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sometimes, william macbeth slips away.
there are levels to it, he's learned over the past three years, certain amounts of consciousness, awareness, while the king of despair is the one with the reins. either there, seeing everything, feeling it all, but muted, duller, unable to do anything other than just.. watch as his mouth forms a wicked grin, spits venom, or floating. unseeing, in some void, just.. gone, more than anything. and he wasn't sure which was worse. he preferred to be unaware, though, whenever despair decided to do.. whatever it was that he wanted to do, and half the time despair was fine with that, didn't need him pestering him or commenting. but others? it was almost as if despair wanted him there. watching. trying to goad him into responding, frowning, spark some sort of bickering between the two of them.
sometimes, when black was in control, the king of despair would just.. talk. at every opportunity. get in remarks wherever he could, smile back at him from the mirror when black would just be trying to fix his hair, take control of one hand while he was adjusting his glasses so that his fingers slip, just a bit, push them down, and despair is left smirking at him as he frowns, mutters something along the lines of childish.
the most black ever gets mad is with him, despair knows. he takes pride in that, likes to prod at him, see how far he'll take it, how upset he can be. hearing him raise his voice is downright precious, because it can only go so far before it breaks, and adrenaline courses through him because there's fire in those blue eyes, in this fragile human body, and while despair has known that since they first met on that fateful day, he thinks that william forgets, sometimes.
it's only polite to remind him.
because sweet, sweet william seems so willing to be weak.
must be a human thing.
you're more than a doormat, you know. you can fight back.
black usually just furrows his brows, doesn't respond, weakly tries to wave off white's concern when she asks him if he's alright. it's alright. the king of despair knows when he's right, when he's won, and black.. black just makes the game so interesting.
despair wonders, sometimes, what black would do without him.
black wonders what he, an age-old entity, saw in him, asks every so often, but it only leads to frustration on his end with the king of despair giving half-answers, talking in the abstract, outright changing the subject, at times, and eventually black just.. stops asking. no point in it. it isn't as if black needs the answer or cares, except, part of him does, because he still cannot fathom it.
being in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe. that was the most likely answer. there wasn't any actual meaning to it, it had just been circumstance.
do you really believe that?
he doesn't answer.
but despair knows.
"why is it that you always choose here? of all places.."
a field, green, dotted with purple flowers, some shrubs, a lone tree, but otherwise empty, endless. green spilling outwards and yielding to nothing else. a copy of a picture but warped, smudged, stretched. most of the time when he's there, it's daytime, but occasionally the sky is dark, smeared with constellations, the air never cold or warm or alive. just.. there. and this was another level of shared existence. black could lie there in the grass for hours while despair was just.. off playing puppetmaster. when it came to dreaming, though, body at rest with two minds left to bump around in the dark, it almost always.. ended up with despair appearing, in some way or another.
"i don't know," black responds, keeping his back towards despair. "i was happy here? i suppose."
"hm."
that's all he ever gets on the subject, but despair doesn't mind. it's not really any of his business, and whether he knows or not is of little value. humans were so, so sentimental, he knew, and this could easily be chalked up to that.
"you could easily pick somewhere else, y'know. somewhere more interesting. your mind, after all."
"don't really want to."
despair snorts and shakes his head. how black hadn't gotten bored of this yet far escaped his comprehension, because the whole scene really was.. so dull. too familiar, at this point.
and it bothers him, when black does this. refuses to look him in the eye, offers lukewarm responses. they finally get the chance to be face to face, really, truly, in the best manner they're ever going to get, and black always tries his damnedest to avoid looking at him.
"william."
that gets black's attention, and despair can already see the lines of tension in his shoulders, the creases between his brows, lips drawn tight, and when he steps closer there's that fire, again, warning him to step back. as if despair would ever listen.
"am i bothering you?"
"most of the time, yes. but i've had to get used to it."
the wryness in the human's reply has his face splitting into a grin, the chuckle that slips out.. appreciative. fond. as fond as he could ever be.
"don't be a brat, now.. i could always go and bother mary, if this is too much for you."
black swings at him, without any warning.
despair catches his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
there are times where, when awake, going about life, the king of despair will smile at his reflection, lean in, press a hand to the surface of the glass and breathe.
and his reflection (black) only ever glares back.
flushes, somewhat, too. he always notes, with satisfaction.
but being in that little dream world black conjures up is different; despair can actually touch him, truly meet his eyes, brush fingers along his jaw as he sees black's lips barely, just barely quiver. and he's heard black lament about this countless times, about how wrong it is, how he doesn't understand, but despair just.. lets him stew in it. silly thing.
"you'd be so lonely without me, y'know."
black avoids any kind of relationship, really, save for the one he has with his sister. fades into the background, as often as he can. it's better that way, in his mind, despair supposes. safer. as if it makes any difference. it wasn't as if the other had ever really been all that social to begin with, from what he could gather.
fire, again, despair notes, as blue meets red, thumb meets lower lip. there's not even the faintest sign of a tremor as the pad of his finger skims along it, and black's eyes don't shift. he doesn't look away, and his gaze never wavers.
cute, really.
the human existence, with all of its flaws, was so interesting to watch, so endearing, in some ways, to an almost disgusting degree.
black adjusts his glasses and looks.. tired, but not. trying to hide it, perhaps. and he pulls away, but not much, to where despair is still touching him but he can breathe, more. because he needs to, in a dream. sure.
despair would let him have that. eternal sleep was the only thing he ever deeply, truly craved, but the way this projection of a soul slumps against his, weary, is.. satisfying in its own right. years weighing upon thin shoulders. despair wonders what it would take from them to break. bones are fragile, sure, but the spirit? he could never tell.
"i know."
and black knows the same goes for the king of despair, too.