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The cage sits on the bed.
Their forehead is sweat slicked, dark, greasy brown bangs stuck to their skin. They tremble, knees pulled together, chest heaving and stuttering.
YOU watch from your own faux cage, built of wire. They have ripped YOU out again, thrown YOU away, locked YOU up.
The cage's name is Kris. The cage hates YOU.
YOU, when it comes down to it, like Kris. YOU lead them, and while the puppetry is a mockery of a proper bond, still YOU harbor tenderness for them.
Reliant. Kris is a human, fleshy bits and hands and sweat and body fluids. YOU are not. YOU are something else. A soul, an angel. YOU are YOU, a heart shaped with no aorta, no blood. YOU cannot bleed. YOU need them. They need YOU.
That fact has not stopped Kris from trying to sever the bond. Over and over again, slamming YOU into walls and cages, under sinks and desks. A nightly ritual, one that continues even when YOU are absent; YOU cannot bleed, but YOU can feel the aches none the less.
*YOU DON'T HAVE TO HATE ME, KRIS.
They ignore YOU, coughing hoarsely into their palm. This pains them, physically. A human without a soul is a shell, and can only stand so long. Somehow they toy the line between life and death regardless, often crawling away from YOU to do things that are impossible for YOU to know.
YOU think of other worlds. Other YOUs. The ones that put them through hell, the ones who abandoned them, the ones who live to squeeze every possibility from their tender human flesh.
YOU think about telling them about this. YOU wonder how they would react to the word snowgrave, even though it is pointless. This Kris has no reason to fear the word.
*IT COULD BE WORSE. I COULD HATE YOU.
"Shut up."
Kris's voice is both exactly what YOU expect and a surprise. YOU have never heard it. Their own voice never echoes inside their soul, and the few times they've talked to others while YOU were outside, they keep their voice low enough so YOU wouldn't hear. It's raspy, and soft. The kind of voice that comes after years of disuse or hours of screaming. It could be either, with Kris.
*IM STUCK HERE TOO.
A lie. YOU can leave anytime you want, but YOU don't want to. YOU need to see where this goes.
Kris is a rude vessel. Kris ignores YOU.
*I HAVEN'T RUINED YOUR LIFE. I COULD HAVE. CAN.
They tense, something so small and near unnoticeable, but YOU feel triumphant. A shudder in their mask of indifference they parade around YOU.
*I WANT TO KNOW, KRIS. YOU HAVE SO MANY SECRETS. YOU ARE MY VESSEL—
"Shut up—"
*—SO THERE SHOULD BE NONE BETWEEN US.
They stand up, wobbling back and forth like a drunken toddler. They loom over the cage they have thrown YOU in, lips curling into a sneer.
*WHO IS THE KNIGHT KRIS? WHY DID YOU MAKE THAT DARK FOUNTAIN—?
They kick the cage and send YOU bouncing off it's cool walls. Somehow, YOU realize the cage is made partially of iron. The fact brings to mind the story of the fae. Name stealers, life ruiners. They shrivel and burn at the feel of iron.
YOU do not burn. YOU only feel the reverberations of impact against a non-fleshed heart.
*THESE QUESTIONS ARE WITHIN MY RIGHT.
They gasp over the cage, clawing at their chest. Each breath is hoarse and ragged, more so than YOU have ever heard it be. They will die if they keep this up. It would be a waste—a new vessel wouldn't continue their story.
*I HAVE BEEN GOOD TO YOU. I HAVE MADE YOU FRIENDS. WITHOUT ME, SUSIE WOULD NEVER HAVE BEFRIENDED YOU—
YOU know it's a tender spot for them, but the viciousness with which they lunge is a shock. A snarl, ripping from their mouth, flat human teeth bared with spit flinging itself outward, hurtling towards you. Their hands slam into the cage, reach through, fingers sink into red. It burns. Each nail is a pinprick of acid, slowly spreading out, and Kris feels it too. Pain flares across their face in sync with the way it ripples through YOU, like the atoms whirling around inside both of you know this is a breach of the laws of the universe.
"Shut your fucking mouth," They wheeze, pant, groan. Their hand spasms and the sweat that so far has been content to stick to their head pours down their cheek. "Don't—" another cough, another wheeze, another shudder. "—don't you dare mention her."
*I LIKE SUSIE. I'M ROOTING FOR YOU TWO.
They recoil, face crumpling into something like sadness. Something like misery. Something like fear. YOU greedily lap the emotions up, memorize the ways their face crinkles and morphs, saving it away for later. Kris fascinates YOU, all imperfect and mysterious. Every break in their face feels like a life changing discovery.
*YOU LOVE HER. ITS SWEET. ENEMIES TO ALLIES TO FRIENDS TO SOMETHING MORE. A GOOD TROPE, FOR A FANTASY WORLD.
Their body finally rejects the pain they're inflicting on it; their fingers uncurl out of YOU, and they stumble back to the bed. A low whine sinks out from between their teeth, and then they go silent. Pick up one leg, two, pull them close to their body and lie on their side. They look like a child, hiding away from the monsters under their bed.
"Is that what we are?" YOU do not have to strain to hear them, but YOU would if you had ears. The words are less of a whisper and more of a breath. "A trope? Some story to watch unfold."
*YES. NO. YOU ARE A STORY. YOU ARE A VESSEL. DOES IT MATTER? I LOVE YOU EITHER WAY.
"This is love to you?"
*IT IS MY LOVE FOR YOU.
Silence seems to be the only thing they can give YOU, for they don't say anything after that. They lay curled on their side for a long time. Minutes. Hours. It doesn't matter, it all passes the same to YOU.
Eventually they gasp out a breath, jerk themselves up, and hobble over to the cage. They reach in, and for a moment, YOU think they mean to torture YOU again. It's an unpleasant thought, this becoming commonplace. But YOU would deal with it.
Instead, they grasp YOU between clammy, shaking fingers, and force YOU back into their chest. There's a feeling of aimless floating before YOU fully settle in, back where YOU belong, back to YOUR vessel.
YOU stretch with Kris's arms, feel the way their muscles tremble out of weakness. This will hurt them for a good while. YOU get the sense they will still do it again.
YOU flex their hand. The fingers curl, uncurl, once, twice. The third time, the middle one does not obey. It twitches, but otherwise stays upright.
YOU laugh with Kris's voice. In a way, their defiance endears them even further to YOU.
YOU take care of your vessel. YOU take their trembling, sweat soaked body back to their bed and let them rest, because YOU love them. They are YOUR cage; YOU are theirs.
They do not love YOU.
YOU will watch over them anyways.