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Large, gray clouds loomed over houses and trees as they threatened rain, strong gusts of wind already weaving through tree branches and making their leaves sway.
The many animals that flocked near the cottage now found themselves in their own burrows, hidden in trees, bushes, foliage of the like. It wasn’t anything unexpected; winter was approaching, and they all needed their head start on hibernation anyway.
Hibernation. Such a wonderful, enviable concept. The ability to just slumber through it all, bad weather, conflict, and responsibilities…
Responsibilities. Those horrid things. As necessary as they were to fulfill, it didn’t make them any easier to deal with, especially when they were as morbid as the kind Shadow Milk was stuck with.
The inside of their cottage was much more cozy than the brutal conditions on the outside of its walls, yet it didn’t offer the kind of comfort he needed. And oh, how he craved it.
Shadow Milk idly stirred a warm pot of jelly stew, the stove still burning, and two wooden bowls waited patiently to be served on the counter.
It was almost mechanical, how he stirred, how his ladle traced the rim of the pot. It was like he was a robot who had been tasked with today's duties rather than a living being who was doing it of his own volition.
He and Pure Vanilla’s compromise—one earned from an unfortunate series of events—echoed in his head, the words “I’ll try” staining every wall of his mind. Those two words, as true as he wanted them to be, felt wrong.
Just the thought made him uneasy, making his gut brim with so much dread he was convinced it was seeping into the stew.
He’d simply asked for them to eat together—it wasn’t that burdening of a request; it couldn’t have been. What mattered to him most was that Pure Vanilla ate, and leaving him alone every time he was given a meal didn’t seem to be an effective way of going about his healing process.
If anything, it felt like he had just gotten sicker.
His skin had shifted to an unsettling pale shade, like he had been freshly dusted by snow, and his melodic, calming voice now sounded constantly out of tune.
And, Shadow Milk couldn’t help but think it was his fault.
Every time he’d left him in their room, every time he’d taken back an empty plate, every time he’d unknowingly flash him a supportive smile, he wasn’t aware of the fact that his beloved had been hurting himself for who knows how long now.
It was right under his nose this entire time, and he’d only now noticed. Disgraceful, it was. Absolutely disgraceful.
Before he found himself trapped in his spiral of thoughts, he heard the softest sound, something so gentle it almost didn’t register as real.
He peeked his head around the doorframe of their kitchen to see Pure Vanilla sitting at the dining table, his head slightly drooped, glaring into the table with dead eyes.
At the sight, Shadow Milk swiftly returned to the kitchen, hurriedly snatching the wooden ladle from the pot. This was one of the few windows of time he had, and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste.
Light portions—that’s what Shadow Milk had said, what he had wished. If this was going to be the only way he ate, he didn’t care how much or how little it was.
The pours into the bowls were haphazardly done, awfully so, but he didn’t care. Smaller spoons were thrust into the bowls with the same amount of regard—or lack thereof—before he plucked them both off the counter.
The smile he had plastered on his face was agonizingly fake as he strolled into the dining room, a poor show in comparison to his many others. His tone was just as disingenuous, awkwardly exclaiming like an actor who was reading their script for the first time. “Heyy, ‘Nills! Nice to see you out and about!”
Pure Vanilla had ripped his gaze away from the table, sparing him a weak smile and a simple greeting that held barely restrained undertones of apprehension. “Hi, bluebird. What is it you’ve made for… the both of us today?”
Shadow Milk placed his meal on the table with a heavy hand, the stew almost spilling out. “Just something simple! A nice contrast to the weather outside!”
Pure Vanilla flinched almost imperceptibly as he set the other bowl in front of him, his fingers curling to dig into his palm as a sudden crack of thunder seemed to sneak in and echo throughout the whole house.
The beast found a seat right next to him, desperate to keep up his oblivious act as a grin remained spread across his face, like thumbtacks had pierced his cheeks to keep them in place. “Dig in whenever!”
In all honesty, he wanted him to dig in now, but that didn’t feel like the appropriate thing to say. In place of what he wanted to do, Shadow Milk opted to take small spoonfuls of his own stew, trying to create an example, hoping he would follow suit.
Instead, Pure Vanilla lazily circled the bowl with his spoon, the subtle trail it left seemingly more interesting than the taste. The rain had to have been as unproductive as him, raindrops suddenly silenced as they poured on the roof.
Shadow Milk cleared his throat, yet still stayed silent as he brought his spoon up to his mouth once again. He wanted it to at least encourage him, maybe remind him what he was truly here for. Pure Vanilla wasn’t at the dinner table to watch him eat, after all.
But, after a while, it became infuriating. Watching him fidget, watching him simply play with his food as if it were a meaningless toy, all of it grew too much to bear. He couldn’t stand it.
He wanted to keep his eyes on his own food—really, he wanted to—but Pure Vanilla was being nothing short of irritating. Like, really, was he doing this on purpose?
Shadow Milk practically dropped his spoon, causing the contents of his bowl to splatter. His annoyance was thinly veiled; even the dumbest could pick up on it. “Vanilla. Just take a spoonful, please.”
Apparently, an explanation was in order, as always with him. Pure Vanilla had begun to scrape the edges of the bowl as he attempted to (poorly) explain why he had just been messing with his food. “I was just making sure it had time to cool down, bluebird.”
The nickname—one he would usually accept without complaint—felt more taunting than anything now. It felt like its sole purpose was to lessen the blow, lower suspicion, yet it only raised it.
A witty retort danced at the end of Shadow Milk’s tongue, only restrained by teeth that refused to let it leave. He swallowed it down, leaving it to slash violently at his throat as it went on a different path than intended.
In the blurriest, furthest corner of his vision, he saw Pure Vanilla finally take a spoonful. Shadow Milk’s fist tensed, quieting everything to a volume lower than silence just to make sure he swallowed.
It was an almost unnecessary amount of precaution, and he knew it was. But, having no eyes to see him with, no ears to hear him with, no limbs to touch him with, just to assure himself that everything was okay, seemed so, so much worse. Maybe, with supervision, he’d keep it down.
He watched with bated breath for every other time Pure Vanilla would take another bite, his own process agonizingly drawn out in comparison as all of his attention slowly but surely went to nothing but him.
At some point, Pure Vanilla must’ve noticed. His already uncertain hands had completely abandoned all of the trust they were building, fingers drawing taut around the metal handle like a cord. The rain had started to pick back up, and deafening cracks of thunder grew more and more frequent.
Pure Vanilla let his spoon sink back into the stew, a process so calculated it was almost terrifying. More terrifying, however, were his next words, muttered in such a low voice it barely reached the beast’s ears.
“Excuse me, but I need to go to the bathroom.”
Shadow Milk’s spoon stilled, slowly–too slowly–finding its way back into the bowl. His nails threatened to pierce his skin, his fist tightening with every passing second.
Just who did he think he was? Did Pure Vanilla think he was too stupid to know what that meant? After last night, such a statement barely needed explaining.
“No, you don’t.” The words left before he could think about them, a line taken from the mental script he had been crafting from the second he entered the dining room.
If he hadn’t known any better, he could’ve sworn he saw Pure Vanilla’s mind completely stop, as well as any other sound. The scraping of the chair legs, the natural hum of the house, even the thunder had seemed to cease, all listening in anticipation.
Hands that originally placed themselves on the edge of the table slowly migrated to Pure Vanilla’s lap, folding over each other delicately. His lips curled, what he probably thought was a smile, but to Shadow Milk, it was more of an awkward grimace than anything.
“...Bluebird, I’ll be right back, I promise.”
Lies. Every single last word was a terrible lie. So terrible, in fact, Shadow Milk almost found it funny. For a Cookie whose virtue was truth, honesty didn’t seem to be a concept that really prevailed here.
But that was fine. It was all fine. It didn’t matter anymore.
If Pure Vanilla wanted to go against his morals and lie to his face, he’d go against his also, and let every line that culminated in his head spill.
“You must think I’m stupid, Pure Vanilla.”
The reaction that sentence got was visceral, almost gratifying.
A glint of panic flashed across his face, his polite posture violently broken as his hands clutched onto his robes and his spine jerked, like a rough, spiny branch had replaced it. And, as a little cherry on top, a flare of lightning right behind him, transforming him into a perfect silhouette.
As cruel as it was, Shadow Milk smirked internally.
Finally seeing a crack of emotion after a prolonged mask of nothing but boring numbness was so sweet to see.
It made him want to push more, see how much more of his beloved’s emotions he could draw out after they had been locked away.
Pure Vanilla’s mouth opened again, waving both hands erratically as he spouted out another useless statement.
“Nothing of the sort! I just—”
No point in finishing that sentence. Wouldn’t lead to anything substantial anyway.
“Just what? Want to leave the dinner table so you can leave a red, bloody-looking mess in the sink again?”
The words stood firmly in the already tense atmosphere, dripping with poison and transforming once pure air into something that was too toxic to even inhale.
Pure Vanilla completely froze, his fingers twitching like moth wings and his mouth ever-so slightly agape.
The unbridled terror in his eyes—dreadfully awaiting his next words—Shadow Milk needed more, needed more of that delectable fear. Words excitedly crept back up his throat, his mind just as ready for more reactions that would be just as delicious.
“You did a terrible job of getting rid of it, by the way.”
Admittedly, those words held much more of a bite than he expected. But, they got the response he wanted.
Pure Vanilla’s fingers curled against his palm, resembling cute little paws. His eyelashes fluttered, his pupils ringing with shame and guilt.
After what seemed like an eternity of him sharing his gaze, those beautiful eyes looked away, much to Shadow Milk’s dismay.
But, in their corners, crystalline tears that reflected the light of the dining room’s hanging lamp had started to form, one already threatening to drag down his cheek.
Shadow Milk didn’t know when it clicked, maybe it was when the tear actually fell, or when Pure Vanilla pushed himself even further from the table, or maybe it was when he saw him going in the direction of the hallway bathroom.
No matter what the catalyst was, though, his chest grew tight, like chains had trapped his heart and dug their unforgiving metal deeper and deeper into it.
Pure Vanilla didn’t run; he barely speed walked, but Shadow Milk held a hand out and yelled out for him like he had sprinted miles away already.
“Wait, no— Pure Vanilla!”
His desperate voice garnered no response, barely even a tilt his way, but why would it? He probably wouldn’t have even spared a second glance either.
He grumbled under his breath as Pure Vanilla’s form disappeared in the shadows of the hallway, digging his nails into the back of his chair. “Witches...”
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Just how much of it could he be? What was the amazing Shadow Milk going to do next? Tell his beloved he was as worthless as dirt while helping him throw up, chuckling with a wide smile while Pure Vanilla’s knees were ready to buckle and send him to the ground? Sickening.
But it’s not like he could leave him alone, doing that now would be just as terrible as what he had done to cause this in the first place. Just as heartless, just as inconsiderate.
He’d have to take the walk of shame, have to relive all of the fresh memories, and remember every word with every footstep closer.
But he was willing to do so, as painful as it would be.
It was the clearest difference between past him and present him.
He valued Pure Vanilla more than anything else, and he’d be willing to do close to anything for him, no matter what it was.
He pulled himself up from his chair, following his beloved’s original trail as closely as he could.
As he had feared, memories that were barely minutes old projected themselves in his head, playing back his words, every pitiful twitch of Pure Vanilla’s expressions, every unspoken emotion that seemed to ring like a thousand bells now that he was remembering them.
He couldn’t have been more relieved once he found himself in front of the door, yet that in itself was a whole other concept of horror.
Even more so, because the walls didn’t exactly mute the sounds of merciless coughing.
Worse, he couldn’t tell if it was because of his illness, or if he had caught him when he had just finished vomiting.
His knuckles rested against the wood, torn between the choice of knocking or staying silent.
He heard the sink start to run, an answer to his suspicions that wouldn’t have hurt any less in comparison to a spoken one.
He wouldn’t knock, but he would talk. Loud enough of a voice would be enough to catch his attention.
“...Vanilla.”
The water stopped, the air went silent once again.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He ignored the way the lie coated his tongue, sticking to it like film. Obviously, he meant it like that. But he wouldn’t go anywhere with that admission.
Pure Vanilla’s voice didn’t get any closer, nor did it seem plagued with the kind of emotion Shadow Milk almost expected it to have. It was painfully neutral, yet undertones of an emotion he couldn’t seem to place singed the edges. “If you feel so strongly, I suppose it wouldn’t be right to have you stay around me. I’d hate to make you mad, Shadow Milk.”
He could already tell where this was going.
It was a terrible, excruciating process, having to hear him constantly apologize for things that weren’t his fault. It always elicited an annoyed groan from him, a pattern that remained unbroken even now, but he wouldn’t let that be it.
Apologies were foreign upon his tongue, but he allowed one to frolic, allowed it to linger for more than a passing moment. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? Last night hasn’t entirely… left me yet.”
“And that, too, was my fault. It’s because of me you’re hurting. Disappointing, isn’t it?”
He was ready to leave at that comment, but that wasn’t an option.
Shadow Milk pressed himself into the wood, like getting closer to the door would make him get closer to Pure Vanilla.
His initial instinct was to whisper, but he had remembered in time to crank his voice up so it’d carry through. “...Vanilla.”
He heard shuffling. His robes, no doubt. Even the sleeve of that thing was loud.
What caught him off guard, though, was how much closer Pure Vanilla’s voice sounded; perhaps, he was in a position similar to his. “Yes? What more do you have to say about how much I utterly upset you?”
Shadow Milk internally rolled his eyes, the passive aggressiveness slightly ticking him off, but his concern won the mental battle.
He wasn’t looking for a quarrel. He wanted a solution. A real one.
Maybe he had thought wrong when making the stew, maybe Pure Vanilla needed something lighter, something even simpler.
No matter what he needed, though, Shadow Milk was tired of talking through a door. He needed to see his face again, properly apologize, and that was difficult to do with a barrier in the way.
His nails clawed against the wood, his voice breaking as he attempted to coax him out. “I can— I can make you something else, just please. Come out.”
He didn’t know what he expected after that. Maybe an acceptance of the offer, maybe a bit of deflection before he had eventually given in, but nothing would’ve prepared Shadow Milk for what he actually had to say.
“It wasn’t about the food you made, bluebird. You could’ve made me anything, and I still would’ve barely eaten it.”
A strike of lightning. Pure Vanilla sped up, letting himself spill all of his confessions before the words even had a chance to bloom in Shadow Milk's mind.
“It was delicious, truly, but my body won’t let it stay down. I’m sorry, my love. You have every right to be angry at me.”
So, it didn’t matter. It never mattered. Shadow Milk could’ve given him a single fruit, could’ve given him a whole meal, but he’d still throw them up like they were the same.
He still would’ve gone out of his way to get rid of it all.
At this point, he didn’t care about the food or getting him to try and eat some. He didn’t care about anything. All he was worried about was seeing Pure Vanilla again.
His body fell limp against the door, newly formed tears tickling the curve of his cheek and his neck as they fell.
He had little to say. If things kept going the way they were, he was at risk of sounding like a broken record.
“...Come out.”
Those words were as pathetic as they were genuine.
More shuffling. Pure Vanilla’s voice was louder, but it shook just slightly, just noticeable enough to cause another tear to pop out of Shadow Milk’s eye.
“Do you promise me you’ll be okay?”
What a dumb, silly question. Pure Vanilla wasn’t okay, so how could he be? It made no sense for him to ask something he already knew the answer to.
He’d turn it around on him, make him feel just how unreasonable of an ask that was.
“Do you promise me?”
A sharp inhale, as high and soft as it was, could still be heard through the wood.
“...I don’t think I can.” His voice cracked, a slip-up that brought more painful heat to Shadow Milk’s cheeks.
“Then I don’t think I can either. Just come out.”
He couldn’t recall just how long of a wait it was until he came out, if it was only a few seconds or several hours, but it didn’t matter, because the door had finally begun to open.
Apparently, the sight in front of him had to have been revolutionary. Pure Vanilla had completely ceased all movement, even the wiping of his own tears, all just by looking at him.
And then, that dumb pity spread across his face. He took the liberty of shifting the comforting to Shadow Milk, putting his hand in his and reaching to wipe away tears that had trailed down his face.
His voice was just as dumb, cooing at him like he was a child who had just woken up from a nightmare, yet it was slightly scratchy, as if he had fought off the monster himself. “Oh, my dear, please don’t cry.”
“Hard not to.” His voice was so much flatter than he wanted it to be, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry too hard about it. It’s not like that was Pure Vanilla’s highest concern anyway.
Speaking of him, it’s like his face was a constant ripple of emotions, switching and experiencing different variations of guilt and remorse all in just a couple of seconds, all right in front of his eyes.
His hand, formerly tasked with ridding Shadow Milk’s tears, traveled down to hold his other, lone hand with a firmness that caught him off guard.
“I promise to give you all you want and more to compensate for the fact that you’re dealing with my problems. It’s not your fault they’re unresolved.”
How badly he wanted to tell him to shut up.
Did he forget just that easily? All of Pure Vanilla’s problems were automatically his, too. Personal troubles were practically impossible to ignore, no matter which one of them it affected.
If there was anything he wanted, it was for him to at least eat or drink something without it immediately coming back up. He wasn’t interested in simple distractions that would ultimately mean nothing for the end goal.
“What I want isn’t anything superficial, ‘Nilla.”
Shadow Milk ripped his hands out of the gentle hold of Pure Vanilla’s, forcing his own arms to stay rigid at his sides. “What is something simple that you won’t immediately puke back up?”
A beat. A moment of sincere, genuine thought.
And then, at last, an answer. Not deflection, no false promises of health, but a real answer.
“Tea is a nice option.”
How remarkable.
What a pleasant surprise, those words were. They were light, silky, and a much more preferable, fresh taste.
He could’ve sworn he heard—felt—the rain calming down. A raging storm turning into a polite drizzle.
And weirdly enough, he resonated with it. Perhaps, this entire time, his mind had been an unrelenting, unforgiving storm that had finally started to let up, too.
Shadow Milk crossed his arms, a rare sparkle of satisfaction shimmering like glitter in his eyes.
“Then I’ll make you tea.”