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Cold was bored.
By itself, it wasn’t unusual by any means. Boredom was Cold's natural state; most of his existence blurred into a lifeless thread of nothing, even after he separated from The Long Quiet and gained his own body. Boring, dull, but deeply familiar. Comfortable, even.
And yet this time, something about it nagged him.
Hm, Cold tilted his head and stared at the far corner of the room, where Skeptic, Hunted and Hero clashed and argued, leaning over the mountain of paper notes that the inquisitive voice brought in. He paid little mind to their squabbles and actual spoken words, instead looking for subtle signs of worry and frustration, of life, in their expressions.
Skeptic furrowed his brows and leaned against his hand, covering his mouth in the process, already in deep thought and tuning out others' words as usual. He was painfully easy to read in moments like these; try as he might to keep his composure, the frustration over lack of clarity and direct answers laced his every movement. Hero raised his voice to get Skeptic's attention, blue eyes shining with foolish concern as his claws traced one of the papers on the table. His feeble attempts to stay calm obviously failed, riled up by the heightened emotions of his conversation partners. Hunted muttered something to himself as he rapidly glanced around the room, all jittery and high-strung. Even while sitting still, he was always on the move, always scanning everything, always trying to keep the flock safe.
How interesting. How misguided.
Three different voices, all so clear in their worry, a feeling so foreign to Cold.
He could not understand why everyone was so wired over Smitten's sudden disappearance.
Cold hummed and lazily traced the cushion of the couch he sat on, as he tried to recall that morning. The entire cabin turned upside down as soon as they realized that Smitten disappeared without a trace or notice over night, something so uncharacteristically like him. At first, they thought he might’ve gone to prepare a surprise for someone. But everyone knew he was a sentimental blabbermouth, if he was planning something, he wouldn't be able to keep it a secret from everyone. So, the fact that no one knew his whereabouts swept his flockmates into a whirl of panic. The rest of the day blurred for Cold into an eerily familiar and dreadful nothing. All he could remember were some disparate facts: Hunted discovering a strange castle that emerged on a path in the woods, Skeptic explaining a Construct memory full of stale air and shadows and brightly lit torch fire, the other voices declaring they would rescue Smitten at all cost.
Cold scoffed at these memories. How annoying, too.
This passionate, foolish bird could not get a hold of his feelings and ran off into the woods. And now, everyone else was so ready to follow in his footsteps, to chase after someone who, in turn, abandoned those who cared about him. Cold couldn't understand why they bothered, why they continued to care about Smitten with the same imprudent passion.
What's the point?
A frantic tapping brought Cold’s attention back to the arguing trio. It came from Skeptic, who aggressively flipped through his mess of notes. Cold chuckled, amused and curious at how agitated their resident “collected” and “levelheaded” voice was.
It did not go unnoticed. The tapping stopped almost immediately, as Skeptic lifted his head and looked directly at Cold.
"...You’ve got anythin’ to say?"
"Mm,” Cold hummed again and stood up from the couch, “Not really. I was just about to leave, anyway."
“Ah. Of course,” the inquisitive voice replied, barely masking his irritation, “You know we could always use more help with this, right?”
“I have better things to do.”
“Oh, do you now?” Skeptic slammed his hands against the table and stood up too, “Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, it might be urgent to rescue one of our flock members?”
“It’s only urgent because you think it’s supposed to be urgent,” Cold said nonchalantly, “Only fools would rush so quickly into something so pointless.”
“You did not just–”
“But what do I know?” Cold traced his hand over one of Skeptic's numerous notes, before clawing at it without remorse, “You’re the one who always has it all under control–”
“Guys, guys!” Hero rushed forward and placed himself between the two arguing voices, “I know that we are all stressed from this, but–”
“You are, and you're all trying to make it my problem. I can't be bothered with this.”
“Cold–”
“I don't care,” he interrupted Hero, straightening his posture and unwittingly stretching out his wings, “I do not care about your little mission. And I'm not going to get tied up in all this.”
“Do you not give a shit about Smitten now, too?” Skeptic blurted, his gaze threatening to burn a hole directly though Cold.
“No,” Not that he paid any mind to it, “No. I do not.”
Before anyone could reply to his harsh words, Cold already disappeared from sight.
* * * * *
Cold shut the door with a loud bang as he stepped into the morgue everyone called his room. A bed, a desk, a chair. The space contained only the bare minimum–he wouldn’t even have a desk if not for Paranoid’s insistence–despite the protests of a certain foolish bird–
Hm, he hummed, his body resting on the bed without warning. His eyes glued to the ceiling, the uneven grain of the wooden planks weaving and twisting like threads. He stared, and the threads grew. He blinked, and they returned to normal. It repeated. His chest, right around the stab wound scar, itched and ached in an unfamiliar manner, screaming at him to look away, to look at his desk…
But he refused.
He knew better than to let a feeling guide his actions.
A certain emptiness filled the very fibers of his room. Heavy, dull, but deeply familiar, even more so than the usual dead stale air of the least visited room in the cabin. How long had he been here already? Was it an eternity, or two? Cold couldn’t quite remember. It didn’t matter to him. It had been a while since he visited this room anyway. Last time, he was with–
“Yes?” Cold’s voice replied quickly, without command, the frigid voice finding himself at the door. His hand rested on the door knob, as the knock still echoed in his ears.
“Sorry, I know you don’t like us bothering you,” the blue eyes of their so-called “leader” glanced at him with a deeply familiar, and yet uncomfortable shine, as though the light played tricks on him and shifted their hue to a warm pink. “I just wanted to check and make sure you’re okay–”
“Save those pleasantries for someone who cares about those,” Cold moved to close the door in Hero’s face, except he noticed that the blue eyes landed on a spot in his room with a curious, borderline pitying spark.
He knew exactly what caught Hero’s attention.
“Cold, listen. I know that–”
“What do you know, Hero?” Cold swung the door wide open as he stared down at Hero with an icy glare. The scar on his chest ached again, heavy with the same emptiness permeating his room, all attempts to numb the pain going in vain, “Go ahead, entertain me with a story about me you spun in your head.”
“I…” Hero took a deep breath, “...I know that you wouldn’t have kept that, if you didn’t care about Smitten.”
“You seem quite confident in that,” he hummed in his usual noncommittal tone and finally turned towards the desk Hero looked at – atop it stood a pot full of blooming azalea. Cold blinked and stared right back at Hero, “And yet, it’s the most boring reason for me to do so. What if I simply wanted to see how fast it wilts and withers?”
“Cold–”
“There is no need for your sympathies,” he decisively walked out of his room, pushing Hero out of the way, “And clearly, you have more pressing things to occupy yourself with.”
Before Hero could say another word, Cold already disappeared from sight yet again.
* * * * *
The midday sun scorched with a familiar burn as Cold exited the cabin, the air around his feathers growing uncomfortably warm. The sensation would’ve been a welcome respite to his strange ache, except as the heat grew in intensity, it awakened a memory, words spoken by him, almost mocking him in the moment.
You’ll make them stop. Trust me.
The sharp pain in his chest disagreed.
Cold stepped off the beaten path, every step leading him further and further into the wilderness – away from the flock, from the scorching heat, away from the cabin full of memories. He didn’t need those. He could do perfectly without them.
He stared at the tree bark and foliage above him, gently rustling to the hot gusts of wind. The sun peaked through the trees, its warm rays licking at his form without remorse. His body mindlessly guided him as the ache swirled and bubbled instead of subsiding.
He took a step, and the ache grew. He took another step, and the ache grew. He looked around, and the ache grew–
–his hands landed on the ground; claws dug into the dirt, as he fell on his knees into the tall grass. He reached for the nearest rock before clenching his hand tightly around it, until his knuckles turned pure white, and his palm scratched and bled into the ground below.
Hm, Cold hummed as he stared at the warm crimson trickling down his hand, dissatisfied with the dull sensation from the wound. No feeling could overpower the emptiness, and he hated it.
There are still the feelings of the heart. Those never go away.
…A silent rage arose at the empty, tugging ache in his chest.
Why are they still here?
He blinked, and there he was, finding himself underneath a cool shade of Smitten’s umbrella, the lovebird’s cool hand resting on his forehead.
He blinked, and there he was, rolling his eyes at the excited blabber as Smitten dusted off Cold’s desk to make way for his potted azalea.
He blinked, and there he was, foolishly leaning against the pink feathers as Smitten traced his fingers along Cold’s scar and insisted that he cared about him, loudly, warmly, and with imprudent passion.
How annoying.
Cold threw the rock far out of sight before he sunk the bloody hand into the source of his pain. No matter how hard he clawed at his chest, the swirling feeling crescendoed until it threatened to consume him whole, impossible to turn off, stop, or ignore, no matter how hard he tried.
And he tried.
He really tried to make them stop.
…
He hated to admit it that he could not make these feelings stop.
An eternity passed before he stood up; pale feathers covered in dirt and blood, unsightly and nasty like the pain that wouldn’t leave his chest, the emptiness that could not be filled or replaced or avoided, the deeply familiar and yet disgusting feeling of longing.
He sighed and took a heavy step in the direction of the path in the woods, his body guiding him back to the cabin. The rest of the day blurred for Cold into a confusing nothing, as he was greeted by Hero and dragged to Paranoid to take care of the wound. He could not care less about it, his perception only acutely aware of the yearning aches and longing feelings in his heart.
…And all he could do is accept their existence.