backdriftedSillage
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The distinct smell of human blood pervaded the hidden chamber, thick yet welcome through his sensory air vents, and Vox's eyes widened. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the light emanating from his own screen and reflecting against the decrepit wooden walls, yet the odour was remarkably nostalgic. Metallic, pungent, and pleasantly familiar, just the oh-so rewarding indicator of another job well done, another man down, another rank climbed, another seat conquered.
OR: Bonding over something unexpected.
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He lied down on the snow, waiting for his death.
He could barely move—the cold had numbed the better part of his more distal ends, and all he could do was accept it. His crystallised wings twitched instinctively, his body begging him to do something, but all he could muster was to write aimlessly as the cycle of life took its route with him, and he found himself quietly preparing for the inevitable. No matter which way he twisted and turned, the piercing cold stung with equal sharpness, and all struggle was ultimately futile. Dignity and pride never did make a man exempt from his death, anyway.
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This wasn't the first time the young inventor had spent his night at his professor's mansion.
Over the years, the line between what was considered acceptable between them and what was not had been blurred beyond recognition, despite the older man's insistent efforts to maintain a somewhat professional relationship with his student.
Initially only coming over to touch up on leftover projects they couldn't finish during the day or examine research-related extracurriculars, Luca exclusively visited for academic purposes. Nowadays, though, he simply visted when he had free time—sometimes even without warning—or if he was feeling particularly creative that day and wanted to discuss some physics-related topics with his favourite professor. He'd always admired the way he'd both praise his ideas, but also provide relevant correction when needed.
This was, however, the drunkest he'd ever been on one of those nights.
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"Oh, look who's finally back here," he spoke condescendingly, rolling his eyes—as if he weren't the one to have Pure Vanilla in such a state to begin with. There was humor in the irony. "Don't you think you're forgetting someone?"
It took the healer a few mental retakes to comprehend what the other said, lashes fluttering in confusion behind the stray strands of blonde hair that covered his forehead, and when he did, he turned his head to the side. He must've gotten too caught up in the act. "Ah, my apologies."
"Oh, puh-lease," Shadow Milk hissed, a faint finger sliding up Pure Vanilla's neck and onto his face, tapping at his bottom lip. Playing supreme was part of the game, after all. He can't have the other know how much he wanted him. "Maybe instead of blabbering useless apologies, you could put that impudent mouth of yours to use?"
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One final turn and the jester was already in front of the former king's bedroom. He flung the door to his beloved's room open with the excitement of a giddy schoolgirl as a welcoming whiff of vanilla permeated his lungs, his anticipating eyes scanning the room for him.
When his gaze landed upon the Soul Jam of truth, laying pale, bare and uncased on the undone bed, its owner nowhere to be seen, his words caught up in his throat, his smile fading. Pure Vanilla had done it again.
ALTERNATIVELY: After everything Pure Vanilla had done for him, Shadow Milk couldn't get himself to watch helplessly as the other wilted away into nothing.
(Soul Jam concept is inspired by Steven Universe.)
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Edgar sees something in Jack. Jack doesn't know what it is, but what he does know is that Edgar should leave.
(I DO NOT CONDONE THESE THINGS IN REAL LIFE)