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Cassata sleeps alone these days.
He still loves his friends as much as he ever has. He doesn’t distance himself from them in the daylight hours. Nights are a different story.
He builds an excuse from technical truths. Cheese does hog the sheets, and Pizza does snore. But neither of those are the reason Cassata’s no longer comfortable sharing a bed.
Cassata glances out the window. It’s near midnight. His companions are sleeping soundly in the other room - where Cassata’s visitor won’t disturb them.
It starts with snakes. It always does. Dry scales scrape against the bones of his ankles as the creatures wind around his legs. Cassata asked, once, whether the things have minds of their own, or if they’re merely following their master’s whim. He didn’t get a straight answer, and he wasn’t surprised.
He’s used to the snakes by now. He hardly even flinches when one of them slithers over his neck. They won’t bite him. Not so long as he lies still.
The same can’t be said for their master.
Cassata wishes the bastard would just climb through the window like a normal stalker. Of course, that’s not dramatic enough for Whiskey.
The reason for all Cassata’s pain and suffering materializes out of the shadows in the night air. Cassata is tempted to ignore him. To close his eye and roll over and pretend he doesn’t notice a thing. Maybe Whiskey suspects his bit is getting old; he’s kneeling at Cassata’s bedside nigh instantly. No more threatening saunter.
Cassata does little more than blink at him and flip his pillow over to the cool side.
“Don’t tell me I’m boring you.”
Whiskey’s voice is always so loud. He never shouts. But his words echo in Cassata’s ears, disorienting and painful. Every morning, he’s baffled that neither Cheese nor Pizza seemed to hear anything during the night.
Maybe he’s just going mad. He could be imagining all this. Lingering trauma giving him night terrors. It would be a fine explanation, except for the fact that Whiskey’s hand is on his cheek and he definitely is not imagining the sting of his nails digging in.
“Acting childish isn’t becoming of you, you know,” the alchemist says. “It gives your charges a sort of charm. But you can’t get away with the same.”
Cassata brushes his hand away. “Don’t talk about them.”
Whiskey puts his hand back. “Or what?”
Cassata sighs and rolls onto his other side. He squishes a snake between his knees while he’s trying to get comfortable. It darts back towards its master, but disappears into the shadow of a sheet fold along the way.
Whiskey doesn't get the obvious hint. “Or what?” he prods. “What would you do if I stood up, right now, and walked into your darling Pizza’s room? You’re no match for me and you know it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have run.”
The bastard is trying to get a reaction out of him and Cassata does know it. This is a game to Whiskey, and no one should play his games. He shouldn’t take the bait. It’s not like Whiskey would actually-
“In fact, why don’t I give it a try?” The floorboards creak.
Cassata throws his sheet off and lunges for his gun.
“Hah.” Whiskey hasn’t moved. “Made you look.”
Cassata glares as best he can with one eye. He reminds himself that, as long as Whiskey is preoccupied with annoying him, the fraud of a merchant can’t harass anyone else. Like his friends.
“You care about them so much.” Whiskey tries to coo. The sound sets Cassata’s teeth aching.
“Such a loyal guard dog.” He climbs onto the bed and reaches for Cassata’s face again. Cassata turns away, but Whiskey simply tangles his fingers in Cassata’s hair. One of his nails catches on his scalp. Warmth wells up in its wake.
“What a good boy.”
“Enough,” Cassata snaps. “I don’t need or want your pity.”
Whiskey gives him a smile that looks sad. The idea that it could be genuine is more disturbing than his automatic assumption that Whiskey’s faking it. “Cassata. When has the world cared about what you want?”
Cassata tilts his head as best he can in Whiskey’s grip. “Is that supposed to be deep?”
“Just making an observation.”
Whiskey’s smug tone makes Cassata’s eye twitch. This is ridiculous. Whiskey is ridiculous.
Cassata gives him a rude and pointed gesture. “Observe this, why don’t you?”
He expects anger. He does not expect Whiskey to utterly lose himself to a fit of laughter. The bastard releases his hair, only because he’s laughing so hard he has to wipe a tear from under his glasses.
Cassata crosses his arms, feeling angry heat rise in his cheeks. Whiskey’s honest laughter gets under his skin in a way that his calculated jabs don't. Cassata feels like a child being humiliated after saying something foolish. Whiskey of all people has no business making anyone else feel embarrassed for their actions.
“Shut up,” Cassata hisses. He rears back and shoves Whiskey off the edge of the bed.
Whiskey clearly isn’t expecting it. The laughter cuts off in a surprised gasp, and the merchant tumbles to the floor with a thud.
It’s the first thing he’s done that makes Cassata smile.
The amusing indignation Cassata is waiting for, however, doesn’t come. When he raises his head, Whiskey’s face is schooled into a polite viper’s smile.
“Well then,” Whiskey says, adjusting his glasses. “You have some bite to your bark after all. Just a word of warning, if I may...”
Cassata doesn’t even see him move. One moment he’s sprawled on the floor. The next, he has Cassata’s face clutched in his hands, his grip crushing.
Whiskey opens his mouth. A smooth, forked tongue unfurls from the depths of his throat. It licks a cold trail over the scar tissue where Cassata’s eye once was.
“Do that again and I’ll take the other one.”