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Two Time sits in a silence that presses upon the ears like wool stuffed into them, so thick and muffled that even their own breath seems strangely distant. The air is damp, close, smelling faintly of turned soil and wet timber, as though the room itself has begun to decay. They are certain they are alone, and yet Azure is here.
Azure lowers themself onto Two Time’s body without warning. The weight is undeniable: the slow compression of chest and thighs, the dip of the mattress pulling them closer still. A chill spreads wherever Azure’s body makes contact, a clammy dampness that seeps through the blankets until the fabric clings unpleasantly to the skin.
Their cheek rests against the side of Two Time’s face as once it did in gentler times, but now the breath at their neck is cold, salt-sour, leaving behind a tackiness like seawater drying too slowly.
When at last Two Time dares to lift their eyes open, Azure’s eyes appear glassy, as though filmed with water. Their lips part in a smile once familiar, and from the opening comes not breath but a trickle, then a pour — black water spilling in thin streams down the chin, pattering against the floorboards with a sound both delicate and dreadful. It carries the awful pungent scent of brine, metallic and raw, with a faint undercurrent of rotting nightshades.
The only difference is that they cannot read those eyes, no matter how long they try; there is no depth, no one inside them, only a mirrored surface that throws everything back. They cannot remember if Azure’s gaze had ever been so strange and distant. Why does it seem as though soil lies over them, dimming the light?
The arms about their neck tighten, skin yielding too much beneath the fingers when Two Time grasps at them, as though the flesh has grown loose, detaching from the bone. A cold wetness slides between their collar and skin, worming its way down the back, leaving a shiver that feels both bodily and spiritual.
“You wished it so,” Azure declares, though the lips do not move. The voice blooms within the skull, damp and echoing, like words spoken underwater. “You offered me. Now you are mine.”
The kiss follows. It is not warmth, not comfort, but a violent press of lips that taste of mud and petals, root-water forced between and past their teeth until they choke. Damp earth fills their mouth, heavy and choking, as though they are being buried from the inside out. Their teeth grind against grit, their tongue recoils from the bitterness of crushed stems, their throat burns with the acrid tang of rotted roots steeped too long in stagnant water. Their chest convulses itself in protest, but no air comes, only the suffocating soil and bloom, pressing into every hollow.
And then, nothing . Their lap is empty, their shirt dry, their mouth clean. Yet the tang of salt remains stubborn on the tongue, and when they swallow, nightshade lingers, proof enough that they have not escaped.
The act of swallowing feels thick, laborious, as though the liquid clings inside their throat; every breath rattles faintly, damp, as though lungs are learning to drown.
The bed accepts them like sodden earth, sheets clammy, the wool beneath damp as though it has drunk seawater all night. The air should be their own again, but every breath is heavy with brine, and no matter how hard they swallow, the bitterness coats their tongue as if Azure’s mouth is still on theirs.
They bring trembling hands to their lips. Nothing clings there. There’s no water, no salt, no stain, yet their skin reeks faintly of nightshade, and the taste only deepens. Their fingers curl against their mouth, trying to scrub away the dirty memory, but the sensation grows worse for touching it, as if the lips themselves have become foreign, another’s property.
Something gives way inside them.
The silence of the room does not hold; it cracks under the sound that slips out unevenly, a sob dragged from somewhere deep. Tears spill hot against a face that is otherwise cold, running into the damp patches on their pillow, turning the linen clammy beneath their cheek. Their chest lurches with each breath, ribs tight as if Azure’s arms still circle them, and the more they try to gasp free, the harder it seems to draw anything but water.
The sobs bubble up thickly, each noise strangely wet, as though the crying itself drowns them. Their lips sting with salt when they open their mouth, and the saliva thickens piercingly, burning the throat as though another’s poison bleeds through.
They clutch at their sides, fingers digging into their own flesh, searching for proof of themselves beneath the skin. But all they feel is the echo of Azure’s touch, bruises beginning to bloom faintly under their grip. Their body no longer belongs entirely to them; it is written upon, claimed.
Through tears, they dare a glance to the side. A wet mark pools dark upon the sheets where Azure sat, a stain shaped like a body lingering just beside their own. From that dampness rises the faintest sound. Drip, drip, drip. As if water continues to fall in a place where there should be none.
They shut their eyes hard, but the crying does not stop. It worsens, a helpless keening muffled in the pillow, the sound of someone who knows they are not alone even in solitude.
Each sob leaves their lungs colder, until it feels less like they are crying for Azure, and more as though Azure cries through them.
The days bleed together, though Two Time no longer dares to sleep deeply enough to measure them. They lie awake at night, listening for water. Not waves, but trickles , the sound of rain sinking into earth, of soil moving beneath its weight. The room is dry, but the ears trick them; in the walls, in the rafters, in the slow dark corners, there is always the faint hush of damp earth being pressed down, as though by a hand.
When their eyes begin to grow heavy, the burden returns. Azure leaning against them, Azure’s cheek pressing close, Azure’s mouth filled with dirt and petals, soil crumbling from between their teeth. They jolt upright, breath sharp, throat sour, the sheets damp beneath their hands though the air is otherwise still. Each time they touch the mattress after, it feels as though they are lying on a patch of ground sodden after rain, heavy and clinging.
“Are you waiting for me?” The question arrives in the skull, soaked through the marrow, damp and low. It never comes from the lips; it never breaks the air. Azure’s voice has moved in, lodged behind the bones of the ear.
Two Time presses palms hard against their temples, nails digging shallow grooves in the skin. “You’re… you’re dead.” The words are rasp, hushed, as though spoken louder might tempt the Spawn to prove them wrong. “You’re gone.”
“You begged me to stay,” Azure replies, the syllables spilling slowly as though through water. “And now I am here. Do you grieve, or do you call me back?”
They shake their head, hair sticking damply against the forehead, though they cannot remember sweating. The room reeks faintly of turned earth, that raw metallic tang caught in the throat, coating the teeth until every breath tastes like damp soil. They choke on it, coughing, but no relief comes.
The nights unspool like this, half-waking, half-buried. They light the lamp and watch the shadows move. Amidst the flicker of flame, Azure waits in the corners — sometimes reclining in a scatter of crushed nightshades, soil trailing from their sleeves, sometimes standing at the foot of the bed with lips parted, as though about to speak. Always gone when the flame is brought closer. Always present the moment it is set down.
When others ask why Two Time’s eyes are red, why their hands tremble, they only say, “I can’t sleep.” It is true enough. But the reason is heavier: if they close their eyes too long, what waits on the other side may not be dream but arrival.
“Rest,” Azure says. Or perhaps it is not Azure, but the Spawn’s sly mutterings. The word curls in Two Time’s ear like a rope slipping around an ankle. “You must be tired, beloved nightshade.”
“I’m not.” Their whisper scratches the back of their throat, too harsh, too desperate. The silence afterward mocks them.
They sit upright, back pressed to the wall, the wooden boards damp from condensation that drips endlessly in this place. Their hands will not stay still; fingers rake down their sleeves, claw at their palms, tug against the collar until the skin is raw. Anything to keep occupied, because if they are still, the memories flood them.
What if Azure rises? What if the latch turns, the door gives way, and the flowerbed delivers their death back into the room?
The thought coils in their gut until it feels less like fear and more like prophecy.
“Coward,” Azure murmurs. The voice sounds from the corner now, low, detached. “Did you think it would be so easy?”
Two Time drags in air that tastes of mildew, salt, the faint and weird sting of rot. “You are already dead.”
They curl forward, arms around their ribs, rocking slightly, as if motion wouldn’t make them derealize and anchor them to their body. “I know you’re not real,” they hiss. “It’s not you. It’s not—”
Cold fingers trail the edge of their jaw. Not real. Not real. Not real. Their body believes it anyway, shivering under the touch.
Two Time lets out a rather… half-broken laugh, more rasp than amusement. “You’re crueler dead than you ever were alive.”
Azure leans close. Perhaps only in their mind, perhaps in truth, and the whisper drips like water into their ear. “You made me cruel. You buried me. Now I shall lie in you.”
The room stinks and reeks of overturned soil. The sheets are slick with imagined damp. Their skin tastes of nightshade when they press their knuckles against their mouth, gnawing at themselves for proof of life.
And still, they do not dare lie down just yet. Because if they close their eyes, even for a moment, Azure will return — not in memory, not in dream, but in flesh, risen from beneath the waves to drag them down into the dark.
So Two Time waits. They wait, sleepless, desperate, certain of betrayal even from their own thoughts. Azure is gone. Azure is not gone. Azure waits in every shadow, every silence, waiting for a moment to strike and take revenge.
And their grief is nothing more than the fear of what happens when Azure finally decides to come back.