Chapter Text
The room is too bright.
It’s quaint, in a nauseating sort of way. Polished floors glint from the gleaming honeycomb chandeliers overhead, make him squint. A few vases sprinkled here and there, filling the room with a sickeningly sweet scent – even a waffle-cone headrest framing the silken sheets of a neatly-tucked bed. Outside, the golden sun gleams, the gentle rays of light spilling past curtains that waver in the afternoon breeze.
It's meant to be beautiful. Luxurious. Welcoming.
With one sweep of his cane, Shadow Milk tears it apart.
To his credit, Pure Vanilla does not flinch. He stands patiently in the doorway, watching as Shadow Milk throws the curtains shut and flings the dressers across the floor. It’s not until the concerned murmuring of other Cookies draws near that there’s a step forward, the door shutting to block them from view as Shadow Milk continues eviscerating every scrap of furniture before him.
The bed, he does not touch.
When finished, the room is darkened – far beyond what any normal Cookie could accomplish. A false midnight sky shimmers above, choking out any scrap of miserable light that dared dip into his domain. The gleaming ornaments that had filled the room with joy and life lie shattered on the floor, wooden carnage strewn carelessly. The chandelier now glimmers with faint, blue flame, throwing dancing shadows across the wreckage that leave a bitter smile upon Shadow Milk’s lips.
Pure Vanilla clears his throat, and the smile drops.
“Well,” Pure Vanilla hums, stepping gingerly across a shattered lamp. “I suppose I did tell you to make yourself feel at home.”
Shadow Milk does not answer him. There are tens of hundreds of witty retorts that spring to the tip of his silver tongue; he bites them all down, savoring the acrid taste of his own hatred.
It feels sickening, to be silent. The once-Fount of Knowledge, the Master of Deceit, holding back his oh-so valuable words.
Anger like this is so potent, so stunning in the way it stiffens his movements and quickens his breath into something foul and acrid. To be reduced to a Beast not only in name, but in how the feeling of desperate savagery rips through him in each shuddering inhale.
He does not know why he is here.
“Shadow Milk?”
He turns, the call of his name moving his body before he can refuse. His eyes land on the small speck of light that glitters on stubbornly in his darkness.
Pure Vanilla’s Soul Jam gleams under his hungry gaze; Shadow Milk takes in a steadying breath.
He knows why he is here.
Pure Vanilla must take his silence for something else, because he has the gall to reach out; his small hand lifted up to where Shadow Milk floats, a quiet beckoning to bring him closer.
Shadow Milk fixes him with a loathing stare and the hand drops, returning back to its familiar perch atop the staff.
“Are you sure?” Pure Vanilla’s murmur is quiet, repugnantly gentle. A soft caress over Shadow Milk’s bristling hackles that does nothing to soothe them.
He finds his words.
“Sorry, did you need something?” The words sail on a lilting tone, patronizing and cruel – Shadow Milk’s specialty. “Can’t you see I’m busy redecorating?” Another flick of his cane and the bed flips, tumbling up to pin against the ceiling. “Really, I know you’re needy and all, but I’d think you’d be smart enough to take a hint.”
Pure Vanilla’s patient gaze doesn’t waver; worse, it softens. “I have several summons to attend to this evening.”
“Well, aren’t you popular?”
“I won’t be able to return until after the moon has set.” Pure Vanilla’s adjusts his grip on his staff – Shadow Milk tamps down on the vicious urge to sink his teeth into him. “Will you be awake?”
“Dollface, I’m surprised I’m awake as it is in this snoozefest of a place.” Shadow Milk crosses his legs, flipping upside-down in the air. “Vanilla Kingdom? Really? Points off for originality there.”
“I’ll knock,” Pure Vanilla replies quietly. “If you’d like.”
Nothing about this has been what he likes.
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Shadow Milk floats upwards, landing on the sheets of the bed still pinned overhead. “Listen, if I’m snoozing, you’re always welcome to come up here and get me yourself!”
A ghost of a smile graces Pure Vanilla’s lips. “Tonight, then.”
He turns to leave and another impulse sings through Shadow Milk’s core, one he is all too delighted to voice.
“I wonder what they think?”
Pure Vanilla turns back, a quiet, questioning gaze in answer.
“You know.” Shadow Milk smiles; all teeth, all bared. “Keeping a Beast locked away in your chambers. Bit scandalous, no?”
“You are my guest.” The reply is too simple, comes too easily. “They will respect that.”
In an instant Shadow Milk is off the bed; before the other can even blink Shadow Milk’s hovering before him, faces less than an inch apart as their gazes lock in place.
One mismatched eye blinking back at the other. Misbegotten twins, each searching the other for an answer they were never going to give.
“That's not what I asked,” Shadow Milk breathes. This close, he can smell Pure Vanilla’s scent – light and gentle, cloying and intoxicating. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been crumbled already, that some equally fanged beast hasn’t given in and devoured him whole.
Shadow Milk still might. He hasn’t decided.
Pure Vanilla swallows; Shadow Milk traces the movement from the corner of his eyes. “You-”
“I asked,” Shadow Milk hisses, “what they think.”
He keeps pinning Pure Vanilla with his gaze, unrelenting even as the other’s softens in turn. So trapped in the mirror of their eyes, he doesn’t even feel the gentle touch on his cheek, not until Pure Vanilla murmurs back:
“What will you make them think?”
A moment passes – a single droplet of time, suspended, wherein the only sound Shadow Milk hears is the quiet huff of their breaths intermingling, the only sensation the warmth of a hand caressing his cheek.
Outside, a bird caws – and the time starts anew.
Shadow Milk sneers, shoving the hand away. He turns his back to the other, floating back up towards the – no, his bed as a soft sigh sounds from below.
It is a small mercy that Pure Vanilla accepts the rejection without a fight. The click of the door closing behind him is like a bell tolling relief.
Shadow Milk lets out a sigh of his own, flopping haphazardly on the bed. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the illusionary twilight of his own making shift and swirl in a myriad of gloom and miasma. His hands find purchase in the sheets, absentmindedly tugging on them until they lay loose and disheveled at his back.
Really. Tucking in the sheets, for the Master of Deceit? The Lord of Chaos? How-
Laughable.
--
Hours pass – or they must, anyway.
Shadow Milk's spent it all staring into the void, twirling his wrist and boredly watching apparitions of Cookies squeal and crumble beneath the jaws of wolves, dragons – his own, sometimes. It’s tiresome, a tiny balm on the throbbing sore of his mounting frustration.
His growing headache isn’t helping but, well, that’s a wound of his own doing. He’d been the one to send Pure Vanilla off in a huff – and he hadn’t even gotten a sliver of anger from the other for his troubles.
It’s the gentle creak of the door that breaks his daze, making him sit upright in bed. There’s a pause, then two gentle knocks – causing a sly smile to flit across Shadow Milk’s face.
“You know,” he calls, twisting his head like an owl. “One is supposed to knock before entering?”
There’s a small laugh in reply and oh –
Pure Vanilla looks tired.
The dark coloring under his eyes are almost comical; even the effort he exerts to close the door seems to come with a slight tremble. He heaves a sigh that feels too large to come from such a frail body, following it up with another short laugh.
“My apologies,” he rasps, directing his gaze upwards. “Today was… more involved, than I had anticipated.”
“Oh golly, oh me, oh my.” Shadow Milk snaps his neck back into place, lowering down to the ground until he can float eye-to-eye with the other. “Why Pure Vanilla, you look-” His grin widens, sharp and vicious. “Absolutely terrible.”
Pure Vanilla huffs another laugh as Shadow Milk gleefully continues: “What’d they do? No wait, let me guess! Stick you under a rolling pin? Drag you through the berry bushes? Or maybe - put you through the oven again?”
“It certainly feels like it.” Pure Vanilla reaches up, removing his crown and hanging it on the splintered remains of a coat rack. “I wouldn’t say no to the warmth of an oven, anyway. It’s freezing in here.”
Still, his hands reach for the clasp on his cloak. Shadow Milk’s gaze traces his movements as he shrugs off the heavy garments, depositing them carelessly on the floor. The view is amusing, almost pleasing, in a way – if not for the familiar glint of the Soul Jam brooch as it's dutifully refastened to Pure Vanilla’s robe.
Shadow Milk tears his eyes away from it, slipping back into his wicked smile as he presses: “Well, come on now. Don’t spare the details from little ol’ me. It’s been so boring, you could at least do me the favor of telling me all about how miserable you were today.”
“Not miserable,” Pure Vanilla corrects, dusting off his robe. “Just tiring. One of the younger Cookies accidentally set off a Golem, and in their haste to escape, brought it into the city proper.” He then looks up, mouth opening to speak again – before falling abruptly silent at the scowl Shadow Milk is levying at him.
“You mean to tell me,” Shadow Milk says slowly, dangerously. “That there was a Golem running loose through your oh-so-precious kingdom – and you didn’t think to invite me?”
Pure Vanilla perks a curious brow. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in helping with that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t say I would help!”
Pure Vanilla hums in reply. He takes a step forward – and they both know what it is.
Seeking acknowledgement, permission. An offer, a request for something that’s growing long overdue.
Shadow Milk doesn’t mimic the motion. He’s stubborn. Sue him.
“And to think,” he mutters sourly, “we were having such a good time talking about how awful you looked.”
Another sigh and Pure Vanilla steps forward again, crossing the room until they stand less than a foot apart. It’s meaningless – Shadow Milk can float as high and away as he pleases – but it is a gesture nonetheless. Pure Vanilla is, once again, the first to reach a hand across the bridge.
Annoying.
“You are welcome to join me tomorrow, if you so choose,” Pure Vanilla says softly. “There is much more to this Kingdom than you’ve seen through my eyes.”
Shadow Milk sneers. “Oh? I’m free to roam? Do as I please? And here I thought you wanted me all tucked away in this room, nice and quiet.”
“Doing ‘as you please’ is not something I can promise, considering the capriciousness of your whims.” Pure Vanilla tilts his head, trying to catch the gaze that Shadow Milk is stubbornly averting. “But you never forbade me from leaving when I was in your home. As long as I have say, you will never be caged here.”
Shadow Milk finally lowers his gaze. “You know I would have crushed you into pieces if you’d tried to leave.”
“Yes,” Pure Vanilla replies evenly, “but still, there was a choice. I will not make you a prisoner here.”
And oh, how that draws a sneer to Shadow Milk’s face. His fist grasps the front of Pure Vanilla’s robes, violently hoisting him into the air as the other lets out a startled noise. He then pulls them in close, locking their gazes as Pure Vanilla struggles in his grip.
“Make no mistake, Nilly,” he hisses. “We are both prisoners.”
His grip slackens and Pure Vanilla drops to the ground. There’s a small stumble, a wince and sharp inhale of breath.
Shadow Milk can’t help but roll his eyes.
“Fine,” he sighs, massaging his temples. His headache is back, and he’s – tired, too. Tired of this, tired of fighting the inevitable just because this Cookie –
This damned Cookie –
“Let’s just-” Shadow Milk inhales, exhales. Claps his hands together, Joker smile back on his face. “Aw shucks, I was probably too rough on a little old thing like you, huh? You know I just get so cranky when I’m cooped up. Brings back bad memories, little bit of a sensitive subject. You understand.”
Pure Vanilla’s straightening up, using his staff for leverage as he looks Shadow Milk up and down. Quiet wariness replacing what had been an open hand.
Deserved, perhaps.
“Are we-?”
“Yes,” Shadow Milk interrupts. “Yes, alright. I’ve got a splitting headache anyway, all this pestering isn’t helping my-” He waves a lazy hand around the room.
Pure Vanilla follows the motion, scanning the destruction left by what used to be furniture. “There isn’t anywhere left to sit, though. Could you-?”
Shadow Milk sighs dramatically, rolling his cane – with a creaking groan, the bed on the ceiling flips over, dropping down with a shaking crash to the floor. Pure Vanilla flinches at the impact, a small frown creasing his brow.
“You know, you probably just woke half the castle.”
“Really?” Shadow Milk drawls. “I so graciously accommodate, and that’s your thanks? Is this really how you want this to go?”
“I suppose not.” Pure Vanilla’s already settling on the edge of the bed, hands folding in his lap. “You are trying.”
He’s not, but he’ll take it. With a heavy sigh, Shadow Milk floats over next to him, settling just inches away on the bedspread. A lazy glance over and Pure Vanilla is still resolutely staring down at his hands, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his robe.
He always gets so nervous when they do this.
Like it isn’t his fault in the first place.
Shadow Milk’s gaze drifts absently down, down to the Soul Jam tucked neatly against the other’s chest. It gleams, even in the dim light, even after all of Shadow Milk’s futile attempts to snuff out every bit of light within. In their mutual silence it hums, rings, pulses – louder and louder as Shadow Milk leans in closer.
His own is singing in reply.
The first time they’d done this had been the strangest – the worst. They hadn’t known, couldn’t have possibly known. Only base instincts had saved them, if one could even call them that.
Shadow Milk had even ignored the pull the first time, chalking it up to nothing more than phantom pain. Back then, all those months ago, when he’d been licking his wounds in the safety of his other realm and soothing his bruised ego as best he could. Everything felt aggravated by the whines and cajoling of his minions; their worship and praise of him had just been salt on the wound. He’d attributed the burning in his chest and shifting dreams of gold to nightmares, to –
Well, he didn’t get trauma. Other Cookies got trauma. He got something else. Annoyed, perhaps.
Yet the dreams, above all else, had persisted. Shimmering fields of wheat, the bleats of lambs, a calling ringing in his ears pursued him night after night. Each dream a little different, always bright and full of him, that wretched face that plagued even his waking hours. They’d been irritating, and yes, his Soul Jam had burned hotter and hotter each night but they were remnants, a memory of that brief moment where two had become one, where he’d been, they’d been –
He doesn’t really remember what he’d thought after that, because an all-consuming pain had blanketed everything else.
It had – hurt. Hurt more than anything he can remember, hurt more than his battles or banishing, or even the first time one of his limbs threatened to crumble. And hurt –
Hurt had made him desperate.
Shadow Milk had, unfortunately, had the upper hand. Pure Vanilla wouldn’t know where to find him – but he’d known exactly where the other would be.
There had been some small, warped solace that when he’d slithered out of the shadows in the other’s room, when he’d stood to drink in the crumpled and shaking body of his foe, he’d known the pain was mutual.
“Shadow Milk?”
He’s drawn out of his thoughts by a light touch to his shoulder; he shrugs it off, and Pure Vanilla’s hand withdraws. “Come on,” he sighs, leaning forward. “I know you’ve been just dying without me. You look it, anyway.”
Pure Vanilla shifts closer, slow and careful. No matter how many times it’s been, he never seems to lose that nervousness. Always tentative, like he’s afraid Shadow Milk’s going to spook. Like he’s handling a wild beast.
Perhaps there’s some detestable truth in that.
There’s a gentle thump as the tip of their foreheads touch; Pure Vanilla’s eyes flutter shut, and Shadow Milk allows his to do the same.
Their hands find their Soul Jams, grasping around the frames as they sing, quivering in anticipation for the inevitable. This close, Shadow Milk can feel their pull down to his very core – his hands move blindly, pulling his own brooch forward as Pure Vanilla does the same.
There’s a breath, a moment of hesitation from no one but themselves.
A soft clink as their Jams touch is the only warning they’re given before the world melts away.
The feeling is – indescribable. Nothing like that night atop the spire, nothing like anything before or since. It is music and movement and a blur of blues and blacks, white and golds that blend and swirl beneath his eyelids. Songs he’ll never know whisper to him as he stands atop a mountain, beneath the sea, against the backdrop of the starry sky. He is a droplet in a river that flows in spirals around the moon. He dances on a stage that’s strung up by golden thread. He is a prophet, a king, a god. He is dust. He is afraid, except he is not – never afraid, never alone because there is a hand clasped in his, tight and strong as everything comes undone and reforms in each blink of an eye.
He is a Fount, and he is himself, but two of him stand eye to eye and whisper something so sweet that it brings him to his knees.
He wants to remember, but he doesn’t, and then the music starts up again.
Shadow Milk is never sure how long it’s supposed to last.
Most times they wake in the privacy of a room, dazed and sprawled into whatever chair or surface they’d been sitting on after only a few minutes. The first time they’d been too close, clutching each other chest to chest in angry, pained desperation. A vicious embrace that had not ended until two guards had found them the next morning, ripping them apart with spear tips to Shadow Milk’s throat. He barely remembers escaping, slipping away still reeling from the daze of golds and blues in a haze that had not cleared for yet another day as he’d sworn, cheeks burning in shame, that he was not to be blamed for a singular fit of hysteria.
When the burning sensation in his Jam returned, he’d leveled a mountain in his rage.
There’d been – some amusement, at least, in sneaking around. In Pure Vanilla’s embarrassment, his desperation to hide their affliction from prying eyes. It had grown fun to toy with his reluctance, to wait out the agony by watching Pure Vanilla’s own from the shadows. To see him wallow in his wretched, pathetic guilt, knowing Shadow Milk felt the same pain he did. That it was his fault.
One stupid little trick at the spire. That’s all it had taken. Now he’s left playing pet for his own soul’s thief.
The irritation flowing through him must mean it’s wearing off.
Shadow Milk slowly sits up, vision swimming as he groans. He rubs at his forehead, blearily taking in the still-settling sights of the room. His room.
His room in the Vanilla Kingdom, perfectly placed under Pure Vanilla’s thumb.
A raspy, irritated growl echoes down his throat.
There’s a small sound; Shadow Milk’s gaze drops tiredly to the other slumped beside him. Pure Vanilla’s lashes are fluttering, beckoning him back to the waking world. He looks small like this, dazed and confused. Vulnerable.
Breakable.
Shadow Milk passes a hand over Pure Vanilla’s brooch – the Jam hums beneath his touch, but it does not warm. It does not call to him like before, does not accept him anymore. Pure Vanilla had claimed it too thoroughly, stamped his own essence into what is rightfully Shadow Milk’s.
Still, it resonates with his own half. That’s something, a small solace. It is a chance that maybe, just maybe. If Pure Vanilla falls, if he willingly takes the step just once more-
Well. All things in good time.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes crack open; Shadow Milk swiftly snatches his hand away. Pure Vanilla’s lidded gaze half-follows the movement before he groans, burying his face deeper into the sheets.
Small. Weak. Pathetic.
Like a baby bird.
Shadow Milk instantly dismisses the thought from his mind, giving Pure Vanilla’s shoulder a rough shove. “Hey. Show’s over. Don’t you know it’s rude to stick around? Change is on the nightstand, toots.”
Pure Vanilla groans again, but this time his eyes open in full. He wearily pushes himself up, getting to his feet as he absently brushes back the hair from his eyes. His stance is unsteady, swaying a bit before catching himself as he sighs. “How long-”
“Don’t know,” Shadow Milk sing-songs. “And, don’t care. Buh-bye now.”
Pure Vanilla vacantly shuffles over to the door, bending down to grasp half-blindly at his coat before shoving his crown on his head. It lays askew, tilting to the right as Shadow Milk grins at the sight.
Really, truly pathetic.
“Shadow Milk.”
Pure Vanilla’s voice cuts through the quiet; Shadow Milk allows his own languid gaze to drift up to meet Pure Vanilla’s own.
“Yes?”
A beat, before Pure Vanilla continues: “I’d like you to be happy here.”
Oh.
Oh, and isn’t that funny?
A wicked smile creases Shadow Milk’s lips; a bubble of laughter slips past, then another, and another. His throat clenches, a slew of giggles bursting out like a dam crumbling at his feet. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, sides aching and chest heaving as he falls forward, clutching at himself as peals of laughter tear through him.
Oh, it feels good to laugh like that.
By the time Shadow Milk wiping at his eyes, still grinning ear to ear, Pure Vanilla has dressed in full, waiting at the edge of the door and watching him with tired eyes. It’s to his credit that he hasn’t left yet; Pure Vanilla did make for a wonderful audience when he chose to.
“Oh,” Shadow Milk sighs, another giggle tricking out as he stands. “Oh, you always did know how to make me laugh, Silly Nilly. Pretending like you don’t know why I’m here.”
He glides upwards, hovering high above as he looks down at Pure Vanilla and bares his teeth in a wicked grin. “Dollface, this room is just the appetizer! The amuse-bouche for what I’m going to do to your tiny, insignificant speck of a kingdom, that you have so graciously welcomed me into with open arms.” He tilts his head, neck cracking as his smile widens. “After all, what are friends for if not to liven up each other’s day, hm?”
Pure Vanilla’s patient stare is steady; the only sign he’s listening is the straightening of his back as he holds Shadow Milk’s gaze.
“What?” Shadow Milk presses. “Nothing to say? Not my fault we’re bound, now is it? I’d say my version of our, ah, cosmic intertwining went a whole lot better than yours. Regretful, are we?”
“Tomorrow.”
Shadow Milk tilts his head farther, slipping the joints entirely. “Hm? Tomorrow what?”
“Tomorrow,” Pure Vanilla continues, “my evening will be free. After the sun sets, there’s a blue moon garden I’d like to take you to.”
“… hah?”
“I’ve never been, but White Lily Cookie says it’s very beautiful at night.” Pure Vanilla turns towards the door, palm on the handle. “I think you’ll like it.”
Shadow Milk’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Get out.”
The sight of Pure Vanilla’s back brings him no relief, nor the lock clicking into place. Not even hurling the wooden remains of what had been a dresser at the door does enough to itch the irritation crawling down Shadow Milk’s spine.
With a huff he floats back down, collapsing on the bed and rubbing at his forehead. He grabs at the sheets, pulling them over himself as he rolls on his side and stares venomously into the darkness.
A hand reaches up to rub at his Soul Jam; Shadow Milk’s scowl deepens.
It’s humming again.