Archive of Our Own

Quirrel

Numb, Quirrel finally stops running when it’s too dark to see, dropping to his knees.

Ghost is gone.

He watched them die again and again as they fought the tentacled monstrosity that had been chasing him until it finally subsumed them and their shade. It roared as it consumed them, and for a moment, he’d seen their own tendrils lash out and fight back, the purple fading from the monster’s eyes as it collapsed. But it hadn’t been enough.

He hadn’t been enough. Stuck behind mazes of webbing that let him see but not pass, unable to help. Never enough, more of a hindrance than a help – he’d gotten them into this when he couldn’t save himself, couldn’t protect himself, couldn’t find his way home.

They died trying to save him, and now there is nothing left.

There’s a faint slithering sound, and he grabs his nail as something brushes against his back. Whirling around in a crouch, leading with his nail, he strikes nothing in the darkness. There’s a light touch on his cheek. He drops into a tumble, rolling away from the side that was touched. There’s a faint flash of red, and he takes off, running blindly down the tunnel in the pitch black. He slams into a wall he can’t see and falls back, stunned. Feeling ill, he rolls over and grabs the lamp as it tumbles away, picking it up and resuming his run down the tunnel. He runs and runs, gasping for breath as he occasionally sees flashes of something red behind him.

He can see a faint glow ahead and hears the sound of falling water. He runs towards it, stumbling when he feels something soft slip across his back.

The ground drops out from under him, and he falls. He lands in moving water, rushing down a twisting tunnel. Remembering vague lessons on what to do if he ever fell into fast-moving water, he clamps his arms around the lamp. He tries his best to keep his feet pointed in the direction he’s going, knees relaxed so that – in theory – he can absorb the impact and push off anything he hits.

He whimpers when he again feels that soft touch across his belly. He can’t even see what it is; it’s invisible. It touches his head, and he cries out as he throws his arms up to try and block it, launching the lamp out into the water. It sinks, plunging him into utter darkness as he spins out of control down the tunnel.

There’s another faint flash of red, but he can’t find it. His lamp pops back to the surface behind him, bobbing along the water as it gets tossed around. Desperate, he flips over to try and get to it. It was a horrible idea, and he chokes on the water as he thrashes about. Somehow, miraculously, his hand lands on the lamp, and he pulls it back against his chest. He forces himself not to gulp for air, knowing that all he will get is water. Curling up slightly, he relaxes and lets his body rush along with the water, trying to figure out which way is up. Something rocks him as it brushes by, flipping him over when it bumps into him again. He straightens out as his face clears the water, sucking down air as he does his best to stay on his back.

Something touches his hands, and he screams as he clamps his fingers around the lamp, terrified at the thought of losing it again and being plunged back into the darkness. The invisible force curls around his hands gently, holding his fingers against the lamp.

He waits for whatever will happen next to start happening, gulping down sobs. He continues waiting as he rides the water down the tunnel. When that undefined ‘something else’ fails to happen, he shifts to try and see what is holding his hands against his lamp. There isn’t anything there. He tries to lift the lamp up but the force increases and the lamp glows faintly red for a moment.

Since he didn’t want to lift the lamp in the first place, he shudders as he accepts that it’s staying on his chest for now. Wherever the water is taking him, it’s slowing down as it gets deeper.

« Quirrel. »

He shrieks and tries to throw his hands over his face, but the force holding his hands against the lamp clamps like a vice, flaring bright red as it keeps them in place.

« No, my spark, you don’t wish to lose the light. »

Shaking, he knows that’s the truth, so he tightens his grip around it again.

« Do you recognize me? »

Quirrel starts to shake his head, then hesitates. The voice is hauntingly familiar. Why did he call Quirrel his spark? That isn’t… no. Something is trying to trick him, fool him into thinking it can be trusted. Is it another Nosk? That isn’t… is that why Ghost died? Was that thing a Nosk!?

He tries to flip over to swim away, crying out as his hands are held in place and the lamp flares red again.

« You need sleep, my love. We shall wake you if we must, but if you can recognize me, I can help. »

Confused, Quirrel stares at the cavern’s ceiling, weeping as he rocks in the water, slowly spinning where the last of the current is trailing off. Ghost loved him, but they are gone now, leaving a gaping hole where his heart should be.

The force pinning his hands to the lamp shifts, feeling for all the world as if someone with exceptionally large hands is rubbing their thumb across the back of one of his as they hold them in place.

« Do you truly believe that Ghost would give up so easily? »

They hadn’t; they had tried again, and again, and again, and then that thing had swallowed them whole—

« And no doubt it now has a case of terminal indigestion. »

Quirrel chokes on a startled laugh at the image of Ghost hacking, dashing, and Shrieking their way out of the monster.

« Honestly, nothing less than what it deserves. »

“No doubt,” Quirrel whispers.

It’s silent as Quirrel floats through the cave. The light from his lamp is a steady pale white, with just the faintest tinge of blue. There must be crystals of some sort in the ceiling of the cave. Something catches the light from his lamp, glinting and flashing, looking almost like stars. The force over his hands has relaxed, barely there as he bobs along.

“I know you?”

« Yes. »

“Why can’t I see you?”

« You could, but you aren’t letting yourself. »

“That makes no sense!”

A low, raspy chuckle echoes around the cavern, and he gasps as he recognizes the laugh.

“Grimm!!”

« It is indeed I, at least in part. »

The pressure around his hands increases for a moment, followed by a hot puff of air against his forehead, then a light kiss. Another kiss follows it, and the grip on his hands grows tight as phantom Grimm kisses his cheek, then the side of his mandible. There’s a soft sigh and then a shaky whisper.

« I apologize for overstepping. I thought the limit to be overly strict, but it seems I misjudged. »

Quirrel shakes his head, confused. “I don’t understand. What limit?”

The phantom of Grimm is silent. The only sound Quirrel hears is the water as it flows through the cavern.

“Grimm? What did you mean by a limit? And what are you only part of?”

« The limit you don’t wish to hear, it seems. »

Grimm sounds a bit strained. Quirrel finally puts together what sounds wrong about his voice. It’s scratchy, but it doesn’t sound like it’s been dragged over a thousand leagues of rocks first.

« I am only an aspect of myself, as you are only a fragment of who you are. I was hoping to guide you, but I had quite forgotten how vexatiously stubborn you can be. »

“I’m not stubborn!”

« Beloved spark, you tried to drown yourself fighting what was meant to be a simple redirection. »

The amused tone in Grimm’s voice has Quirrel wondering if he can figure out how to throw the lamp at a phantom he can’t see. The impulse becomes nearly overwhelming as the pressure on his hands increases, and a soft chuckle echoes around the cavern.

It’s entirely possible that he’s losing his grip on reality. He doesn’t know much about the psychology of hearing voices beyond the fact that it can seem quite real to the bug experiencing it.

« I assure you, I am quite real. »

That sounds exactly like something one of those not-real voices would say. It’s frankly been an overwhelmingly stressful day, what with Ghost getting eaten by some eldritch monstrosity. He far prefers the idea that Ghost is now causing the beast some serious heartburn, but technically it was the phantom voice suggesting that possibility. That phantom seems to know a bit too much about what is going on in his head, he decides with a growl.

He looks around the cavern to see if there’s anywhere he can get to besides floating about getting teased and not kissed. Which is a shame, really, because Grimm is an excellent kisser, and that sounds far more enjoyable than floating around an underground lake in a cave.

The pressure on his hands twitches as the wind moans softly through the cavern. Quirrel turns his head back and forth, trying to see if he can identify which direction the sound is coming from on the theory that it may lead to a way out of here.

« Yes, please, a different direction is preferable. »

Firmly gripping the lamp with one hand, Quirrel flips over and treads in place, trying to see better, ignoring the muttering in his head. If his mind is going to try and trick him into thinking that Grimm is talking to him, it got both the voice and the lack of kissing wrong. He turns to the left at the soft sough of the wind, deciding that even if he can’t see something over there, it’s as good a direction to take off in as any other. He can’t see a blasted thing past about a guz¹ since his options are to sink as he holds the lamp out of the water or tuck it against his chest underwater.

Currently, he’s choosing not to sink, as he can’t breathe the water.

« Technically— »

“I’m not listening!”

He flips onto his back and starts kicking, swimming in the arbitrary direction that contains random moaning. It happens again as he takes off, and he adjusts his angle a little based on the echoes, firmly ignoring the pressure holding his hand that is making sure the lamp stays with him.

The Grimm-voice in his head remained remarkably silent as he swam across the lake, he thinks as he clambers up a sandy beach. Another strike against it being Grimm—

« Damned if I do, damned if I don’t… »

“You aren’t real!”

« Technically, neither are you. »

“What!?”

« …never mind. You are alarmingly true to yourself in a rather distressing fashion. »

“Stars above,” Quirrel mutters as he sets the lamp down to brush the water off his shell. “I know he tends towards the cryptic, but this is ridiculous.”

Bending over to grab the lantern, he scowls back out at the lake. If – if – the phantom isn’t just his overactive and overstressed imagination, he needs to get back to where he was so he can try and help Ghost get out of that… thing that ate them.

He wonders how cold Ghost can get due to dying and healing. Can they get cold enough to freeze the monster? That would be lovely, then all he would need to do is chip them out of it.

Ignoring the choking sounds the phantom is making, he heads off across the beach. If Ghost can get cold enough to freeze the monster, they aren’t really giving it heartburn; it would be closer to a brain freeze. And the more it chomps on them, the colder Ghost will get, ergo the faster it will freeze. Once it’s frozen, it can’t go anywhere, so he just needs to find it and bust it open.

Humming softly, he starts exploring the cavern wall along the beach, looking for a way out.

« I don’t think I ever truly appreciated how brutally efficient your mind can be. »

“You still aren’t real.”

« And yet your current plan relies on information I provided. »

“As a figment of my overstressed imagination, you merely provide information I already know in a highly perverse and convoluted manner.”

« Well, if you want perverse… »

“You’re the invisible one. And non-existent.” Aggravated, he waves his hand around. “It’s rather difficult to kiss or do anything remotely perverse with someone who isn’t here.”

The wind moans again, coming from somewhere in front of him. He heads towards the sound.

A puff of hot air brushes across his cheek, and he stumbles to a halt. A feather-light touch trails along his mandible as the phantom whispers.

« I think talk of kissing and other such things might be more than I can handle. »

Trembling, Quirrel touches his cheek. He feels a phantom kiss on the back of his hand.

“You’re the one who’s run off and not come home,” Quirrel whispers, dropping his hand and curling it around the lamp as he forces himself to start moving again.

« …I what? »

“I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t… why can’t I remember? We were… the four of us were home, and it was time for dinner, but you didn’t show up… it’s been ages…” He can feel the tears falling again, swiping at them as he stumbles along. “We miss you. When are you coming home? It isn’t right, just the three of us. You need to come home.” He shivers. “I want my family together,” he whispers. “First you disappear, now Ghost… we had to leave Lemm at home; he can’t fight.”

A lance of terror shoots through him as it occurs to him that he fell down into this cavern. There may not be a way back out. Shaking, he drops to his knees. The only person who knows where he is, is Ghost. Who’s been eaten by a monster, and even if they aren’t dead, they are frozen inside that monster and can’t tell anyone where he is, can’t come to save him.

He’ll die here, alone, trapped and cut off—

« You are not alone. »

Large, invisible hands cup his face, and for a moment, he sees two fiery eyes gazing into his. Dropping the lamp with a gasp, he grabs those hands, clinging to them. He can’t see them, but they are solid.

“Please don’t leave me here,” Quirrel whispers into the empty cavern.

He feels a kiss on his forehead, the pressure of Grimm pressing his forehead against his, his heat unmistakable through Quirrel’s mask.

« I’m here, dear spark. I’m not going anywhere. »

“Why can’t I see you? I want to go home!”

A soft sigh, and the invisible Grimm shifts as he kisses his forehead again.

« Where we are doesn’t follow sensible rules, and it’s a testament to your exhaustion that we are still here. »

The pressure and warmth return to his forehead and phantom thumbs gently rub his cheeks.

« I don’t know why you can’t see me, but I am here; you can touch me. »

Quirrel shudders, shifting his hands to trace them along Grimm’s invisible arms. He doesn’t know whether it’s a point for or against the reality of Grimm’s presence, but his arms are how he remembers them, smooth and hard, radiating his heat. There’s a soft sigh as he runs his hands up Grimm’s arms to his shoulders, a faint shiver when he pushes his fingers under the invisible cape, seeking contact, trying to make it seem real.

« I don’t suppose I could talk you into resting here for a little while? »

He shakes his head, rubbing shoulders he can’t see.

“I need to get back to Ghost,” he murmurs as he shifts his hands to Grimm’s back, feeling for the edges of his wing covers. “I need to get them out; they’re all alone now.”

Grimm sighs. Quirrel finds the spot he’s looking for and curls his fingers under to knead the ridge at the base of Grimm’s wings.

Shuddering, Grimm groans dramatically as he hunches forward, his back arching into Quirrel’s fingers. Quirrel smiles, nearly able to see it happen, it’s so familiar. He hums softly as he works his fingers under Grimm’s wings. Grimm partially unfolds and lifts them, giving Quirrel better access. Quirrel continues massaging around the base for a while before pressing in and starting to work his way down Grimm’s back, eliciting another deep shudder and a satisfyingly intense groan.

« By all the stars, my dear, you have the most talented fingers. »

“Mmhm. These are a mess, love.”

Grimm sucks in a breath and tenses up for a moment; the breath he releases as he relaxes almost sounds like a sob.

“I’m sorry,” Quirrel says, shifting his hands away from the area he’s been working on. “Sore spot?”

« …of a sort. »

It’s barely a whisper.

Quirrel kneads and massages Grimm’s back, relaxing into the routine of it. Grimm is mostly silent as he works, occasionally sighing or groaning. Grimm shivers as Quirrel withdraws his hands and rests them on the shoulders he still can’t see. He thinks he’s seen the red of Grimm’s eyes from time to time, although the one time he thought he saw more of Grimm’s face, his horns had been red instead of black.

Something hot drips onto his arm. Startled, he looks down to find a drop of water glistening in the pale light of his lamp. He looks up, trying to figure out where it could have come from. It would have to have fallen through phantom Grimm, and if it came from the ceiling, why on earth was it warm?

Or… it came from Grimm.

« We should go find Ghost. »

Another bare whisper as the pressure that has been on Quirrel’s forehead disappears, the spot of warmth starting to cool. Grimm’s hands fall to Quirrel’s shoulders.

Quirrel skims his hands up, catching Grimm’s chin and spreading his fingers out, seeking a face he can’t see as Grimm shakes his head. The pressure on Quirrel’s shoulders goes away as he cups his hands around Grimm’s face.

Grimm’s wet face.

Confused, he swipes at Grimm’s tears with his thumbs as Grimm’s hands cover his.

“I don’t understand,” Quirrel whispers.

« I know, dearest spark. It isn’t worth dwelling on. »

Grimm’s voice is quiet as he curls his invisible fingers around Quirrel’s, tugging them gently.

Making an educated guess as to where his invisible mouth will be, Quirrel pulls Grimm down for a kiss. He feels Grimm startle slightly before melting into him, returning the kiss as one hand shifts to curl around the back of Quirrel’s head. Quirrel hums, swinging his antennae around to patter along Grimm’s horns, vaguely thinking they seem longer and pointier than he recalls. The thought is lost as Grimm’s other hand shifts to his side, trailing warmth as it moves to his back and slides down to curl around his bottom.

Quirrel pushes his tongue into Grimm’s mouth as Grimm pulls him against his abdomen. He’s far warmer than normal, his body a hot line down Quirrel’s belly, his tongue like a flame as it flickers along Quirrel’s own.

Groaning softly, Quirrel cups Grimm’s cheek as his eyes flare into existence. Quirrel snakes his other hand down on its own quest, slipping it under Grimm’s cape and gliding down his side. It’s Grimm’s turn to moan as Quirrel caresses his hip, rubbing his fingers in small circles at the base of Grimm’s back. Grimm shivers and pushes against him, rocking his hips forward as his grip tightens around Quirrel’s bottom. Quirrel slips his hand down, aiming for—

Grimm sucks in a breath as Quirrel makes contact, tearing away from the kiss and going ramrod straight.

“Fuck!”

Gasping, he pulls Quirrel’s head tight against his chest as his other hand whips between them and grabs Quirrel’s, pulling it away and wrapping trembling fingers around it.

“No, I—we can’t.”

Stunned, Quirrel stares at Grimm’s chest. On the one hand, his delusions are progressing such that he can now see Grimm as well as feel and hear him; on the other, what!?

“And why on earth not!?” Quirrel exclaims, trying to pull back.

Groaning softly as his fingers clench against the back of Quirrel’s head, Grimm shudders but doesn’t release him. Quirrel can hear Grimm’s heart hammering away, and his breathing is ragged.

“Grimm! Why not!?”

“Because, my love‌il mio amore, we made a promise,” Grimm whispers.

“I don’t remember making any such promise!”

Quirrel tugs his hand from Grimm’s grip. Grimm lets it go but doesn’t relax the hand clamping Quirrel’s head to his chest.

“That’s the kind of promise that would stick in my mind!”

Grimm chuckles weakly, setting his other hand on Quirrel’s back and moving his fingers in small circles.

“I have no doubt,” Grimm murmurs.

Quirrel pushes on Grimm’s now-visible chest, to no appreciable effect. Anger flashes through him at the thought of Grimm making a promise with someone else that he won’t have sex with his partners. Exactly what has he been up to?

“Then who is this ‘we’ you are referencing?” he growls.

His stomach drops as he chases that thought to its conclusion. Is that why Grimm has been gone for so long? Has he found a new family somewhere else? He hasn’t come home because he doesn’t want—

“No, spark‌scintilla, no, stop.”

Grimm curls his hands around Quirrel’s face and leans down, pressing his forehead against Quirrel’s.

“There’s no one else,” he whispers. “No other family, no other partners. Only us; only what we share as a family.”

There it is again; it’s as if Grimm is in his head, reading his thoughts.

Shaking his head, Quirrel takes a step back, then another. Stunned, he looks at Grimm… but it isn’t Grimm. Trembling, he takes another step back. Not-Grimm releases him.

“Quirrel…”

“Who are you? You’re not…” Quirrel waves a hand in a general circle encompassing the lie before him. “You aren’t my husband; I don’t know who you are.”

The lie looks like Quirrel just punched him in the gut.

“Your horns are red, and you don’t sound right, and you are in my head; I want you out!!”

“Please listen to me; please, just for a moment—”

“No!!” Quirrel shouts.

Turning, he runs.

Quirrel lands in a sprawl across the sand. He isn’t sure how far he’s managed to run in the near darkness before tripping. He hadn’t grabbed the lamp when he ran away from not-Grimm, although it turns out the lake glows faintly. It grants just enough light to see, presuming one pays attention.

He hadn’t been sure he could get away. The thing pretending to be Grimm had called out to him as he ran, although it didn’t chase after him. Keening, he curls into a ball. Was it simply his imagination? Was it real and just able to project into his mind?

Why couldn’t it have truly been Grimm? He misses him so much; why did he leave?

He needs to get out of here. He needs to find Ghost. Grimm isn’t here; he’s been gone for years. Wherever it is he went, he doesn’t want to be found. Ghost, however… Quirrel is confident they don’t want to be stuck in that monster any longer than they need to be.

Shuddering, he uncurls. He frowns at the lamp on the ground before him, sitting up. He looks around, but the cavern is empty as far as he can tell. There’s no sign of the thing masquerading as Grimm. No way to know whether it was real or in his head, whether it was some strange, twisted delusion his mind served up for him. However, the lamp will certainly make it easier to look for a way out. He picks it up and stands. Taking one last look around, he starts walking towards the cavern wall.

A gently sloping tunnel leads up and out, and Quirrel follows it. Occasionally, he thinks he sees another tunnel branching off, but it turns out to have been shadows every time he gets to that point. It certainly makes keeping track of where he’s going easier. He can’t even get confused when he stops, because he wants to go up, and the tunnel slopes enough for him to tell if he accidentally gets turned around and starts going down.

It does meander around; he can tell that much. There are places where the tunnel previously split – not just shadows – but the splits are now blocked in some fashion. He’d spent a few moments in a panic when the first blocked passages appeared to be due to a collapse. However, when he’d given in to the impulse and looked closer, it had been obvious that someone had filled in the tunnel to look like a collapse. There was even cement in places, holding the fake rockfall steady so that it would be safe.

He wonders why someone did that, particularly since none of the later blocked passages bother to try and look natural. They are all quite obviously walled off, using stones and mortar. He’s glad for the change, as it is far kinder to his heart and mind.

Hearing a soft sigh, Quirrel stops and turns around. It’s as if there is a profound sadness hovering around him. It fades as he looks for… what would he be looking for, though? It’s not like a feeling can condense into a cloud that follows him.

Spinning around when he hears a zap, Quirrel stares at the little thundercloud that has appeared behind him. He steps towards it, and it backs away, maintaining the same distance. When he takes a step back, it follows him. When he’s mildly tempted to chuck the lamp at it, the urge fades as the lamp seems to press itself into his hand.

Unsure of exactly what he can do about the little cloud and deciding it seems rather benign at the moment, he chooses to ignore it.

The tunnel ends at a narrow shaft upwards that he’ll need to climb. The strange little cloud still follows him, occasionally zapping the wall with lightning. It even rained for a minute or two at one point. He’s starting to wonder if he should give it a name, like any other pet that follows you home.

Taking a few moments to secure the lamp in his kerchief and loop it over his arm, he starts climbing. The shaft wall is crumbling, and he cries out when his foot slips. Refusing to look down, he pokes his foot around until he finds another spot, pushing on it to make sure it’ll hold. When he’s as certain as he’s going to get, he continues his climb. It happens again from time to time, but he manages to keep from falling. He finally reaches the top, clambering out and flopping onto his back, arms and legs trembling from the work of climbing.

He snorts as the little cloud pops up and floats near him. It zaps his foot with lightning, and he yelps as he scrambles back. The lamp flips out of the sling he made for it, rolling towards the shaft. He lunges after it as it rolls over the edge, and there’s the faintest flicker of red as he barely catches the lantern. He stumbles and overbalances as he looks this way and that, trying to locate the source.

He releases the lamp with a growl as he falls over the edge, gathering his soul and Leaping to the other side. He mostly makes it, managing to grab the top lip of the shaft. He digs his feet into the wall and clamps his fingers around the rocks, groaning as he hears the lamp hit the ground below.

Resting his forehead against the wall, he sighs. He’s tired, and he knows that he doesn’t have the strength to go down and then come back up, especially not safely. But there’s no light up here. He has no clue how he managed to land safely… well, that’s not quite true. He’s starting to suspect that—

The rock beside his hand lights up with a flash, and there’s a popping sound as dirt flies around.

Growling, Quirrel turns to look at the little cloud. He can see the electrical energy building up again. He has no clue why it followed him passively for so long, and now it’s zapping him. It had hurt when it hit his foot, although not badly. There’s a glow from below, so the lamp is still in one piece. Snatching his hand away as the cloud lights up, another miniature bolt of lightning hits the ground where it had been.

He slips slightly when he flinches back, and panic squeezes his chest. Grabbing for the wall, he nearly withdraws when there’s a faint red glimmer under where his hand lands. It had been barely noticeable. He grips the protruding rock firmly, certain of its soundness. There’s a faint whine as the cloud gets ready to discharge again. Rather than try and shift away, Quirrel braces himself.

Lightning hits the back of his knee, and he gasps as that leg spasms, curling up. It hurts far worse than the one that hit his foot. The cloud crackles with energy as he waits for his leg to stop cramping so he can use it. The faint building whine is growing faster than his leg is becoming useful.

Repositioning his grip on the rock, he grabs his nail in his off hand. Spinning it around and jamming the hilt into a crack in the wall, he lets go of the nail and then plasters himself as flat against the wall as possible.

His nail lights up as the lightning crackles down it. He gasps as a little fingerling offshoot grazes his side, but he barely feels it. The cloud moves, and his nail lights up again.

It’s brighter this time, and he suspects it will keep getting stronger until he either gets away from it or somehow causes it to dissipate. He needs the lamp, he decides with a sigh. He waits for the cloud to zap his nail again, wishing it did something useful, such as charge it up so he could zap something with his nail later.

Well, additionally useful, he concedes, grabing his nail and yanking it from the rock. Not getting painfully and/or debilitatingly electrocuted is exceedingly useful at the moment. Technically that will always be useful, just not immediately applicable.

The sound of a rock falling echoes faintly. It’s either that or the cloud just snorted; since it’s busy being homicidal, he doesn’t figure that’s it. Whirling around, he swings his nail at the cloud, releasing it at the last moment to keep himself from getting zapped. He doesn’t expect it to do much beyond providing a distraction for him to jump down to the tiny ledge he can barely see below him, so he doesn’t even watch as he pushes away from the wall. He needs to concentrate if he wants to land right. He hears his nail hit the shaft wall as he slams into the ledge with a pained wheeze. There hadn’t been room to land to absorb the force of landing. He smiles faintly when he sees a streak of red in the edge of his vision, further down. He hears his nail clatter to the ground, hopefully somewhere near the lamp so he doesn’t have to run around once he gets down.

Glancing where the red flash had been, he verifies his next target before looking up. As he’d hoped, the cloud is having difficulties going down. Clouds don’t sink nearly as often as they go up, after all.

He Leaps for the ledge below, landing lightly on his feet. He looks around, finding another shelf, although he hadn’t seen the flash of red this time. No matter. The next ledge is directly below the one he’s on, so he scoots off the side and dangles before dropping. He looks down at the lamp, glad to see his nail is indeed near it. As a last drop, it’s a bit high, but he should be—

The flash is barely perceptible, and he huffs softly.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Ignoring his lack of soul, he Leaps for the next ledge. Sadly, that doesn’t work, and he lands hard. Gasping as he lays on his back staring up the shaft, he decides he is getting overconfident. If he’s wrong, he needs to be more careful.

He shouts as something touches his side, then groans as everything flexes in painful ways. Steeling himself, he grunts as he rolls to his side and looks down at Grimm. Grimm’s fingers are still resting on the lip of the ledge, so Quirrel sets his hand on them. His lamp is cradled in Grimm’s other hand, the pommel of his nail caught between two fingers.

“An aspect of yourself, you said.”

Grimm nods, his hand moving to lace his fingers between Quirrel’s.

“A fragment of myself, in a place that doesn’t follow sensible rules.”

Grimm smiles faintly as he nods again.

Quirrel squeezes Grimm’s fingers, lifting their hands and tucking them against his chest.

“Any particular reason why you didn’t just tell me this is a dream?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Probably. Eventually. I think.”

Grimm snorts.

“Well, I can be quite stubborn.”

“Indeed,” Grimm whispers.

“I—”

Rain starts falling on Grimm. Quirrel looks up in astonishment. The little cloud is still trying to work its way down. It’s hard to judge, looking up into the darkness when the only point of reference is the internal sparking of the cloud itself, but he thinks it’s managed to make it a quarter of the way down. Is it raining because it’s pissed off?

Grimm sighs. “Quirrel.”

“Hmmm?”

He looks at Grimm, who has closed his eyes.

“That is not a mental image I needed, considering where I am standing.”

“Ahh, fair enough.”

He glances back up at the cloud as he squeezes Grimm’s fingers one last time, letting go to push himself up with another groan.

“Can’t you just make it go pfft?”

Grimm shakes his head as he steps closer, holding the lamp up. Quirrel takes his nail first, sheathing it before picking up the light. Grimm hooks his thumbs under Quirrel’s armpits and pulls him forward, plucking him off the ledge and stepping back, turning to get out from under the rain. He starts to pull Quirrel against him in a hug but stops, instead bending to put him on the ground. Quirrel reaches out and curls an arm around Grimm’s neck, tugging gently; a request.

If this is a dream, he’s the one without the whole story. Despite what he remembers, the truth may be vastly different. Considering Grimm’s reactions, it probably is.

Grimm sighs but pulls him close, straightening up and carrying him off into the tunnel. Quirrel holds him tight, pushing his face into the side of Grimm’s neck. There are only so many layers of reality he’s willing to dig through. This version of Grimm smells like the Grimm he remembers and loves, but wherever the truth of reality lies, his love is hurting Grimm.

Grimm starts shaking his head as he ducks into the side tunnel.

“No, my spark‌scintilla mio, that’s—”

“Hush,” Quirrel murmurs. “It’s not fair to judge my thoughts before I can even finish them and decide whether they deserve to be considered in the first place.”

Grimm sighs, arms tightening around Quirrel. After a moment, he nods. He walks a short distance down the tunnel, then leans against the wall and slides down it, sitting. One of his hands skims up Quirrel’s back, palm resting on his shoulders as his fingers press against the back of Quirrel’s head. Quirrel suppresses the urge to nibble kisses along Grimm’s neck, not knowing why he shouldn’t but accepting it for what it is. Grimm shivers, his hand clenching against Quirrel’s back.

He relaxes against Grimm for a while, taking comfort in his presence. Grimm’s breathing is slightly uneven, and his hand is trembling faintly where his fingers are caressing the back of Quirrel’s head through his kerchief. Grimm sighs as Quirrel steps back, lacing his fingers together across his back. Quirrel smiles and leans back into them, holding the lamp up between them. Grimm manages a faint smile, and the lamp floats up until it’s hovering overhead.

Quirrel brushes his knuckles under Grimm’s eye, wiping at his tears.

“I know this is your world, and I know you can feel my regret,” Quirrel says softly, and Grimm closes his eyes. “But sometimes things need to be said and not assumed. I’m sorry. No, I don’t think my love is hurting you; I think you know me better than that.”

Grimm huffs softly as he nods, and Quirrel rests his hand along the side of Grimm’s face, gently rubbing his cheek with his thumb.

“I don’t think it’s worth spending time trying to sort out what I know and believe from wherever reality lies. I hope that if reality hasn’t given us many wonderful years together as a family, it will happen in the future. I’m sorry I hurt you.” He chuckles softly. “One thing I can sort out, though. If you ever think you might be ten years or so late for dinner, perhaps you could leave a note?”

Grimm chokes on a laugh, opening his eyes to look at Quirrel. Quirrel feels Grimm’s thumb start tracing one of the segments on his carapace, back and forth.

“I shall do my best, although life can be full of many surprises.”

Light flashes at the end of the tunnel, a popping sound following it. Quirrel stares at where the rain continues to fall in a small column.

“You can make a lamp come and go, block up tunnels, and, if my suspicions are correct, create an entire system of said tunnels full of running water culminating in a cavern with a lake, but you can’t deal with one little thundercloud?”

Grimm’s sigh sounds mildly aggravated.

“Have I mentioned before that you can be stubborn?”

“I believe that has come up a few times, yes.”

Grimm shifts his foot away from the rivulet of water that starts running by.

“Perchance have I ever accused you of having a single-minded focus that can be difficult to break?”

Another flash, another pop.

“…not recently.”

“Mhmm. Prior to missing dinner, then?”

“It may have been mentioned from time to time in a fit of pique.”

“Yes, well, consider me piqued.”

“Is there any particular reason why we are doing this instead of the perhaps more sensible option of, say, waking me up?”

“Contrary to the widely held belief, nightmares do count as sleep. And you, beloved spark‌amata scintilla, have had an extraordinarily rough week that involved far too little actual sleep. Barring my own personal stress, this is providing you rest.”

“Ahh.”

Lightning flickers at the end of the tunnel.

“I don’t suppose you have any hints as to what it represents and how I might be rid of it?”

“Existential dread at the thought of being alone in the universe, unable to enact a meaningful solution before dying a pointless death, condensed into a small, extremely angry space.”

Quirrel glares at him, and Grimm shrugs.

“I have no idea how to be rid of it. It is a thread common within the dreams of all sapient beings, and even, to an extent, those who aren’t quite sapient. You might as well try telling it the answer is forty-two for as much sense as it makes.”

Quirrel shoves his shoulder, and Grimm smirks.

“My existential dread is about to electrocute the both of us, so if you can’t make it go away, I suggest we go elsewhere.”

“An excellent idea.”

Grimm sits up. Reaching overhead with a grin, he plucks the lamp from where it is floating and hands it to Quirrel. He folds his legs around Quirrel as the little cloud finally makes it into the tunnel, grabbing his cape and sweeping it around them. For a moment, it seems as if his cape and his wings come together, wrapping around Quirrel. The world goes dark for half a second, and Quirrel does his best to swallow his scream when it feels as if he’s shoved through a fire and then dropped off a cliff, plummeting downward. The world returns, and Grimm’s arms with it. Dropping the lamp with a muffled sob, Quirrel throws his arms around Grimm’s neck and clings, shaking, feeling ill.

Grimm holds him, humming a soft tune until he stops shaking.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I should have warned you what I was going to do.”

Quirrel buries his face in the side of Grimm’s as he laughs shakily.

“I had guessed what you were going to do, love; I doubt telling me would have made me any more prepared in the time we had.”

Grimm flinches at his habitual endearment. He throttles his impulse to apologize for using it; he’s almost certain Grimm doesn’t want him to stop, that his reaction is for other reasons.

“You are correct on both counts,” Grimm whispers.

Quirrel huffs, lightly pressing his face into the side of Grimm’s in lieu of a kiss. There are pluses and minuses to this whole mind-reading thing, after all.

Grimm snorts as Quirrel steps back, and Quirrel grins at him.

After a moment, he looks up, taking in the differences in Grimm’s appearance.

“Is this your true form?” he asks softly.

“It’s as close as I have to one.”

“Hmph. And the Nightmare’s Heart?”

Grimm starts to say something but falls silent. After a moment, he takes Quirrel’s hand. Placing it on his chest, he covers it with his.

“It’s in here. Most gods live within their realm in some fashion or another. Whatever was done when they cast me out, my realm was driven deep when they tried to destroy this aspect. Now, it lives within me.” He quirks a wry smile. “How’s that for existential?”

Smiling, Quirrel shakes his head and rubs his thumb against Grimm’s chest. “It certainly might cause one to ponder.”

Looking up, Grimm sighs.

“What is it?”

“The normal cyclic rhythm of sleep,” he says softly. “This dream is nearly over.”

“I see,” Quirrel says. He isn’t certain he feels sad, per se, but there is a sense of loss. “How long?”

“Not long. Five, maybe ten seconds at most.”

Quirrel grins. It’s long enough.

Grimm’s eyes flare as Quirrel steps forward and cups his face in his hands. Quirrel watches him for one or two of those seconds, letting him feel what he isn’t saying. He can feel the ending approaching now as well. Tugging lightly, he pulls Grimm’s face down and kisses his forehead. Grimm makes a soft noise and curls his hand around the back of Quirrel’s head, and Quirrel is unsurprised when Grimm presses his mouth against his, kissing him deeply for a few seconds.

The world fades away as Grimm murmurs, “I love you, too‌Anch'io ti voglio bene.”