Chapter Text
At that moment, he thought that would be it. The world they live in is a harsh one, and he has been lucky to survive to the age that he was. Most don't have the luxury to even reach half of his age, losing their lives early on to a war or a skirmish. With his head actively bleeding and several wounds he knew to be practically fatal without the aid of an actual healer, he had been resigned to dying right there, fallen on the grass next to the last cookie he had tried and failed to save.
When he woke, it was to nothing. Which wasn't a surprise—his vision had never been the best, and he was sure he would have lost it entirely had he lived longer. What was a surprise, however, was the feeling of a bright light at his peripheral; the presence of another cookie, sitting at his bedside, hand clasped on top of his own.
This cookie did not speak to him for a while, going through the motions of care with a stiff awkwardness that spoke of inexperience. His hands were gloved, his touch brief and impersonal, but he treated Pure Vanilla with an astounding degree of care. Rebandaging his wounds, feeding him, wiping him down and repeating it all for days without tiring.
In those early days, he couldn't do much but observe his saviour from what his magic could gleam without vision. With a high mana count and a strong presence echoing grim determination and grief, he was sure that the other cookie was a mage, and a rather powerful one at that.
It only brought further questions, because most cookies with that much power were few in number, and those that wielded such power spent their entire lives on the battlefield; living, surviving and eventually dying there.
This mage, whoever he was, lived alone. Somewhere frigid, cold enough that he often felt the breeze even underneath warm blankets. His saviour stuck to his side, rarely venturing out in the first week he woke, never saying a thing but remaining a constant, solid presence at his peripheral.
He remembers trying to recall his own memories back then. To piece together what had happened for him to end up in the care of this stranger who was kinder than most could afford to be in their world. Anyone else who had found him would have left him to die, seeing it as mercy—most cookies were barely scraping by as it is, and the addition of an injured cookie would only be a burden.
This kind stranger spent precious supplies on him and did more than anyone would have, which was grounds for suspicion because in most cases, this stranger would want something from him in return.
Except, he didn't have the faintest idea of what it could be. While his memories were spotty, he knew that he had not been any important cookie. A simple travelling healer who was a former shepherd, fighting for a local kingdom after a battle broke out near his old home—and that was all he could recall.
When he could eventually speak, it was the first thing he asked, “What can I do for you in return?”
The response had been silence. A brief one, but it stretched long enough that it had concerned him for a moment. He reached out, grabbing the stranger’s hand and finding it bare. The hand was rough, covered in hard calluses and scarred over dough with crooked fingers—the hand of a fighter, but it was pleasantly warm.
His savior’s voice was a nice tenor, and he spoke quietly, low enough as if fearing that someone might be listening, “Nothing. You survived, that's all I need from you. I'll be leaving once you've recovered enough that you won't die the moment you step outside.”
The words were crude, offhanded, rather crass in a way that was almost impolite. It would not have given him the best first impression had he not known of the gentle care underneath the harsh outer layer of this cookie. He pushed for a name, getting only ‘Blueberry’ in return, which he was sure wasn’t entirely true, even if his saviour carried the faint scent of blueberries.
He hadn't pushed further on that topic, his own name evading his memory. He offered his title in return for the name: ‘Healer’, something also true, but not entirely so, just like the name he was offered.
Not long after that first conversation, he was cleared from bedrest. Blueberry started going out more, citing that he needed to restock as supplies were running low. Healer busied himself with mapping out the surroundings, finding this little base to be a small house with three rooms: a main room connected to the entrance, a small storage room, and the bedroom he had spent most of his time in.
His vision returned slowly, but he kept the bandages around his eyes. Blueberry thought him blind and it was, in a way, an advantage. Better to be underestimated, and playing an invalid had always been a good way to get a measure of another cookie's true character based on how they treated him.
Thus, it was a great surprise to him that the subtle care had stuck around. Every trip, Blueberry would return with something for him. Most of the time, it was some form of food, but one memorable occasion had his saviour press a cane into his hands. He remembers taking hold of it, unreasonably delighted over such an unexpected and thoughtful gift.
Blueberry had stood close to his side, placing a hand over his and kneeling in front of him to resize the cane to his height. He had waved off all the thanks, jumping straight into needling Healer about how to get around the house.
With his limited vision, it was all too easy to memorize the layout of his new home. The cane made it even better, and it helped him keep up the appearance of blindness. He spent his days making himself useful around the house, cleaning what he could and occasionally enjoying the blurry view of the snowy mountains outside.
One day, he had found a dying plant not far from the entrance of their home. It was a struggle to take it home before Blueberry would return from his trip of the day, and he had gotten an earful for recklessly endangering himself for the sake of a ‘pathetic lifeform’.
It was but one of many arguments they had in those few years they spent together, but it’s one Pure Vanilla remembers most fondly. All because rescuing that plant had been the start of a little tradition of theirs.
With winter quickly setting and the snowfall being heavy enough to make travelling inadvisable for both of them, Blueberry had been convinced to stay. They fortified their little home together, using magic glyphs and powering it with their mana. He found his affinity through Blueberry—Light, with a good connection to the Grass element.
They had found out that little tidbit when he touched the little plant he rescued and it spontaneously bloomed into a full grown shrub. A few experiments later, and they had their own tea to drink through the heavy cold. Throughout the winter, they filled their days with idle conversation, sitting next to each other on the porch of their home, hand in hand.
He remembers the first time Blueberry shared his vision, right on the very first day marking a new year since they've started living together. They had woken earlier that day, off to climb to the summit of the mountain neighboring their home. It was cold, but the hand in his remained warm, the touch light and gentle, before he felt himself blink one moment, then he was greeted with the sight of a beautiful sunrise, seen through the eyes of another.
“You didn't have to.” Pure Vanilla had said to his saviour, this cookie who could be so crass yet so kind at the same time.
“I wanted to.” Blueberry had answered, tightening his grip on their joined hands, brushing their shoulders together as they sat there, watching the sun rise to mark the start of a new year.
It was then that he wished he could see Blueberry, wondering what kind of expression the other cookie has on his face. It's not a few days afterwards that the mage gently takes Pure Vanilla’s hands, pressing it up against his own face and telling him—trusting him to touch,
“You wanted to know, didn't you?”
He remembers tracing his fingers against Blueberry’s features. The tip of his nose, the slight curve of his lips, the shape of his face, the little dents and marks scattered across his dough. It paints a clearer picture, but he knows it would not be anything compared to truly seeing him.
His hair is long, and the blue is vibrant even with his subpar vision. Though, the icing is rough, singed from sunburn and dry from constant travelling. He makes it a habit to take a brush to it, caring for the hair just as Blueberry cared for him, even if the mage could care less about appearance.
“I like the feeling of your hair. You should take care of it more.” Pure Vanilla remembers telling him, dismayed at the state of the strands. It got a soft snort, and a gentle shake of the head,
“I was thinking of cutting it. It's becoming too much of a bother to keep long.”
“Let me take care of it.” He argued, insisting on the arrangement until Blueberry relented, allowing him to brush the mage’s hair as he pleases.
At that point, his concern over being taken advantage of was non-existent. Not when Blueberry has had so many chances to harm him but chose not to every single time. He told his friend—his companion the truth, that he wasn't completely blind. It was taken surprisingly well, but to his own dismay, his eyes had been too sensitive from lack of use to be much helpful, his vision remaining a blurry mess.
After winter passed, they settled into a life together. His vision improved slowly, and he started going out on trips alongside Blueberry. In one of those same trips, he found a flock of sheep abandoned in a settlement that had recently fallen. It took some pleading, but he had convinced Blueberry to keep the flock.
By the end of the second year, life has settled. They’ve developed a routine, of sorts, and their conversations have improved drastically from the initial constant arguments that often plagued it.
Life became peaceful, as unlikely as it could be in this war-torn world. Sequestered far away in the mountains with good company, he could almost pretend that this is all there is to the world. A flock of sheep, nice evening tea, and another cookie he is growing terribly attached to.
His memory returned slowly, in flashes of scenes triggered by certain things and unsettling dreams at night. He would always wake up in sweat, heart racing as he recalled his life before. Blueberry would be there not minutes after he woke, often holding him gently as they talked through the night.
It became such a common occurrence that they had started sharing a room. He found that Blueberry rarely, if ever, slept. While not the greatest with his magic, he was familiar enough on utilizing it to sense out his surroundings, and Blueberry's presence was a constant thing on his peripheral.
An overactive, constantly alert presence. He did not sleep, he rarely ate more than a few bites at a time, he seldom talked about himself—all things that weren't odd to see in any cookie, not when scarcity and danger were big parts of their lives.
Except, Blueberry took it a step further. Pushing past the limit of what was normal, where any other cookie would have collapsed from the lack of care. Sustaining himself on mana when food was scarce, skipping out on sleep whenever the days were too dark, all terrible habits that should make him a wraith of a cookie and yet—he did not appear very affected.
He found out exactly why that was one day, when he was laying next to Blueberry who was finally asleep. His vision had not gotten any better, but the feeling of a gem underneath his friend's clothes was unmistakable. Pressed up chest to chest, he wondered how he never noticed until that very moment.
The Soul Jam of Knowledge would be the first that he met. It was much like its master in temperament, but with a quality to it that was almost aggrieved. Even back then, he could tell that there was a block between the gem and its cookie Virtue, limiting the connection.
After gaining his own Soul Jam, he knew that the block was placed there by Blueberry himself, restricting the connection to that of a mage and a simple mana battery instead of the proper, complete resonance it was supposed to be.
Even without that knowledge, however, it was obvious to him then that Blueberry only ever does the bare minimum of self care.
Once enlightened of this, he took it upon himself to fix that, inviting Blueberry to evening tea and insisting that they share their meals. He was often met with rejection, but with enough time and stubbornness, his friend had eventually relented, resigning himself to semi-regular meals.
His dreams only grew more numerous as the days went by, and nearing their third year together, he had entirely moved into Blueberry's room. Surprisingly, the presence of another cookie keeps the worst of it away, and it was proven effective enough that Blueberry could hardly argue against it. On top of that, it has the added bonus of making sure the mage also got sleep, which he had admittedly shamelessly abused.
Life settled, and he could almost fool himself into thinking that this would be forever. He wants to believe that it could be forever, content with the very thought of living out the rest of his life this same way. However, knowing of the gem that the cookie he cherishes most hides, he knows that there are hurdles he must get through before he could get there.
True enough, their peace was interrupted by the war verging in on their doorstep. His flock had been massacred overnight, and a base was erected on the other side of their mountain—much too close to their home.
That evening, Blueberry pulled him aside, pushing a bag of supplies into his hands and telling him to leave.
He refused. They argued, and it felt so much worse than all of their previous arguments combined. Still, he clung to his friend, this precious cookie that was his savior and his host and perhaps something more.
Blueberry's hands had been still in that embrace. It should have been a warning sign—the mage never was open with his emotions, but Pure Vanilla could see it all from the look in his eyes, and his mage never met his gaze once in that conversation.
“Stay with me, please.” He had said, voice wobbling. He did not cry, at that time—for a while, he wondered if Blueberry would have stayed if he did.
His hands were gently held, fingers curling against his own, his friend whispering sweet promises that he found out too late were lies. When he woke up the next day, he did so in another place entirely, surrounded by strangers.
Life among the faeries was similarly peaceful. He recovered his memories in fragments, waking up drenched in sweat on a cold bed day by day, hands trembling as he tried to reach for another cookie that was never there.
“You know.” Blueberry had said that day, clasping one hand over his, the gem against his palm warm even as his heart aches at the obvious fear in his friend's voice.
“Then, you would understand that this is for the best.”
It was, even though he had not wanted to admit it. Not days after he joined the ranks of the faeries, the mountain range had collapsed, bringing down the encampments of the Spice Swarm that had settled nearby. He remembered it to be greatly relieving for the faerie cookies, because they had been losing ground up until the disastrous avalanches.
The disasters allowed the kingdom time to recuperate and push back, putting them back on even ground. He spent the following weeks joining the ranks of the healers, learning what he could from the faeries and writing down what he recalled from his old life.
The chaos of war died down, the faeries whispering that it was all thanks to the avalanches—luck, natural disasters that allowed them respite and discouraged the enemy from pursuit. He listened to more of the whispers, keeping an ear out for any news of the cookies who were responsible for their world's never ending war.
Burning Spice Cookie was most often spoken of, in hushed tones and fearful whispers. The Beast of Destruction, with his thirst for chaos and war, tipping the scales of balance and changing the playing field of war on mere whims—a perverted way to honor his old Virtue of Change.
The main opposition to his rule was Eternal Sugar Cookie, campaigning for her sweet paradise of Sloth and luring armies into her traps of sugar and honey. The two Beasts have clashed for centuries, the faeries told him. Since their fall from grace, they had never been the same, they whispered.
Although, one Beast stuck out among the rest. Simply for being the sole one of the five without a territory nor any sort of active participation in the war. The former Fount of Knowledge, the Beast of Deceit, Shadow Milk Cookie. Having been caught in the crossfire of the first war between Destruction and Apathy, Deceit retreated into the shadows, never to be seen nor heard from again.
Or so many said. Others believe he was simply pulling the strings behind the scenes. It would be fitting, after all, for the Beast who was so fond of playing with lives to be the one behind it all.
A smaller voice whispered of another outcome. That after the disastrous fall and subsequent chaos of war, the former Fount of Knowledge had returned to his senses, now roaming the land as a wanderer, healing the land and rescuing the injured from battlefields.
Blueberry, his heart told him, even when other cookies were skeptical of the tale. It would only be in Deceit's nature to spread such rumors, after all—to put himself above all and the rest, even when not a soul is sure of his survival.
The wanderer, they called him. Mixed accounts barely provided him with any information, but the amount of encounters were numerous enough that he could be sure that this cookie did exist. Even long after he had settled among the faeries, the story of the wanderer was one he heard often, especially from cookies returning from field postings.
They were never provided a name, most only being able to give a vague description of a cookie dressed in dark blue. Rather gruff in attitude and crass in his words, but with an unmistakable care in each of his actions.
A few years passed, and all he could piece together were rumors and little stories of this cookie. He never could connect the identity of Blueberry the wanderer with that of Shadow Milk the Beast, but he knew that all he needed to confirm that connection was to see his dear friend again.
The day came in the most unexpected way. They had received a fresh batch of patients from a skirmish at the border. Every cookie who lived in the village located in the area had to be evacuated and moved into the faerie kingdom. After years spent in the role of Healer, it was nothing new to treat and welcome the new batch of cookies into the safety of the Faerie Kingdom.
What was new, however, was the Elder Faerie himself coming into the healing tents. Having been informed that they had an unexpected guest disguised as one of the many patients.
He remembered the sight of the Soul Jam as clear as day, a blue that matched the gem he would eventually earn the favor of. Blueberry had blended in well with the crowd, haggard and dirty as the rest of the common cookies from that village.
Elder Faerie had not been threatening his friend, but Blueberry had woken in a frenzy anyway. He stepped in before the situation could spiral into a fight, bowing at the faerie king and gripping his friend's hand tightly enough that he's sure the other cookie would think twice before attempting to flee.
“He's an old friend of mine.” He said. It was not wrong, but the presence of the Soul Jam was damning enough that it would have warranted execution had he and the other common cookies from that village not been against the notion.
As it turned out, Shadow Milk had been a vital part of preventing the skirmish from crumbling every cookie there. Using that and drawing the connection between his friend and the wanderer cookie that had saved so many, he successfully persuaded Elder Faerie into giving his friend a chance.
Many of the population were understandably skeptical, but he had high hopes that this would turn out for the better. Shadow Milk reluctantly stayed, living at his side in an odd recreation of their first life together. They shared tea and traded stories, and Pure Vanilla could almost fool himself into thinking that everything would be alright.
“I'm not sorry for leaving.”
Arguments were far and few in between for them this time around, the two of them content to just exist together. He remembers warm evenings spent sitting at his partner's side, two cups of tea between them and soft laughter he had dearly missed. He knew then that this—this was all he ever wanted.
Although, he could tell that the confinement was getting to his partner. It was to be expected, what with how he had spent so long on the run—wandering to wherever his feet would carry him, never truly settling, never truly at peace. It was the only reason he had refrained from asking his mage to truly stay.
“I'm joining the war effort.”
“—! Ah, what brought this on?”
“Oh, don't give me that look. Things may have been calm so far, but I have to pull my own weight somehow.”
Shadow Milk threw himself into war with terrifying disregard for his own well-being. If he thought his mage was bad before, he was even worse now, being the first to arrive and last to leave in every battle. It had done wonders for his partner’s good reputation among the faeries, but he would spend each battle worrying over what kind of injuries his partner would return with.
They had one explosive argument about the same fact, one that ended with tears on both of their ends and Pure Vanilla pathetically clinging onto his partner, begging him to please, please—
“I can't lose you again.”
After that, his partner never sustained any injury worse than a dislocated limb or two, but it was still worrying enough to Pure Vanilla that after the war had died down once more, he had forced himself into being assigned Shadow Milk's mission partner.
A team with the two of them was admittedly inefficient due to how effective they were, but nobody had protested the arrangement. They were often assigned other cookies to partner with, forming a team of five as standard.
One mission was one he would remember for the rest of his life. He remembers it even now, whenever he puts a hand over his heart and traces the scar he had gotten from that incident. He always wondered if a different outcome could have been had, if the other cookies in that team hadn't chased his partner off a cliff in the wake of the accident.
Pure Vanilla had regained his memories that same day, reclaiming his name and gaining the allegiance of a newly born Soul Jam—one that was an exact match to that of his partner's.
He spent days looking for Shadow Milk at the bottom of that cliff. There was nothing, of course—only a stain of red and a trail that led nowhere. Though, judging by the appearance of that trail, he could only imagine Shadow Milk injured and bleeding, painstakingly dragging himself out of the ravine with no other cookie to help him.
Pure Vanilla knew he survived. There could be no other outcome—he refused to accept any other outcome, even with Elder Faerie and all his friends in the faerie kingdom telling him otherwise.
His faith was not without ground—it was for a simple reason, really.
“It's not—proper healing, yeah. I can't do that.”
Shadow Milk had grumbled, right after giving Pure Vanilla a heart attack over the way he had set back his dislocated shoulder. It had not left even a bruise, the site of the injury feeling as if it had been forced through weeks of actual healing.
“It hurts you.” Pure Vanilla remembers arguing, scolding his partner every time he catches the other cookie using the technique.
The mage hadn't listened, and it was only because of that same fact that Pure Vanilla could now rest assured that his partner remained in the realm of the living.
He left the faerie kingdom days after the incident, bidding his farewell to Elder Faerie and the friends he had made, with a promise to keep in touch. Retracing his steps, he made his way back home—the first home he ever had, in a now-abandoned village covered with crowns of white and the distinctive magic of his partner.
The land was lush, greener than most of the dead earth around them. He recalled his childhood as a shepherd, his pilgrimages as an adult, his healer training, the brief time he spent wandering much like his partner did before he had been injured in the crossfire of a battle and found by Shadow Milk.
He returned there as well, to their old home in the mountain range. To his surprise, it was intact—everything was where they had left it, except now with a thin layer of dust covering every surface, telling him that Shadow Milk had not returned to their first home in a long time.
Pure Vanilla traced the steps outside, discovering sigils carved onto the ground—sites of avalanches, intentionally triggered. At the sight of it, he could only grip his staff tighter, feeling his heart ache.
When he descended down the mountain, he made a promise to himself.
Peace, he once told Shadow Milk. A quiet life in the mountains, happy without the need to worry for food or shelter or war—a world where cookies could live that same way they did, no longer in fear or constant worry of their survival the next day.
Holding out a hand, he called upon his new Soul Jam, asking it to assist him. It directed him to four others, and that was only the beginning of it.
Pure Vanilla spent the next century establishing himself as one of the new generation. A Virtue, with an ideal opposing that of his partner's—Truth to Deceit, Truth and Knowledge. He built his own settlement, assisting his friends with doing the same.
He watched as each of them grow into their own Soul Jam, cultivating flourishing kingdoms under the light of their newfound powers. The Beasts are pushed back slowly but surely, each of them slowly crumbling away with the old order of the world.
Pure Vanilla kept eyes and ears out for Shadow Milk, who had gone off the radar entirely after their second separation. He only ever heard of his partner through rumors, cookies under still-active Beasts speaking of a cookie in blue being personally involved in internal conflicts of their territories.
His search for information leads him to two cookies—Black Sapphire and Candy Apple, who knew the name Shadow Milk went by as a wanderer and his true identity. He takes them into his ranks, welcoming the two into his inner circle—if only for more information.
To his delight, the two had been eager to share the knowledge with him. With the way they spoke of his partner, it was clear to Pure Vanilla that the two saw Shadow Milk as a parental figure of sorts—one that they missed rather dearly, if how long they had spent tracking him down was to be believed.
Between the three of them, they narrowed his partner down to a small settlement right at the corner of Pure Vanilla's expanding kingdom. It was unallied with any major faction, and thus a prime spot for the Spice Swarm to terrorize—if not for one single cookie.
He had gone to the settlement personally to negotiate, and there he confirmed the identity of that cookie. His partner, after nearly a century of disappearance, was finally within his grasp—Pure Vanilla would be a fool not to seize the opportunity to get him back.
Now, days after that negotiation, he gazes upon Shadow Milk's sleeping face. There are new scars all over his partner’s dough, and he is not in the best condition in every sense of the phrase. Pure Vanilla can only grip his wrist, shoving down the guilt that bubbles up in his heart as he marks his partner with magic.
A simple precaution, he tells himself—if only so that his mage will not leave as soon as he wakes.
Shadow Milk is skittish around him. He does not recognize Pure Vanilla as the healer that was his partner, seeing him as common cookies outside of the Vanilla Kingdom sees the newly crowned Virtue of Truth: an expansionist tyrant worshipped as a god by his own cookies.
He makes no attempt to appeal to Shadow Milk, being as honest as he possibly could and respecting his space even with the power imbalance between them. His court finds it outrageous, but Pure Vanilla cannot care any less, sticking as close as Shadow Milk allows him to.
Pure Vanilla spends his nights preparing for a war that he hopes will be the last, intent on securing the peace he has dreamed of for so long. In the daytime, he holds his partner’s hand and brings him around town, indulging himself in the illusion of what he could have in the future.
He wakes and sleeps next to Shadow Milk, plying him with regular meals and all but obsessively checking over his health. He asks his partner for tea every evening without fail, dropping hints and speaking of topics the two of them used to talk about.
Through it all, Shadow Milk barely responds, not quite seeing him at all. It is—concerning, and Pure Vanilla can only ignore the way his heart clenches every time his words are dismissed and his touch is rejected.
He does not tell him that he used to be that healer—not when he isn't even sure that he is still that cookie. Pure Vanilla waits and yearns, desperately wishing that even with the years and the changes between the two of them, Shadow Milk will still be able to look at him instead of through him.
Black Sapphire and Candy Apple eventually return, plying Shadow Milk with food and nagging at him about health just as Pure Vanilla does. They share many conversations Pure Vanilla aren't privy to, but he can tell that Shadow Milk looks at him differently after the reunion with the children.
He starts setting dinners for them to enjoy together. Shadow Milk seldom rejects it now, though he still eats much less than Pure Vanilla would like. The children pester the mage about his connection to Pure Vanilla, but Shadow Milk would always sidestep answering.
It gets to the point that Pure Vanilla cannot take the suspense anymore. One dinner, he resolves to confess everything right there, settling down on his knees just as he did that time he had impulsively proposed.
Except, Shadow Milk refuses to listen—and accepts his proposal in the same breath, with a condition on top of it that nearly crushes Pure Vanilla's heart with how many emotions he is flipping through in that single conversation.
The children protest. He does, too, but he knows as well as Shadow Milk does that his partner never was the one to back down once he has committed to something.
His partner becomes his general, and it turns out to be the last thing they need to turn the tide and push back against the last remaining threat to their peace. His citizens, once doubtful of Shadow Milk, now praise him as a hero with his many victories.
Shadow Milk listens to none of it, keeping to himself and their little familyesque unit. The wandering Beast, the common cookies whisper. Somewhere along the way, that second theory has become the prominent story. After Pure Vanilla's involvement and admittedly shameless flaunting of their relationship, it is all but accepted as Truth.
Because, after all, he was the one who believed in it, and who would be right if not the very Virtue of Truth?
A week before that final battle, Pure Vanilla approaches Shadow Milk in their rooms, gently confessing, “After the war, I'm going to step down.”
“...sorry?” His partner blinks, clearly surprised at the sudden announcement. He is leaning against the headboard of the bed, blankets tucked around his much too thin form, hair a mess around him.
Pure Vanilla sits down next to him, close enough to take hold of his hair, gently brushing the bangs back. Shadow Milk narrows his eyes at him, but he does not bat his hands away, almost welcoming the touch with how he leans closer as Pure Vanilla continues,
“The life of royalty has never been one for me. I.. think I much prefer living as a shepherd.” He admits, hoping that his partner would understand—would catch the meaning between his words that he has been slipping in bits and pieces ever since their second reunion.
Shadow Milk snorts, not giving away how much he knew—he never does, always keeping his cards close, “...ha. At the end of this, you could declare yourself the ruler of this world, and yet you want to forsake it all?” He drawls, and the sound of it is similar enough to how they used to banter that it hurts Pure Vanilla to hear this and be looked at as if he was a stranger.
He stays where he is, not moving closer—never closer, not until Shadow Milk can look at him instead of through him, “I never wanted to rule. I just.. want a simple life. Maybe somewhere in a mountain range, with a flock of sheep and a nice view for evening tea.” Pure Vanilla swallows back the lump in his throat, eyeing his partner and ignoring the way his heart burns like a raw wound rubbed over with salt with every word.
Silence. Shadow Milk avoids his gaze, keeping his head down.
He doesn't let it deter him, repeating the words he wished he said so long ago, “I’d love that kind of life, and I’d love it even more if I could share it with you.”
There is no answer, but then—Shadow Milk covers his mouth with one hand, turning away to his side, shoulders shaking, “You're not. You're not him.” He chokes out, throat tightening.
Pure Vanilla’s heart clenches and he fails to resist the urge to pull him close, “It’s me. It's me, please—Blueberry, Shadow Milk—” He murmurs, pleads, turning his hopeful gaze towards the love of his life, wishing to be heard—to be seen for who he truly was.
Shadow Milk lets out a visceral sound, a sob of grief that tears right through his heart worse than any arrow. He cups that face in his hands, brushing away the tears, aligning their eyes to meet and through that teary gaze, he finally sees recognition.
“You're dead.” His partner hiccups, voice shaky, breath hitching as if he is no longer used to crying, let alone crying this intensely, “You died—you died, I killed you. I killed you.” Hands fist his robes, pulling him close, the body on top of him crawling into his lap, like a sinner begging for salvation at the altar of their god.
Pure Vanilla pulls him up, pinning him back against the bed and leaning down, claiming his lips through the tears. The kiss is nothing like what he imagined their first would be, ugly and messy, mixed with salty tears and choked sobs—but those beloved lips are warm against his own and Shadow Milk kisses him back, tasting faintly of sweet blueberries.
His partner breaks the kiss first, pulling away like he was burned after not a minute of contact. With a hitched breath and a shake of his head, Shadow Milk pushes him off, though the touch is very much gentle,
“No. I—I'm sorry. I can't—we're so close to winning the war.” He looks away, sitting up on their bed, his back to Pure Vanilla.
Pure Vanilla grabs his hand, “We are—so won't you stay this time?”
A laugh.
“Why would you want me to?” He asks, voice soft, and he still does not look at Pure Vanilla.
“Why? I love you, silly.”
He gets no answer. It should have been a warning sign—too similar to the way his partner had left the first time around. But, it cannot be said that it was all the same, because at the very end of it all, in the third and last time Shadow Milk leaves—it is not of his own volition.
“Don't cry… there will always be a price to pay..”
“...for peace.”
Pure Vanilla kneels in front of a closed casket, clad in black and his heart in pieces. Peace, he has it now, but his soul remains hollow without its other half and all he can think of is how much he hurts.
Peace, it was never just for peace. He bows his head over the casket, fingers gripping into the wood.
“It was for you. You were all I ever wanted.” Pure Vanilla speaks his Truth to the silence, his words feeling as empty as his heart.