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Pure Vanilla snores. Not loudly, no, but a soft thing that only those close enough to hear can.
Shadow Milk loathes that he can hear him.
He slowly shifts under Pure Vanilla’s grip to squeeze himself out from the covers he’s trapped the beast under. The previously placid expression on the king furrows into something mournful, arms shuffling to find a weight that isn’t there. It quiets after a moment and Pure Vanilla stills once again. How pointless.
Shadow Milk sits on the edge of the bed, cradling his bitten and bruised neck. The ever-compassionate king was oh so hesitant at first, refusing to hurt his lover, but look where that got him. It’s what he wanted, right? He remembers asking for it.
A huff comes from the beast as his hand drops back to his side. His wants are so muddled in his performances and lies he doesn’t even know how he feels.
He wanted Pure Vanilla, right? Wanted to be treated like some common whore? Those don’t even exist on Earthbread, he sighs. Cookies weren’t…meant to reproduce like that—weren’t meant to experience that. It was just another performance, really. He gets to claw and bite and snark all he wants, yet Pure Vanilla still whispers those sweet venomous lies in his ear about loving him. He could revel in debauching and corrupting his other half for a moment if it weren’t so painful to hear.
A twitch in his fingers breaks him out of his stupor. What a nasty habit. A mortal temptation picked up when he was the Fount, stressing over stacks of paper tripling his height day in and day out. He’s sure Pure Vanilla would chastise him for partaking in his room, so Shadow Milk stands, summoning his staff to aid his limp as he makes his way to the balcony.
Bringing his clawed, darkened hands, he unlocks the latch of the big, stained glass windows before swinging them wide open so the old hinges don’t creek. The blast of cold air from the outside soothes his heated, pained dough immediately. He walks to the railing, swinging his legs over the banister to sit atop it. His corruption is more evident on his legs, blackened dough reaching to his knees and his feet are now no more than talons.
His eyes glaze over the city below. It’s too late for anyone reasonable to be out, only one group of rebellious cookies sneaking around are awake, it seems. Such rebellion and deceit. A small smirk draws itself on his face before it falls back down into his usual frown when his fingers twitch again.
“I should be above this,” he growls, summoning a cigarette box from whatever shop was closest. The store owner can survive without his eight coins. He grabs the box lazily, flipping it open and placing it in his mouth. The comforting weight lays limply between his lips on his right side as he puts away the box in his hair and summons a small flame on his fingertip. No wind tonight, so he lights the cigarette with no issue.
The first inhale burns, but it quickly goes away with the numbing of tobacco. The puffs of smoke dissipate in the wind as he lazily observes the small group of teenagers exploring an old, destroyed mansion. He could pull a simple illusion spell, maybe scare them off with a warped yell, but the sound of creaking wood pulls him out of that thought.
Fear grips him for a moment, absolutely paralyzing in its nature. The idea of being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do, of going against his nature, had been literally carved into him, after all. When the witches found out he had been lying all those eons ago,they didn’t seal him right away, no, they carved the mark of knowledge over his right eye so he’d never forget again. They did it with a silver fork so of course it never healed correctly. Sometimes it flares up when he lies. Whether lucky timing or purposeful, Shadow Milk never got to ask.
That paralysis doesn’t go away until that deep, grating, familiar voice makes itself known behind him.
“Shadow Milk? What are you doing up so late?” Pure Vanilla asks as softly as ever, walking forwards to join the beast by the railing. He doesn’t have his cane this time. Hmm. Shadow Milk must just be a blue speck then. Maybe he’ll get away with-
“Are you smoking?”
-of course he was never that lucky.
“What’s it matter? I’m immortal. A little lung tar isn’t gonna do me in,” he sneers. Irritation grows in his gut. The one thing he knows he wants and it’s always being put down by his other half.
His better half.
“It’s too warm in bed without you,” Pure Vanilla tries instead, knowing to argue over this is a losing battle. His tone is something pitiful, like a sheep caught in the rain, looking for shelter.
Shadow Milk rolls his eyes, taking a long, last huff of his cigarette before flicking the carcass down into the city.
“Just turn on your air conditioning. Or, witches, just sleep without your 20 blankets!” He retorts. The beast turns on the railing to face the blind healer, whose lips upturn ever so slightly having sensed that the beast has finally turned to him.
“It isn’t the same as you, you know that,” he answers simply with a chuckle.
“What’s different about it then?” Shadow Milk asks.
“I don’t love my air conditioning unit,” the compassionate cookie says.
The beast huffs, bringing up his hand to flick the nose of the cookie in front of him, which makes Pure Vanilla flinch and cradle it.
“You might as well,” Shadow Milk responds. “You’re wasting your love on a corrupted purpose. An idea given flesh. No one ‘loves’ lies. No one even ‘loves’ knowledge. I am merely the personification of a library, in case you’ve somehow forgotten.”
He speaks in a bored monotone, like he were stating fact, resting his face on the back of his palm. Pure Vanilla’s hand goes from his nose to presenting before Shadow Milk, silently asking to hold him. It’s not immediately swatted away, so he goes through with the action.
He’s always been so cold since his corruption. Pure Vanilla, after his awakening, was a beacon of warmth, it’s no wonder he wakes up whenever Shadow Milk isn’t there to cool him down at night. The beast wonders how that fool ever lived without him.
Before the extremes came together to make a perfect whole.
“Libraries don’t walk, bluebird. They don’t talk, they don’t have wants or needs. They don’t perform puppet shows for the children in the town square, either,” Pure Vanilla teases, chuckling when he feels his partner’s cheek heat up.
“So what? I’m just…whatever anyone needs me to be at any given moment. That isn’t personality. It’s the lack of it, really,” he grumbles.
“Then what are you like whenever no one needs you to be anything?” The king asks tentatively, not wanting to scare off his lover from the unusually docile state he caught him in.
“The only time I was like that was in the tree. Locked away for witches knows how long. Nothing expected of me and nothing to do. Couldn’t even move with those damned chains. You wanna know what that Shadow Milk was like?” He snarls, once again guarding himself from the prodding of Pure Vanilla.
“Not if you don’t want to tell me,” the compassionate one responds. He pulls his hand back down to lean against the railing that Shadow Milk sits perched upon. A comfortable silence falls between the two until Pure Vanilla decides to break it.
“You seemed so calm out here before I spoke. Is my presence too much for you? Too demanding?” He asks, worry tingeing his tone.
“No, just simply had to prepare for an audience is all,” Shadow Milk replies. Regret and concern appear in Pure Vanilla’s features, trying to reassure his lover that he isn’t a fleeting audience member to perform for, but a permanent stagehand that he can talk to after the show. Once the curtains close, he’ll still be there for Shadow Milk to complain about a heckler or to groan about a messed up line. Pure Vanilla just wishes he’d see that, too.
“Shadow Milk…you know I don’t mind you. I’ve slept with you, for witches sake! If I can do anything at all to help you feel like you don’t have to perform in front of me, I’ll do it,” the king says.
“You’re happier when I perform. The real me isn’t even a cookie. I can’t tell where I end or begin. An infinite mist. You can’t hold that. I’m nothing when I’m not performing. With no person, I’m not the ‘personification’ of anything, am I?” He asks before summoning another cigarette to light. Wind has picked up, so he goes to cup the end of it as he makes a flame appear on his fingertip once again.
A different warmth envelopes his hands, however, as Pure Vanilla brings them away from the beast’s face.
“Please don’t. You know I can’t stand the smell,” he requests.
“I suppose I can’t be driving away my audience, now!” Shadow Milk retorts as he dispels the cancer stick in his mouth. “So…you waiting for me to rejoin you in bed?” He asks after a moment of silence.
“Not if you don’t wish to join me, but…I’d appreciate it, lov-“
“Don’t even start with all that,” the beast cuts him off.
Pure Vanilla’s lips purse as he looks down in shame, knowing how much Shadow Milk dislike the intimacy of pet names. He slowly makes his way to sit on the railing next to Shadow Milk, sighing silently when his other half doesn’t move away. He’s strangely silent for a moment, which the king uses the pause in conversation to braid his messy hair. Ever since his awakening it’s a constant war to keep it from matting, unfortunately.
Soon enough, however, Shadow Milk breaks the silence with a huff.
“I think you forget what I am, sometimes. My…domestication…has made you forget what I’ve done. You shouldn’t call me those things.”
Pure Vanilla shrugs, quietly lacing his fingers between the man’s next to him.
“I don’t think I’ve forgotten. It’s quite hard to, really.” He feels Shadow Milk flinch at that.
“But-“ he continues-“I still want to call you those things. I hope you don’t see me as a force trying to turn you into something you’re not, Shadow Milk. I don’t want to ‘domesticate’ you. I want you to find peace. Maybe even happiness, if you can,” Pure Vanilla ends his speech with a smile. He goes to squeeze Shadow Milk’s hand, but he doesn’t squeeze back like normal.
The beast looks despondent, staring at nothing in front of him. He has no need to breathe, and the jam under his skin doesn’t pump like it did when he was the Fount. All that reassures Pure Vanilla that his love is alive sometimes is his moving hair, but in the dark it’s hard to see.
Soon enough, Shadow Milk breaks the silence with a weighted sigh.
“I don’t know what I want, Pure Vanilla.”
Said cookie looks at him, imploring for him to continue. He wants Shadow Milk to help him understand. Unlike the other beasts, Shadow Milk’s past is unusually scarce. There is nothing left of him but a faded name in forbidden books and memory. Whatever’s left of his past is kept to himself.
Well, until now.
“I had purpose when I was the Fount, y’know. Reason to get out of bed. I was made to share myself. To impart knowledge. But now? I’m supposed to be free. The witches forgot about me—about all the beasts. I don’t have to worry about repercussions. No people at my door at the crack of dawn berating me for an answer I’ve shared hundreds of times before. I think…I just want to feel good. Useful, maybe,” he confesses in a rare moment of truth, refusing to look at the saint next to him even though he knows Pure Vanilla can’t see him right now.
“Maybe that’s why I can’t put those damn cigarettes down,” he hisses. “Routine. Happiness. Whatever it is.”
Pure Vanilla nods along until the conversation fades into comfortable silence once again. The sun is starting to come up by now. The distant tweets of birds sound through the air to fill the space between the two.
“Why don’t we find something for you? Something distinctly Shadow Milk. No one can shove you into a box of your own making except yourself. Although if you ever need a shoulder to lean on, I’ll always be there,” Pure Vanilla suggests. He feels the beast raise his head to look at him. With consideration, he hopes.
“Then you’ll have something to look forward to. Something to get up for. Maybe even something to find joy in. I’m sure the towns people would be delighted no matter what you do, Shadow Milk. They love your puppet shows that you do for the kids,” he chuckles.
Shadow Milk turns away, but before Pure Vanilla can apologize for embarrassing him once again, the blue cookie snickers.
“You sap.”
The beast kicks himself off the railing onto the balcony floor, dragging Pure Vanilla behind him until he spins them around to tackle his other half onto the bed.
“I’d like that,” he confesses quietly.
Pure Vanilla smiles, placing his hand on the back of his lover to rub.
“Then let’s make it happen.”