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It always starts the same way.
A cough. A sniffle. A sneeze where someone decides not to cover their mouth, and suddenly the whole Kingdom is doomed.
All it takes is one touch. One breath. One innocent “taste this” followed by a shared fork that will later be burned to a crisp.
You had plans to do something? That’s cute. Now you don’t. Your plans now consist of dramatically lounging on your bed, contemplating your will to live with some tissues.
Contagion is not glamorous. It's snotty. It's inconvenient. It is, somehow, always worse when you know exactly who gave it to you.
And the worst part?
You’ll still kiss them on the forehead anyway.
—
Shadow Milk Cookie was sprawled along the bed. All limp, tragic, and inconveniently still very much alive. The blanket was wrapped around his entire body up to his chin. He had one arm stretched across his brow in suffering, along with scrunched up tissues that he’s been holding for who knows how long.
He had declared, at least twice this night, that he was definitely dying . For real this time. Possibly cursed. Potentially decaying from the inside out. At the very least, his throat hurt . And that was practically the same thing.
The bedside table looked like it’s seen better days. An untouched bowl of soup, three half-empty glasses of water. One was too warm, the next was too cold and the other was deemed suspicious. Beside them was a bottle of cough syrup that he insisted didn’t work because his “suffering was beyond mortal medicines.”
He needed Pure Vanilla, of course—but speaking aloud was far too taxing for someone in his fragile condition. After all, he was “too weak” and “too fragile” to do the bare minimum.
So, instead of tapping Pure Vanilla’s shoulder like a normal cookie, Shadow Milk extended one dainty foot from under the covers and gave the edge of a thick, hardcover spellbook the gentlest nudge. It slid off the nightstand and hit the floor with a satisfying,
THUD
"Wh—what was that?"
Pure Vanilla Cookie jerked awake with a soft gasp, blinking into the dim light of their bedroom.
Shadow Milk laid elegantly, gazing up at the glow in the dark starred covered ceiling as though pondering the fragility of life itself. He let out a weak, purposeful sigh.
Pure Vanilla sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. "Did something fall?"
"Only... my will to live," Shadow Milk croaked, voice hoarse and trembling. “And that book. But…mostly my will to live.”
Pure Vanilla tilted his head. “…You knocked the book off the table?”
"I could not speak,” Shadow Milk whispered, a hand pressed delicately to his chest. “I feared my voice would not carry. And so I acted with the last strength in my weak weak body.”
“You could’ve tapped me.”
“A tap ?” Shadow Milk’s eyes fluttered shut, as if the mere suggestion offended his fragile constitution. “No. No, I couldn’t risk it. What if I missed and expired mid-reach? This is a delicate condition, ‘Nilla. I am— unwell .”
“You have a cold.”
“Could be a fever—”
“It’s a cold, bluebird.”
“I coughed three times in the last minute,” Shadow Milk croaked. “And I think one of them came from my soul.”
Pure Vanilla pinched the bridge of his nose, then leaned over Shadow Milk to retrieve the fallen book from the floor. "You’ve woken me up four times tonight..."
“That’s not true,” Shadow Milk said, sounding almost indignant. “The second time was technically a dream. You woke yourself up.”
“You were fake-crying in your sleep.”
“Says who?”
Shadow Milk looked over at Pure Vanilla with wide, glistening eyes…far too dramatic to be natural.
“I think,” Shadow Milk said gravely, “this is it. I should draft my final words.”
“...Like a will?”
“Bingo.”
Pure Vanilla Cookie huffed affectionately at him, bemused and, despite himself, mildly intrigued. There was something weirdly consistent about how Shadow Milk managed to make even illness feel like a performance.
He leaned over carefully and brushed Shadow Milk’s bangs away from his forehead. The dramatic one shut up instantly—mid-sniffle. For what felt like the first time tonight. He was quiet.
Pure Vanilla dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to Shadow Milk’s forehead.
“...Hm. You are warmer than before.”
He said it with no urgency. Shadow Milk, of course, seized the moment the second he could with the utmost urgency.
“So it’s true,” he whispered, already sinking deeper into the pillows. “The fever worsens. The end draws near.”
Pure Vanilla rolled his eyes with a huff as though mentally weighing the pros and cons of humoring the drama.
“I suppose I’ll need to grab a healer that specializes in health, hm?” he asked.
Shadow Milk let out a groan that could only be used as a no.
“No, no… don’t trouble anyone… Let it be said I was brave in my final hours... even when the kingdom abandoned me... even when my own gross partner dared to doubt—”
Pure Vanilla scooted his way off the bed, his bare feet hitting the warm rug.
“I’ll get the thermometers.”
If Shadow Milk had to choose between a normal thermometer or an ear thermometer. He’d choose neither.
Which is why the second Pure Vanilla went up to leave, he quieted down— except with the occasional sniffle —to give him false hope that Shadow Milk had finally settled down for real this time.
He could see from his peripheral vision the thermometers Pure Vanilla had in hand as he approached the bed. Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed instantly the second he caught sight of the object, his entire body tensing like a cat looking at a bath.
Pure Vanilla sat on the edge of the bed with saintlike patience and reached for him.
Shadow Milk turned his head away, of course. Just slightly. But intentionally.
Pure Vanilla tried again.
Shadow Milk rotated in the opposite direction, his face now half-buried in the pillow, expression stubborn and deeply offended. If he could have melted into the mattress, he would have.
“Open your mouth,” Pure Vanilla said gently, holding out the thermometer.
Shadow Milk remained motionless. Tilting his face with exaggerated slowness just to whine, “I am not a child. ”
“Then stop acting like one,” Pure Vanilla replied, remaining calm.
Shadow Milk twisted again, turning his whole body this time and yanking the blanket up to his chin as if the thermometer might be wielded as a weapon. His hair was a mess. His nose was dark blue. He looked…sick, to say the least.
“I said no strange devices,” he muttered, voice muffled by both pillow and pride. “I’m in sick distress.”
“You’re in bed.”
“For the last time,” Shadow Milk added dramatically.
Pure Vanilla exhaled through his nose, closed his eyes for a second to regain his patience, and then leaned over, stretching one arm across the tangle of blankets to gently nudge at Shadow Milk’s jaw.
“Come now. Let’s be reasonable.”
Shadow Milk twisted harder. “I’ll bite you.”
“You won’t.”
“I might .”
“You won’t. ”
“I’ve done it before,” Shadow Milk muttered, tone dark with exaggerated menace.
Pure Vanilla didn’t even blink. “Like when we aren’t intimate? When?”
“...You weren’t there.”
That did it.
Pure Vanilla sat back slightly, looking at him with the kind of slow, simmering stillness usually reserved for misbehaving royals or toddlers with jam on their hands and a suspiciously empty jam jar. There was no shouting. No anger. Just the quietness of a monarch pushed one inch too far.
“You are testing my patience,” he said, voice deceptively calm. “And I don’t mean in some quaint, ‘oh how charming, he’s being difficult again’ kind of way. I mean in the very real, very spiritual sense. I have healed entire armies. I have protected cookies from disasters. I once stood in the path of a living storm to protect my kingdom—without flinching.”
Shadow Milk’s only reply was an exaggerated sniffle and a pitiful blink.
This is so dumb.
“I did all of that,” Pure Vanilla continued, still clutching the thermometer like a peace offering that could become a weapon at any moment, “and somehow , this— you —are what might finally crumble me.”
There was a slight creak as he leaned forward again, not menacingly, but with the kind of slow precision that said: I have had enough, and the next words out of your mouth better not be ‘I’m cold.’
This is so boring.
“I have brewed four kinds of tea tonight. Reheated your soup twice. You have, in the last two hours, have woken me up countless of times, faked fainting, whispered your own eulogy, and claimed to have been bitten by the witches themselves and—.” He glanced over at the time. “It’s only four in the morning. We should be asleep.”
Shadow Milk rolled to the side, burying his nose into the pillow with a sound that was half cough, half laugh, suddenly realising something.
This was…
“I am your partner. Not your babysitter. Not your personal dramatic audience. Certainly not your emotional support mortal enemy. Now,” Pure Vanilla said, holding up the thermometer with unwavering control, “we are going to do this. You are going to cooperate. And I swear by the witches, if you even think about biting me—”
A trap—
BEEP.
There was a small, clinical click as Pure Vanilla smoothly withdrew the ear thermometer, completely unfazed, completely silent, and completely done with being emotionally blackmailed by a congested gremlin.
Shadow Milk blinked slowly. “You… deceived me.”
“I seized the opportunity you so generously presented,” Pure Vanilla replied, checking the tiny digital screen with a perfectly calm expression.
“You tricked me. While you were monologuing.”
“I waited until you were quiet.”
“That’s even worse.”
Pure Vanilla didn't respond immediately. He calmly noted the reading, set the thermometer on the nightstand, and stood.
“Perhaps you do have a fever…your temperature has worsened since when we first went to bed,” he said simply. “Nothing severe, but enough to explain the… behavior.”
“Delirium,” Shadow Milk whispered, rolling onto his back with a hand over his chest. “It’s setting in. I might start confessing things.”
“You already have,” Pure Vanilla muttered, pulling out the other thermometer again from his robe pocket. “Multiple times.”
Shadow Milk gaze slowly shifted from the ceiling… to the second thermometer now resting in Pure Vanilla’s hand like some final boss weapon.
“No,” he whispered. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Pure Vanilla’s expression was the same calm, unyielding serenity worn by saints and deeply tired spouses alike.
“Say ah.”
Shadow Milk recoiled into the blankets like a vampire trying to hide from sunlight. “ You can’t make me. ”
“I absolutely can.”
“Is this revenge about the biting thing?”
“No, this is so I can know whether to give you ginger tea or peppermint. Now. Say ah.”
Shadow Milk twisted and thrashed mildly in the least impressive display of resistance he’d put on all night. But Pure Vanilla simply shifted with him, holding the thermometer in his hand.
“You deceived me,” Shadow Milk muttered. “I’m supposed to be doing the deceiving. And now I'm being betrayed. Right here. In my own bed.”
“ Our bed. You know I only tricked you for your own good, yes?”
“Wow. Now you’re even starting to sound like me.”
Pure Vanilla held his ground. “Shadow Milk.”
A long groan erupted from the pile of blankets, as if the sheer audacity of being asked to cooperate was his worst nightmare.
“ Fiiiine, ” Shadow Milk moaned.
With all the reluctant grace of a tragic character, he tilted his head back slightly, huffed one final time for that dramatic effect, and opened his mouth.
“Ahhhhhh,” he intoned, eyes fluttering closed so he didn’t have to see that stupid cookie's face.
Pure Vanilla, without another comment, slid the thermometer under his tongue happily.
Shadow Milk remained staring at the star covered ceiling with the stupid thermometer hanging from his mouth whilst Pure Vanilla hummed happily to himself, drumming a beat against his fingers.
Beep.
Pure Vanilla plucked the thermometer away, glanced at the reading, and gave the smallest dissatisfied hum.
“Well,” he said, turning toward the bedside table, “no more teas.”
Shadow Milk perked up just slightly—if one could call a slow, wary eye-squint a perk. “...Wait, what?”
“They’re not helping,” Pure Vanilla continued briskly, opening the little drawer beside the bed with quick efficiency. “Your temperature is higher now, which means we’re moving on.”
“Moving… on?”
“You said you could swallow pills, yes?”
Witches if you can hear me. Curse this man.
Shadow Milk slowly sank deeper into the mattress like a cornered animal.
“Maybe I did say that,” he admitted, voice suddenly much more cautious.
Pure Vanilla turned, holding up a small glass of water and a blister pack of the most unassuming, perfectly average cold medicine in all of Earthbread.
“Great,” he said cheerfully. “Then open up.”
Shadow Milk blinked at the pill. Then at the water. Then at Pure Vanilla’s very kind, very persistent smile.
“…Can’t we just go back to the tea?”
“No.”
“What about soup? I liked the soup.”
“No you didn’t.”
“That was before I knew the alternative was pills.”
“Bluebird,” Pure Vanilla said sweetly, “if you don’t take this, I will put it in a spoonful of mashed peaches and tell the castle chef you requested it that way.”
Shadow Milk gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
Pure Vanilla shrugged all too sweetly, like always. He offered the pill and the water to Shadow Milk again like he was presenting a present.
“Here you go,” Pure Vanilla said calmly, like this wasn’t a power play wrapped in domesticity.
Shadow Milk stared at the pill like it was poison. Then at Pure Vanilla. Then back at the pill.
“You’re far too comfortable with this,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You’re enjoying it.”
“I’d enjoy seeing you get better,” Pure Vanilla replied, still holding the cup out.
“Liar.”
“It’s not a lie,” he said with a tilt of his head. “You’re just very dramatic about getting better.”
Shadow Milk dramatically sighed and took the pill between two fingers.
“…What if I choke?”
“I’ll save you.”
“…What if I fake choke to get your attention?”
“I’ll still save you.”
“…Hm.”
Shadow Milk weighed his options. Both were good.
“Fine,” he said seriously, “but just this once.”
And before Pure Vanilla could react, he tilted his head back and chucked the pill straight into his mouth , swallowing it dry.
Pure Vanilla’s hand twitched.
“You—why did you—without water?”
“I'm just different,” Shadow Milk rasped, already blinking like he regretted every decision leading to this moment.
“That’s not being different, that's being dangerous!”
“I did it for you.”
“No, you did it to you,” Pure Vanilla said, quickly shoving the water in his hands. “Drink. Now. Before you burn a hole in your throat.”
Shadow Milk took it smugly. “Admit it. That was impressive.”
Pure Vanilla didn’t answer right away. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, fingers briefly pressing into his temple like he could physically push the anxiety out of his skull.
He wasn’t annoyed—not really. What he felt was worry, dressed in the quiet robes of patience. With a pressure building behind the sternum, dull and constant. The way it always did when someone he cared about took things too far. When pride got in the way of care.
"You can’t do that,” he said, voice low, steadier than he felt. “You can’t just… hurt yourself like that.”
Shadow Milk sat up a little straighter, blinking like he’d been accused of something outlandish.
“What? I didn’t— hurt myself,” he said, as if the very idea were absurd. “I took a pill without water, I didn’t throw myself off a cliff.”
His voice rose slightly, climbing that ladder of disbelief, hands gesturing wildly in the blankets like he was trying to draw Pure Vanilla a visual of exactly how harmless the act had been.
“I mean, sure, it scratched a little, but it’s not like—I wasn’t—I didn’t suffer! Not real suffering!”
Pure Vanilla folded his arms, obviously unimpressed. “You— you just swallowed a big capsule and then told me you did it for me. ”
“I did do it for you!” Shadow Milk insisted, as if that explained everything, as if love-fueled recklessness was perfectly logical. “I thought it would impress you!”
“It terrified me!”
Shadow Milk flopped back down onto the bed, limbs heavy and uncooperative, more out of habit than exhaustion. He stared at the stars on the ceiling.
“It was one pill, ” he groaned, staring at the ceiling with exasperation. “Just a little capsule. One. Singular. One.”
Pure Vanilla crossed his arms tighter, standing beside the bed, trying to not say anything mean.
“You swallowed it dry. On purpose.”
“Because I’m brave! ”
“Because you’re reckless,” Pure Vanilla corrected, stepping closer. “Don’t do it again.”
“Ugh, fine!” Shadow Milk sighed loud and dramatic. “You’re being very emotional right now.”
“You’re being stupid, ” Pure Vanilla snapped, and then immediately ran a hand through his hair like he regretted how sharp it came out. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to yell. I’m just—”
He sat on the edge of the bed, palms flat against his knees with his eyes down.
“I just—I just—” he stuttered. “I don’t know—I didn’t mean to sound rude—I guess I just…Panicked?”
Shadow Milk, still bundled up in the blankets, let out a sigh through his nose and gave the most casual shrug he could manage.
“It’s fine, you don’t have to get all upset and apologize… Or whatever.”
Pure Vanilla looked over, caught off guard by how flat his tone was.
“I mean it,” Shadow Milk added, glancing sideways at him. “It’s not a big deal, I can’t actually die from something like that… or like, at all.”
Pure Vanilla eyebrows lowered in sadness. “It was a big deal to me…”
Shadow Milk’s expression didn’t change. “Well, it wasn’t to me.”
Pure Vanilla stared at him. He could have argued—could’ve said that it should have mattered to him, that brushing it off didn’t make it less real—but there was no point. Not tonight. Shadow Milk had put up his facade, and Pure Vanilla knew better than to try and pry it open by force.
Instead, he stood up, reached down without a word, and straightened the blanket where it had slipped down Shadow Milk’s side. His movements were slow. He tugged it gently up over his chest, smoothing it down like it was something delicate. Like Shadow Milk was something delicate.
Pure Vanilla ran his hands lightly over the edges, tucking the corners around his shoulders, then brushing back the stray bit of hair that always fell into his eyes when he laid on his side.
“Rest,” he whispered. “I need rest, you definitely need rest. We all need rest.”
Shadow Milk groaned in response, dragging a hand across his face and scratching at the corner of one eye. “Fine,” he yawned. “Just until I wake up again.”
Pure Vanilla pushed himself up from the edge of the bed with a soft grunt. His legs felt stiff from sitting so still. He walked slowly around to his own side of the bed, pausing briefly to glance at the clock on the wall.
4:15.
He sighed through his nose, not frustrated—just tired. The kind of tiredness that came with dealing with Shadow Milk. He didn’t even want to calculate how long it had been since they’d first turned in for the night. Probably hours. The whole ordeal had taken longer than either of them realized.
He sat down and carefully pulled the covers back, slipping beneath them without disturbing the shape of the bed too much. He didn’t want to jostle Shadow Milk again now that he’d agreed to rest. Every movement was made with caution.
Once he was settled, he lay on his side facing the center of the bed, watching the shape of Shadow Milk under the covers. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The way his hair was flattened in some spots and sticking up in others. The warm, cream blanket he’d fussed with earlier had started sliding off again.
Pure Vanilla huffed in amusement.
“Sleep well, bluebird...”
Shadow Milk slowly stirred from his slumber, the comforting warmth of the blankets wrapped tightly around him. His mine was still all fuzzy and disoriented, like he could physically hear the sun beams outside.
His eyes flickered open, the golden light of morning spilling through the window. It was still early…maybe… he couldn’t tell. But there was a smell in the air that was impossible to ignore. He groaned softly and stretched, his limbs stiff from the way he had slept—tangled in the covers, tangled in his own thoughts.
He turned over… realizing that the space next to him in bed was empty.
Pure Vanilla was gone, obviously, he wasn’t next to him in bed. But the smell of… bread perhaps? Made up for it.
Not wanting to stay bedridden and bored any longer, he swung his legs off the edge and dragged himself out. His bare feet made soft echoes on the cold floor under carpet as he padded toward the door. The castle was quiet this early, and the corridors were empty, but the smell was unmistakable.
It took him a few minutes of mindlessly wandering through the winding hallways of the castle before he finally reached the large kitchen. The scent of freshly baked bread became even more intense the closer he got, mingling with the faint aromas of cinnamon and something herbal.
Pure Vanilla stood at the counter, working with practiced movements, rolling out dough, his back turned as he hummed a soft tune under his breath.
Shadow Milk paused in the doorway, still all groggy and half-asleep. His usual smugness was a little dimmed in the face of something so... simple.
Only because I’m sick.
Pure Vanilla glanced up at the sound of the door creaking. His eyes brightened when they met Shadow Milk’s. “Good morning,” he greeted all bright and cheery like the day had already started for him, but Shadow Milk was only just beginning.
Shadow Milk rubbed his eyes and groaned, a slight wince on his face. “What are you doing? Baking bread? Shouldn’t you be planning royal duties or something?” His voice was thick with sleep, but there was still the faint edge of his undeniable sarcasm.
“I thought you might appreciate it,” Pure Vanilla replied, unbothered, as he slid the bread from the oven and onto a cooling rack with a quiet thud. “This ones fresh. It’s... a peaceful morning, after all. I figured the castle could use a little warmth.”
Shadow Milk had an unfamiliar tug in his chest. The bread was certainly tempting, but it was more than just the smell now. It was... something else. Something of the quietness of being in the castle with no one else around, just the two of them.
He finally moved, his feet dragging a little as he walked over to the counter, sitting down where Pure Vanilla had set out some plates, water and a small jar of homemade jam.
“Only you would make bread at this hour,” Shadow Milk muttered, though there was no real bite to it. He grabbed a piece of bread and took a tentative bite, and for a moment, all he could do was close his eyes in surprise. It hurt when he swallowed but it was g ood . He hadn’t expected it to be good.
Pure Vanilla smiled to himself, clearly pleased with the reaction. He took a small sip from his tea and looked at Shadow Milk with quiet fondness. “I suppose I can’t take credit for the recipe—it was passed down to me through many cookies.”
Shadow Milk gave him a deadpan look as he chewed. “I wasn’t expecting to hear about a legacy attached to bread .”
Pure Vanilla chuckled lightly, not phased by the teasing. “It’s the little things that make a difference.”
Shadow Milk took another bite of bread, muttering something under his breath that was probably more sarcasm, but Pure Vanilla let it go. He cleared his throat softly and looked at Shadow Milk with a thoughtful expression, leaning slightly closer.
“So,” Pure Vanilla began, his voice casual and caring, “are you feeling any better? I see you’re up and about already. That’s a good sign.”
Shadow Milk paused mid-bite, his brow furrowing for a moment as the question hit him. He hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t really checked how he was feeling. There was something about being coddled through the night that made him forget the actual sickness part of it.
“I guess…” he started, a little more reluctantly than he’d like to admit. He reached for the cup of water on the counter, taking a slow sip. “I’m not dying anymore, if that’s what you mean.”
Pure Vanilla raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with the half-hearted response. He leaned back slightly, giving Shadow Milk a knowing look. “You’re being dramatic. But it’s good that you’re not feeling as awful. If you’re up and moving around, that’s progress.”
Shadow Milk grumbled under his breath, not eager to admit that maybe Pure Vanilla was right. “Fine,” he muttered. “I feel a little better. Happy?”
Pure Vanilla smiled gently, a hint of playfulness in his eyes. “Very. But you still need to rest. You did go through a lot last night, after all.”
Shadow Milk let out a short, exaggerated sigh, but the edges of his mouth curled into the faintest of smiles. “You’re relentless.”
“I have to be,” Pure Vanilla said lightly, his tone turning more serious as he placed a hand on the table. “I’ll make sure you actually rest —whether you like it or not.”
Shadow Milk leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a dramatic flair. “You’ve got an unhealthy obsession with my well-being, you know that?”
Pure Vanilla’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And you’ve got an unhealthy obsession with pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
Shadow Milk looked over at him confused. “Do we interpret things differently? I was all dramatic last night about being sick—minus the pill thing–”
Pure Vanilla, however, cut him off before he could finish, his voice soft but also firm. “No. Mentally.”
Shadow Milk blinked, the words catching him off guard. “...Mentally?” he repeated, now even more confused, though a tinge of something different crossed his face—perhaps it was vulnerability?
Nah.
Pure Vanilla nodded. “Yes… You know. If you’re still having troubles adjusti—”
Shadow Milk immediately rolled his eyes, cutting him off with a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, this better not be about that adjusting stuff again, ‘Nilla.” He waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in his chair.
Pure Vanilla’s smile didn’t falter, though there was a knowing glint in his eyes. “It’s not a bad thing, Shadow Milk. Accepting change doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It just means you’re learning how to change...”
Shadow Milk’s expression remained skeptical, though there was a flicker of something more serious beneath the usual bravado. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m not some... some fragile thing that needs to be fixed every time something changes.”
“I never said you were fragile,” Pure Vanilla responded. “But even the strongest cookies need a little help sometimes… If you need help… you could always—”
Shadow Milk snorted, cutting him off again. “Yeah, well, I’m just not used to... asking for anything.” His gaze was suddenly hyper focused on the bread in his hand.
Pure Vanilla opened his mouth, ready to say something else. But Shadow Milk beat him to it.
“Don’t say something noble. I swear, if you hit me with ‘you never have to ask with me’ or ‘I’m always here for you’ I’ll throw jam at you.”
Pure Vanilla paused, his mouth still slightly open, clearly mid-thought.
“…That’s quite the sentence,” he said with a dry chuckle, reaching to take the jam out of Shadow Milk’s reach. “But we don’t waste food here.”
Shadow Milk cracked a grin, finally glancing up with a glint of amusement returning to his eyes. “What, afraid I’ll get jam stuck in your long hair?”
Pure Vanilla let out a long breath and set the jam down with a small, patient thud. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“Am I really?” Shadow Milk shot back, then took another bite of bread like nothing had happened.
Pure Vanilla didn’t answer… not with words anyways.
Shadow Milk glanced up as Pure Vanilla stepped around the table just in time to see him close the space between them, the corner of Pure Vanilla’s robe brushing his knee as he stopped beside him. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Shadow Milk’s forehead. Again.
By the time Pure Vanilla pulled back, Shadow Milk was staring straight ahead, blinking all frog-like.
“You’re still warm,” Pure Vanilla murmured, as though he hadn’t just destabilized him entirely. “Better than last night, but not enough to skip rest.”
Shadow Milk scoffed, though it was weaker than usual. “You’re making a habit of doing that, you know.”
“Checking your temperature?”
“Looking at me like I’m not a total disaster.”
Pure Vanilla tilted his head slightly, like he was considering it. “I don’t think you are.”
“You’re clearly delusional,” Shadow Milk muttered, lightly tugging on a loose strand of Pure Vanilla’s hair in a half-hearted, not-at-all-threatening gesture in a vain attempt to reclaim some kind of upper hand.
Pure Vanilla didn’t even flinch. He merely blinked at him, clearly unimpressed.
Shadow Milk cleared his throat, abruptly letting go of the hair and turning his head just slightly—far too casual and quick. “Anyways, how do I look?”
Pure Vanilla tilted his head. “Hm?”
Shadow Milk gestured vaguely to himself, still avoiding eye contact. “You know. Sick but charming? Weak but endearing? Or just generally unbearable?”
Pure Vanilla stepped closer again, folding his arms loosely and tilting his head, pretending to seriously consider the question.
“Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes are puffy. You’re wrapped in my robe, which, I’ll remind you, is dragging on the floor. You look like a half-dead prince who escaped a very soft bed.”
Shadow Milk hummed. “So... devastatingly handsome?”
Pure Vanilla sighed and gave him the flattest look he could muster. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
Shadow Milk leaned back with a satisfied hum, clearly pleased with himself despite looking like he’d lost a fight with a pillow and a fever. “I knew it. So on a scale of one through ten, how sick do I look?”
Pure Vanilla moved a hand to Shadow Milk’s hair again, gently smoothing out a particularly stubborn tuft. His fingers paused there, resting lightly.
"Ten being...?"
“Ten being ‘hot but under the weather’ ,” Shadow Milk replied without hesitation. “One being ‘suspiciously healthy and possibly faking.’”
“Mmm.” Pure Vanilla thought for half a second, taking a step back to look at him. “I’d say… a seven.”
“Seven?” Shadow Milk scoffed. “Only a seven? I gave you fevered elegance last night!”
“You knocked a book off the nightstand with your foot,” Pure Vanilla deadpanned. “That wasn’t elegance, bluebird.”
“Yes it was.”
“No it wasn’t.”
Shadow Milk huffed, crossing his arms and pouting just a little. “You overlook my beautiful, beautiful self.”
Pure Vanilla stepped around to face him again, crouching slightly so they were eye level. “Your beauty is noted, your performance is appreciated, and your hair is now at least 20% less tragic.”
Shadow Milk reached a hand behind his head to pat at his hair. “You fixed my hair?”
“I always fix your hair.”
“…Well now I have to go back to bed and mess it up again.”
Pure Vanilla chuckled, reaching over for the jam and water-filled cup to clean up. “I’ll have to clear my schedule then.”
But before Shadow Milk could come up with yet another in character reply. A sharp cough tore through his chest. One, then two, and then it spiraled into about six. He brought an arm up to cover his mouth, turning slightly in his chair as his whole body curled into it, like it caught him completely off guard.
Pure Vanilla was at his side in a heartbeat.
“Hey, hey—slow down, breathe through it—” He used one hand to place the water cup in front of him, the other resting between Shadow Milk’s shoulder blades, steady and grounding. “That’s it, just... easy.”
It took a moment to pass, but when it did, Shadow Milk slumped back all breathless and looking far too out of it. He waved a hand like it was no big deal, because to him. It really wasn’t
Pure Vanilla's brows furrowed, concern creeping into his face as he set the cup down. “That’s it. You’re going back to bed.”
“I’m fine,” Shadow Milk's voice rasped like he’s never had water before.
“No.”
Shadow Milk gave him a tired half-glare as Pure Vanilla stood up, brushing a few crumbs off Shadow Milk’s lap. “Come on. I’ll have to find you more medicine.”
Shadow Milk muttered something incoherent as he slowly stood, wobbling just a little. Pure Vanilla immediately reached out to steady him, hands warm and firm at his waist.
“Back to bed,” Pure Vanilla repeated again with no room for argument. “Go float there. Don’t walk. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Shadow Milk comedically floated up off the ground with a slow, pathetic twirl. He made his way out of the kitchen doors, beginning slowly floating down the hallways like something from a horror movie. “If I die in transit,” he called over his shoulder, “tell the kitchen I died loving their bread.”
Pure Vanilla rolled his eyes. “You mean tell me you loved the bread I made you ?”
“No.”
Pure Vanilla tiptoed quietly into the bedroom, the door creaking just slightly before he eased it shut behind him with a careful hand. In the other, he held a small cup of liquefied medicine—warm and bitter. Just like his partner.
The room was surprisingly dark considering it was still morning. But also surprise surprise he lives with Shadow Milk so. No surprise. The curtains were shut.
And there, buried beneath what looked like every single blanket in the castle, was Shadow Milk.
Only the top of his head was visible, messy blue black strands poking out from underneath the covers.
Pure Vanilla smiled softly to himself and crossed the room. He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, medicine in hand, just... watching.
Shadow Milk's breathing was even, but not quite deep enough to be true sleep. More like... fake sleeping, in the way children did when they didn’t want to go to school. Or in Shadow Milk’s case—take something nasty and good for you.
Pure Vanilla hovered for a moment longer, debating whether to wake him. He could—he should. The timing for the dose was important, and it would help him get better. But the sight before him was hard to disturb.
He looked so peaceful under all those blankets. Peaceful in a way Shadow Milk rarely allowed himself to be.
Instead of calling his name. Or shaking him awake. Or pushing a book off the table. Pure Vanilla sighed quietly and set the cup of medicine down on the cluttered nightstand with a soft clink. It nestled among books, an empty mugs, a folded tissue, and cold soup.
He turned back to the bed, where the shapeless lump of Shadow Milk lay wrapped under at least three blankets and a comforter.
Pure Vanilla reached for the top blanket and pulled it back gently, careful not to startle him. The heavy folds peeled away with a soft rustle, revealing the blue curve of Shadow Milk’s face—flushed slightly, hair stuck to his forehead in wisps, lips parted.
He really, really should wake him up for medicine.
But they do say kissing is the best medicine.
Wait no… that's laughter
For the third time in the past twenty four hours, Pure Vanilla leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Shadow Milk’s forehead.
He let his lips stay there for a bit, gentle enough not to wake him.
Or so he thought.
Shadow Milk peeked one eye open.
Barely.
“You know,” he croaked, voice sleep-rough and smug, “if you keep doing that, I might start thinking you like me or something.”
Pure Vanilla didn’t even flinch. He calmly reached over and retrieved the cup of medicine from the nightstand.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because I do.”
Shadow Milk groaned and flopped an arm over his face. “Ugh. Disgusting. Say it again.”
Pure Vanilla held out the medicine with a practiced hand. “Only if you take this without complaining.”
Shadow Milk peeked from under his arm, narrowed his eyes at the cup, then at Pure Vanilla. “…Blackmail?”
Pure Vanilla’s grip on the cup didn’t budge. “A fair exchange.”
Shadow Milk huffed theatrically, dragging himself upright by the sheer force of will and one elbow. “You’re so manipulative.”
“Says who?”
“Tch,” Shadow Milk muttered, accepting the cup with exaggerated reluctance. “No one else would put up with this much syrupy affection.”
Pure Vanilla tilted his head. “And cold soup?”
“I was saving that,” Shadow Milk said, pointing accusingly at the abandoned bowl on the nightstand.
“You were not.”
“…Okay. But I could have been.”