Work Text:
They say that the one with the doors, he holds a book. They say he has always held this book. They say that no one knows if it is a part of him or not. Some think it contains the secrets to the universe, some think it is his life story, others think it is a list of victims.
They are all wrong of course. Some people have learned the truth. They looked for the doors, they looked for the truth. Truth or no truth, they never escaped. There is one who knows the secrets of the book, none know of them of course. They aren't technically alive.
Contained within the book is a soul. The soul of a person who the one with the doors once loved, who he still loves.
When there is no one in his corridors and he is safe, hidden away from prying eyes, he will open the book. And there his love will stand, tall and beautiful, the roots of their hair softly blending into the dark black of the dye.
They can change to be how they want to look but this is how they looked when they met him, the real him.
That isn't to say he isn't still himself. He is. He is just, twisted and, rearranged. His thoughts and feelings all scrambled, the only constant is his love for them. That is why they stay that way. It is for him, to keep him grounded.
Its an unusual act of love, but its theirs.
Theres not much else that the two of them can do to show love, a being so distorted he is monsterous and a being so overlooked they are incorporeal. Even if they did have a form, the distorted one would be afraid to touch them, afraid of harming them, afraid to distort them.
They act as if they are touching, he feels a gentle shiver across his skin where they try to touch him. It makes it feel more real. When he tries to touch them, they also feel it. Its like claws scratching, and it makes their insides squirm.
But its all they can have together now.
The book and the spiral.
The lonely child and the used assistant.
Together forever.
Together as themselves.
Together as another.
Until death do they part.