Work Text:
The simple click of the lamp is how it always starts.
Amber light filters through the shade and illuminates the modest room, doused in tones of brown and beige. In the middle of it all, a large bed, much too large for the current single occupant. Pure Vanilla lays on his back, the white blankets like a sea of warmth and comfort as he turns the page of the book he was reading. It was a very well-loved copy of something-or-other, the cover having worn away any resemblance of the contents inside.
A soft hum, the buzzing of a lamp, and if you listened very closely, you may hear a cream owl or two, cooing in the crisp night air.
It isn’t common for the abdicated king to receive visitors, especially so late in the night. However, there was one mischievous being who would only visit under the cover of darkness, and it seemed that this particular nightfall had caught him in a good mood.
There is no sound at his entry, nothing immediately displaced, just the feeling of a humorous presence within the room.
He turns the page.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes are closed, his light lashes brushing against his dough as he laughs softly at a line within his book. His fingers work to decipher the next paragraph.
The weight shifts on the bed.
The night sky medusa has finally made his presence known.
He sits at the foot of the bed, the white of his hair casting shadows across his face that largely obscure his eyes except for the cool blue glow that gives away his gaze, curious of the worn cover. His hair largely matches the sky, cascading down his back with the appearance of an oil spill in the sea, a devastating event for all parties involved. Pure Vanilla knew differently, however, that the bands of color were not reminiscent of something catastrophic. In just the right light, and in just the right angle, a few dim stars could be caught dying in the strands of his decaying nebulas.
The beast, who the former king was finding less beastly each visit, sat upon the foot of the bed calmly before lowering himself to lay on his side, chin resting on his thigh closest to the window.
Pure Vanilla makes no exchange of words, flipping to the next page with practiced patience. He could never explain these visits to the other ancients. If he lowered his book or spoke a word the feeling would simply vanish. To observe the beast of deceit is to scare him back into hiding, among the ruins of his poor spire.
The forecast predicted rain.
He didn’t wish for the other to hide amongst the dreary shadows of an unwelcoming night.
And so, hellos were nonexistent.
He feels claws pressed against his leg, slowly worming their sharpened points through his woolen blanket to lightly grasp dough before being retracted just as quickly.
In and out, in and out.
The motion was often referred to by the name of kneading.
A soft smile finds its way to his face at the quietness of it all.
The lamp flickers slightly as a particularly clumsy gust of wind met against the nearest window. The temperature was dropping fast in preparation for the poor weather, and so his blankets were pulled just a little higher over his chest, clothed in chocolate fabric.
Shadow Milk kneads the blankets, his chin still resting against the thigh of the abdicated king. It isn’t long, perhaps only a page or two, before a new sound joins the harmony of near dead silence. It starts as a rumble that may have been mistaken for a growl, but as it becomes louder, the soft intention is clear.
A purr graces the room.
When frightened, cats will have their fur raised so that they look larger than they are. More intimidating, more ready to defend or fight until their claws are dulled beyond measure. On nights like these, the other reminded him of a terrified cat. He longed to have a conversation with the other, to lower his book and steal a glimpse of those decaying nebulas, but this is a routine that has occurred many times before. He shouldn’t chance it.
A drop of rain startles him from his thought, as his eyes open in the dim light to watch it begin pelting itself against the sugar class window. Like comets, hurling themselves to the ground only to die a sudden death immediately on impact.
He loved the sound of rain, the calm it brought him.
With the book in his hands and the near cat against his leg Pure Vanilla couldn’t have felt more comfortable and secure. He places his bookmark, a simple paper scrap, within the spine of the book. His own spine cracks and wines as he reaches over to place it on his nightstand.
The simple click of the lamp is how it always ends.
The only light now was the few stars that graced the sky and the few stars that graced his covers.
In the morning, Shadow Milk Cookie would be gone. The only proof he had ever been perhaps a strand of hair or the holes worn in the blanket from his incessant kneading.
He couldn’t possibly ask for better company, though perhaps a proper goodbye.