this eternity at his side truly what you wish for?”

Pure Vanilla lifts his own gaze skyward; he traces the patterns of stars overhead, lines up the constellations once pointed out by a flippant tone and snarky remarks. “My wish has always been the same,” Pure Vanilla finally replies. “I wish for all Cookies to be happy.”

“And you would endure these hardships for the sake of his happiness?”

“You misunderstand.” Pure Vanilla’s smile deepens, ever so slightly. “I wish for all Cookies to be happy. And I have found through every hardship, every difficulty we have shared, I am still happiest when standing by his side.”

The Fount’s expression remains unchanged, even as his eyes flutter shut. “Very well,” he says, tone soft yet pleased. “Then, I have my answer.”

“I am glad to give it.” Pure Vanilla takes hold of his staff, lifting himself from the bench; the Fount’s eyes do not open, but Pure Vanilla can feel his attention just the same. “But my Fount, if you’d allow me – I have one final question to ask you.”

“Of course.” The Fount’s smile is undaunted; he seems almost vaguely amused. “I am at your service.”

“Fount of Knowledge,” Pure Vanilla says quietly. “I wish to be happy. And to be happy, I must find the one my heart longs for most.” A step forward, a back straightened to stand tall as Pure Vanilla gazes down at the god sitting calmly before him. “Please, Fount of Knowledge. Where is Shadow Milk Cookie?”

“Where he has always been.” The Fount’s reply comes easily, as weightlessly as the rush of wind that gusts past them. “Somewhere that is special to him, somewhere he treasures most of all.” The Fount’s eyes crease open ever so slightly. “The one place in all of Earthbread that he feels truly safe.”

Realization, slow and steady, finally blooms in Pure Vanilla’s chest.

Of course.

--

The room is quiet when Pure Vanilla enters.

Their bedroom door creaks as he pushes it aside, as it always does; the grandfather clock tucked into the corner of the room ticks on, as it always does. Beyond that there is no sound, no sign of life as Pure Vanilla shuts the door and habitually clicks the lock back into place. Habit takes over from there; his crown is carefully balanced atop the coat rack, his cloak shed to join it. The next step is to bathe, to wash away the grime and dirt of the day and dress in his nightclothes and enjoy a cup of tea or two before a peaceful rest.

Instead, Pure Vanilla makes his way to the bed.

His hand pauses over the sheets, hovering with a patient sort of caution. A warning, perhaps, or merely an indication of his intent before he takes hold of a corner and slowly lifts it up and into view.

There, lining the underside of the blankets, lies a shifting mass of darkness.

It’s almost liquid in appearance, speckled with a myriad of eyes that all seem to be guiltily avoiding Pure Vanilla’s gaze. One by one they blink out of sight, shuttering until only a handful remain, visibly downcast in their unhappiness. Their presence is heavy, causing a strain in Pure Vanilla’s arms as he lowers the covers back down and bites back a sigh of both relief and fatigue.

Somewhere special. Somewhere safe.

You never left in the first place, did you?

Indeed, the weight is familiar as Pure Vanilla sets his staff aside and carefully slides into bed; the covers press down on his chest with the same ache he’d felt that morning, half-smothered beneath a presence he’d been too groggy to register. Pure Vanilla turns on his side, resting his cheek against the pillow as he holds out his arms in open invitation. There are several long moments, seconds that drag by with nothing to fill the space but steady breath exhaled in practiced patience.

Darkness, thick and viscous, slides into Pure Vanilla’s embrace.

It’s a strange sort of feeling and not entirely pleasant, but Pure Vanilla gathers the formless, oozing darkness and holds it close to his chest. He can feel the tacky, almost wet sensation of something poking at his shoulder, burying itself against his neck with a familiarity that draws a weak smile to his face. There is still a formlessness to it all, a reluctance and melancholy echoed in its movements, yet Pure Vanilla still feels the mass slot perfectly against him as it settles into place.

Pure Vanilla says nothing, because it doesn’t feel right. Not yet. He merely tempers his sigh into one of simple fatigue as he nestles down, closing his eyes as the lights overhead click off without a word.

Complete darkness swallows them, but Pure Vanilla does not open his eyes. He simply waits.

Sleep comes and goes in spurts and fits. Pure Vanilla will doze off, only to shudder awake and find there’s a hand resting against his hip. He’ll drift into thought, then feel a shoulder nudge his own, or rouse briefly at the sensation of a sigh being breathed against his neck. Bit by bit, form is renewed, until Pure Vanilla finally slips away in full to the feeling of another heartbeat pressed against his own.

When Pure Vanilla next opens his eyes, it is to sunlight.

The call of the morning birds echoes cheerfully in the air; a chill has seeped into the room, drawing a shudder as Pure Vanilla instinctively reaches out, patting the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Pure Vanilla instantly bolts upright, blindly feeling around with a lump in his throat – only to pause, to lift his head as a new gust of wind brushes past.

The balcony door is open.

A figure stands outside in the morning light, leaning against the balcony railing holding something aloft in its hand. The thick smell of cloves and cinnamon drifts upon the wind as Pure Vanilla pushes the covers aside, getting to his feet and grabbing for his staff before he rights himself in full.

Shadow Milk Cookie and Shadow Milk alone stands on their balcony, smoking a long, thin pipe.

His back is turned; he’s undoubtedly heard Pure Vanilla rise, but has not acknowledged it yet. Pure Vanilla tentatively accepts it as invitation, crossing the room and stopping only to rest his palm against the balcony doors. He hesitates on the threshold, caution and longing aching as the scent of spice wafts against his dough and pulls a small smile to his lips.

“You know smoking’s bad for you.”

Shadow Milk finally turns; his brow quirks upwards, a smile on his lips accompanying a thinly disguised fatigue that he seems to brush aside with a shrug of his shoulder. “So?” Shadow Milk takes another puff of the pipe, tilting his head back to blow a stream of smoke in the air before lazily rolling his gaze back down. “You’re a healer.” A smile, sharp and teasing. “Kiss it better.”

The invitation has been granted; Pure Vanilla steps forward, closing the distance until they’re mere inches apart. Shadow Milk seems wholly unbothered, taking another puff of his pipe as Pure Vanilla’s hand comes up to rest against his cheek.

“Later,” Pure Vanilla says quietly. “After your check-up.”

Shadow Milk snorts; he exhales the last of the smoke, tapping his pipe to discard the embers. “How sweet. Do I get a lollipop after?”

“If you’d like one.” Pure Vanilla’s gaze is searching; Shadow Milk, to his credit, meets it steadily. “How are you feeling?”

“Put together,” Shadow Milk answers casually. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

It’s not, but it’s a relief just the same – if only for Black Raisin’s nerves. “So, they’re-”

“What?” There’s a teasing tone underlying the challenging way Shadow Milk sweeps him up and down. “I’m not enough for you? One Shadow Milk too few for your liking? Your greed sickens me, Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

Pure Vanilla huffs a laugh, his hand slowly withdrawing. “One Shadow Milk is plenty – especially when he happens to be my favorite.”

Shadow Milk hums; he plants his palms on the railing, hopping up and folding one slender leg over the other. “You sure?” The remark comes casually, a careless tilt to the other’s head. “I hear this one’s trouble.”

“They’re all trouble,” Pure Vanilla replies with a smile, earning an exaggerated eyeroll and gentle kick to his arm. “But I’m satisfied with my choice.”

Shadow Milk picks up his pipe again, tapping out the ashes as he pretends to examine it. “Bit unwise, if you ask me. Sounds like something a delusional, half-baked fool would say.”

“Perhaps,” Pure Vanilla hums.

A glance, weighed down with something untouchable before Shadow Milk looks away again. “And I can’t change your mind?”

“No.” A gentle shake of Pure Vanilla’s head. “You can’t.”

Shadow Milk takes a long puff before exhaling the smoke into the air. “Has to be him, huh?”

Pure Vanilla smiles, ear to ear.

“It could never be anyone else.”

Shadow Milk merely sighs, flicking his pipe with an elegant flourish of his wrist. “Fool,” he drawls, warmth lacing his pointedly bored tone. “Very well. Am I to give you my answer, then?”

A blink. “Answer?”

“About your kingdom. Your query from the other night.” Shadow Milk shrugs one shoulder, feigning disinterest as he toys with his pipe. “Or are we not talking about it?”

“We can talk about it.” Pure Vanilla steps to the side, turning to rest against the railing to support his back. “If you want to.”

Shadow Milk takes a slow drag of his pipe, shrugging again before blowing a small stream of smoke up into the sky. “It’s hardly a matter of want,” he replies lazily. “The entire prospect is wholly unappealing, as you well know.”

“I know.” Pure Vanilla sets his staff to the side, watching it slide slightly before slotting into the space between the tiles. “I did not presume otherwise.”

“Taking care of an entire kingdom,” Shadow Milk muses, eyes on the sky. “I’ve lived that life.”

“I know.”

A wry smile, sharp and unkind. “I hated it. Hated them.”

“I know,” Pure Vanilla repeats.

Shadow Milk tilts his head, expression somewhere between amused and considering. “And you’d leave it all to me? After everything I’ve done?”

“Not all of it,” Pure Vanilla corrects. “And not forever.” He reaches out a hand; Shadow Milk eyes it, gaze openly calculating before he sets his pipe down and finally, gingerly places his palm in Pure Vanilla’s own. “I never meant to alarm you,” Pure Vanilla continues softly. “Only to know if you wished to be recognized formally in my will. I did not mean to overwhelm you with what-ifs, only to be prepared should anything happen-”

“When,” Shadow Milk cuts in coldly. “When something happens.”

Pure Vanilla squeezes his hand gently. “Shadow Milk-”

“You’ve done it before.” Shadow Milk does not return the gesture; his tone is icy, his hand limp in Pure Vanilla’s own. “How do you think we met, Pure Vanilla Cookie? You were nothing more than an untethered spirit floating about in my realm. Just a miserable little pile of crumbs, hm?”

“That was my past,” Pure Vanilla counters softly. “Not my future.”

Shadow Milk snorts. “Oh, please. You would sacrifice your stale little self a hundred times over for another. You did it to stop Dark Enchantress Cookie. You tried to do it to stop me.” Shadow Milk pulls his hand from Pure Vanilla’s, folding his arms across his chest. “Or did you think I didn’t see your pathetic little stunt with Elder Faerie?”

“A portion of my life powder.” Pure Vanilla is losing ground, but he cannot bend. “Not the whole of it.”

“You would have given it all, for her.” Shadow Milk is looking anywhere but him, posture taut and tense. “And you will someday for another. You will leave me, Pure Vanilla Cookie, and you know it. Why else would you ask me to look after your people after you’re gone?”

“Because I trust you.”

Shadow Milk’s lips curve cruelly. “Fool.”

“Because,” Pure Vanilla presses, “it’s different now.”

“How?” Shadow Milk’s voice is strained, thinned with something bordering on grief. “What could possibly be so different? You are the same wretched Cookie you have always been.”

“I’m not.” Pure Vanilla offers a small, tired smile. “Because I have you.”

Another snort, strangled and terse as Shadow Milk’s eyes flutter shut.

“Shadow Milk Cookie,” Pure Vanilla says softly. “I cannot make promises outside of my control. But I can tell you this – no matter what happens to me, no matter what comes to pass, I will not leave you. Even should the last crumb of my dough turn to ash, I will remain with you, always.”

“Fool,” Shadow Milk hisses again. “You think your paltry words soothe me? You think your pretty fantasies, your guardian angel schtick is going to work on me? I’m the Beast of Deceit here, pal. No matter how you try to gussy it up, I know how this ends. You will be gone, and I will be alone.”

“I want to live, Shadow Milk Cookie.” Pure Vanilla’s words are steady, refusing to waver even as Shadow Milk shudders with grief. “With you, beside you. If you fear I will carelessly throw away my life for another, know that there has never been another who mattered more to me than you. I will always fight to keep every breath I take, for I know in my heart that you need me.” A hand, hesitant and gentle, placed upon Shadow Milk’s knee. “Just as deeply as I need you.”

“Liar,” Shadow Milk rasps, voice paper-thin. “You don’t need me.”

“I do.” Pure Vanilla smooths his palm over the other’s knee. “I need every single part of you, now and forever. Will you give me that, Shadow Milk Cookie?”

Shadow Milk’s lips warp into something resembling a weak half-smile. “Greedy gnat.” A fluttery inhale, exhaled in a short, stuttered huff. “Why should I?”

Pure Vanilla hums thoughtfully. “Because, no matter our difficulties, I love you.” A step forward, another hand coming up to rest against Shadow Milk’s chest. “Because, no matter how many lives we’ve lived, you love me back.”

“Says who?” Shadow Milk murmurs, teasing lilt cracking on his words.

“Because,” Pure Vanilla continues, “there is a big, beautiful breakfast waiting for us downstairs, full of whipped cream and blueberries and all your favorites. Because it is a sunny, cloudless day that I would like to spend with you, however you wish.” A smile. “Because, if you prefer, we can set all of that aside and simply go back inside, wrap ourselves in the sheets and hold each other until the sun has set.”

“Hah.” Shadow Milk’s smile has turned wry, his gaze finally lifting to meet Pure Vanilla’s own. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.” Pure Vanilla gently takes Shadow Milk’s hand, pressing a kiss to the top of his palm. “I am awake, and I am alive. I would like to spend that life with you however we please, should you have me.”

Shadow Milk’s own hands come up, cautiously coming to rest atop Pure Vanilla’s shoulders. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally, eyes softened with quiet fondness.

Pure Vanilla smiles. “Whenever you’re ready.” Another kiss as he stands tiptoe to reach Shadow Milk’s cheek. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Maybe.” Shadow Milk leans into the kiss, brushing their forehead together. “If I don’t leave you for some pretty young thing.”

“Ah, yes,” Pure Vanilla hums. “That fellow from the markets. I saw you.”

“I know.” Shadow Milk’s head tilts, a satisfied glint in his eyes. “She wanted you to.”

“Cruel.” A gentle nudge, a slow shake of Pure Vanilla’s head. “You’re cruel to me, love.”

“Well, had to look at the other options, didn’t we?” Shadow Milk drawls. “Widen the playing field, get my backups in a row.”

Pure Vanilla sighs, even as Shadow Milk grins against his dough. “Did you even learn his name?”

“No.” Shadow Milk’s shrug is one of easy indifference. “His breath reeked of onions and his hands tried to wander. He was dumped in a barrel not two minutes later.”

“Cruel,” Pure Vanilla repeats, tone laced with thin amusement. “But in his case, perhaps deserved.”

There’s another hum as Shadow Milk’s hands slide forward, encircling Pure Vanilla’s neck to keep him close. “Are we done, then?”

“Done?” Pure Vanilla echoes.

“With my check-up.” Shadow Milk’s head tilts teasingly. “As I recall, I was promised a kiss to make it all better.” A grin, sharp and wicked. “Or are you a liar, Pure Vanilla Cookie?”

A laugh, huffed with two warm breaths mingling in the morning air. “You like it when I am.”

Shadow Milk rolls his eyes, leaning forward as they press together in a soft, delicate kiss.

It’s a chaste affair, nearly over before it began; the persistent ache within Pure Vanilla’s chest is soothed with each slow, gentle slide of his lips against the other. Shadow Milk tastes like cloves, sharpened by the tang of cinnamon smoke wafting from his breath. They pull away before long, foreheads nuzzled together briefly before they part – Shadow Milk’s expression is the picture of contentment, even when chipped by unveiled fatigue.

“Come,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, resting his hands on Shadow Milk’s hips with a comforting squeeze. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Shadow Milk sighs, a pretense of being put-out even as he obediently slides off the balcony’s railing. “So lazy, Pure Vanilla Cookie. The sun’s barely out.”

“All the more reason to rest now.” Pure Vanilla motions with his head towards the doors, stepping back with his hands still on the other’s hips; Shadow Milk allows himself to be led without protest. “If we get a quick nap in before noon, we can still have lunch at Butterby’s before they close.”

“Ugh.” Shadow Milk sticks out his tongue. “You’re so obsessed with that place.”

“I like their burgers,” Pure Vanilla replies mildly.

“They’re oily.” Shadow Milk pokes his side. “You’re oily. You need a shower.”

“I do.” Pure Vanilla’s eyes lid slightly. “Perhaps, we could-?”

Shadow Milk flashes a smile, all teeth. “Hah! You really are full of life today, aren’t you?”

Pure Vanilla merely laughs; Shadow Milk tugs him close, nipping at his neck as they stumble their way inside, the impatient call of birdsong carrying after. A blind, fumbling hand reaches for the doorknob, finding purchase and swiftly shutting off the balcony behind them.

A lock clicks into place, curtains slipping down to hide them away from the world. When noon comes and goes, the doors remain barred. When night slips over the horizon, lights slip through the cracks in the shuttered windows before clicking off once more.

The next morning breaks kindly upon Pure Vanilla, with another wrapped in his arms and tacky drool stuck to his chest. He is sore, disheveled, and overheated by the body slumped halfway across him.

He has never slept better in his life.