Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They don’t like seeing you cry.

There’s something about the tense silence you put yourself under that makes them uncomfortable. You don’t make it about yourself, and no one sees it. 

It’s been seven rounds straight of UNO. You’re probably one of the smartest among the five of them; you’d easily pull into the lead after a few turns (or maybe you’re the only one taking it seriously). But the rules kept changing, courtesy of Dess. Small things, like being able to put a plus two on top of a regular two, or skips beginning to apply to the person who placed it; if you place five skips, you’ll skip your own turn. They could tell she wasn’t taking it seriously. She was messing with you.

You didn’t seem opposed to the constant changes. In fact, you welcomed it. A round later, you followed said rule; you placed a plus two on a regular two. And Dess – through snickering breaths – told you that you couldn’t do that.

She’d make up rules on the spot and immediately take it back when it’d help you.

They understand why you didn’t oppose it. She’s fifteen, after all. The five year age gap makes for an intimidating opponent. 

She kept switching things up. Azzy continuously nudged her, a smile gracing his face, telling her to stop cheating. She didn’t. Neither of them could tell how annoyed you were getting. 

It was just last round when, as fate would decide, you and Dess were the last ones with cards in your hands. They could see you were losing steam from the way your eyebrows were in a permanent furrow; grin from rounds ago now lost to the void.

You were about to rank a staggering fourth place, presenting your wild card with a sigh of relief. 

“Hey! Can’t end on a wild card,” she elbowed your shoulder, poorly hiding her laugh. 

They could see the life drain from your eyes.

She ordered you to pick up two, to which you do. You seemed too tired to argue. Then, of course, she placed her last card; a blue plus two on top of your red, regular two. 

She falsely cheered, offering you a side hug and a ‘better luck next time!’. Your lips rose into a shaky grin. They watched your tears form in real time. You never let one fall.

And now, you just play with the frays of the carpet for a solid minute before rising from your seat on the floor, calmly making your way to the front door.

“Hey,” Dess calls after you, pausing mid-deal. “Where’re you going, dude?”

You don’t answer, initially. Kris thinks you might not at all, until your fingers curl around the knob.

“A Walk,” you say simply. You’re good at hiding the slight shake in your voice. 

But they notice.

You’re gone before anyone can interject, door shutting behind you.

Azzy’s instantly on his feet. “Shoot. Mom’s gonna kill me–”

They watch with intrigue as their brother slaps his cards to the ground, dashing right after you. They mindlessly go to follow, but a hand on their shoulder stops them. 

“What about you? Where’re you going?” The older deer accuses, tone deeply embedded with sarcasm.

Kris shrugs, indifferent.

“Don’t think you’re allowed to escape, too.”

Noelle proceeds to ask why you left so suddenly, to which Dess states that she has no idea. They’re not entirely sure how they couldn’t tell how upset you were. 

The sisters begin cleaning up the mess of cards while they can’t stop staring at the door. It’s easy to slip away once they’re both distracted.

They subconsciously inhale the fresh air, lungs screaming for solace from their living room. The sound of their brother’s quick footsteps flood their ears, returning from a random part of the forest.

He pants out your name, worried and out of breath. “I’ve checked everywhere– I don’t… It’s been a minute, where could– god, mom’s gonna be pissed.”

“I can help,” they offer.

“What if you get lost? I’ll have two missing kids under my belt,” he jokes, but they can tell he’s just as nervous as he sounds.

“I won’t.”

His gaze narrows on them as if trying to read their neutral expression. Once he spots nothing suspicious, he sighs. “Fine. But you better come back– and I swear, if this is some intricate prank where you both play dead in the woods–”

“It’s not.”

Azzy ruffles their hair, horned headband nearly falling off. He’s already turning to run into an unchecked part of the forest. “You better not be lying; if I don’t find you, mom will.”

It’s an empty threat they can’t help but giggle at.

They wait for their brother to disappear into the trees; he waits to call your name until he’s nearly out of earshot of the house. They already know he’s going in the wrong direction, but they don’t stop him.

Kris makes their way around the house, heading straight into the thick woodlands. The plumage of the bushes and branches doesn’t cause them to stray off their path. It’s late enough for the sun to start its descent into the horizon, tainting the sky a warm honey yellow. 

They’re not in a rush; far from it. 

It takes a few minutes of mindlessly treading when they hear the splashes of rushing water. They slow their pace, becoming extra cautious of where they step.

Along the riverbank is where they find you.

You’re slouched, knees pulled to your chest. You sit close enough to the stream to run your stick through the channel, entranced by the way the water splits to your will. You’re quiet. Not that they thought you’d be sobbing your eyes out, but they didn’t think you’d be so off.

Their foot slips, accidentally stepping on a pile of fallen, crunchy leaves.

Your head immediately turns, exhaustion evident in your eyes. You’re flushed. But you don’t say anything; not even when you spot them. Instead, you face the river once again.

They’re tempted to leave, but you’re not crying anymore. That makes this easier, right?

They make their way to your spot. They watch you tilt yourself away from them as they seat themself next to you. Their legs stretch out as far as a ten-year-old’s legs go, just barely touching the water with their shoes.

They’re not sure if they regret coming or not. It’s just– they don’t know what to say. Do they comfort you? They know they should, but they don’t know how to.

Their mouth opens multiple times, but nothing comes out.

Just a quick ‘are you okay’ would do it, right?

And yet, they feel like it’s not something you want to hear.

Minutes pass in silence, could’ve been hours; it’s getting darker. You’re not facing away from them anymore. You’re staring blankly ahead, allowing the stick to drag through the current, hand limp. 

Then, you surprise them.

“Think Azzy’s given up yet?”

They’re not sure why you ask, so they answer honestly. “Probably not.”

You laugh to yourself. It’s hollow and empty despite your obvious attempt to make it sound otherwise. “Could hear him from here. He’s loud when he wants to be.”

“You should hear him when he’s playing Smashing Fighters,” they comment offhandedly.

And you laugh again. It’s softer. It feels real. 

“Do you get loud?” You ask. When you sense their confusion, you continue. “When you play, I mean.”

“Not really.”

“Is it because you always win?”

“Only nine times out of ten.”

You huff through your nose, sprawling out your legs to mimic their own. The river slows, as does the wind.

Your tone grows quiet, almost nervous. “How’d you find me?”

It wasn’t hard, they want to say. I’ve seen you sneak back here before. But that’s creepy, so they say: “You said you like it here.”

“I did?”

They fiddle with their fingers behind their back. “You told me you found a cool river behind my house. Said the sounds are nice. Calming.”

“You remember that?” You snicker in disbelief.

You lock eyes for the first time since they got here.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Immediately averting your gaze back to the stream, they watch your cheeks warm into a rosy pink.

“I dunno,” you comment offhandedly. 

You’re both enveloped into silence. They watch you scoot forward, enough to dip the tips of your fingers into the stream. You then proceed to whirl around with a mischievous grin, flicking pond water into their face. They squint, feeling the corners of their lips tug upwards.

“See any good creek monsters?” You gesture to the opposite side of the river. There’s cattails that line the edge of the water, as well as an assortment of ferns, water lilies, and shrubs.

“Can’t tell from here.”

“Oooh,” you grow excited, hopping on your feet. “Good idea.”

They’re not sure what the idea is, but they’re curious nonetheless.

You begin following the rocks, walking opposite to the flow of the stream. You glance back at them, a little disappointed at their lack of movement. “Are you coming?”

They’re almost instantly by your side.

You both trek alongside one another, arms brushing every once in a while. The dirt beneath their shoes becomes more muddy as they get closer to what you’re looking for.

Eventually, they spot a shallow path of rocks that lead to the other side of the river. The water just barely splashes over the surface, making them wet. Your face lights up in recognition. “Here it is. It’s sorta slippery, so be careful.”

Confidently, you place your foot on the first, larger rock. It’s higher above the surface than the others, creating dry patches. Once you find stable ground, your other foot joins you. Then, you move to the second rock. You gaze back, tilting your head expectantly at them.

They stare hesitantly at the first rock. It’s not that they’re scared, they’d just rather not… y’know, fall.

As if sensing their nervousness, you wordlessly offer your hand. No comment, no teasing, nothing. Just your hand.

They’re lured to it; entranced as your fingers slide into theirs. It’s innocent, stable, as if saying I’ve got you. 

They mirror your confidence, treading onto the first rock. You squeeze their palm comfortingly. After a few slow, careful strides, you both eventually make it to the other side. There’s a pang of relief that echoes through them as they feel the ground. 

Neither of you release your hold.

When you find yourselves in front of the cattails, they can’t help but break one off its stem, offering it to you like a flower. Your grin only grows as you run your fingernails into the soft shell, fluff exploding through the cuts.

You both travel together, ignoring how the sun’s nearly disappeared, or how there’s a distinct chill in the air. They don’t mind. Your palm’s warm enough to envelop them in a deep, deep comfort–

“Wait! Look, look!”

They can’t decipher where you’re pointing before being dragged into the muddy – but more shallow – waters. They’re already coming up with excuses they’ll give their parents.

There’s a small, green frog that sits on one of the water lilies. It’s definitely already spotted you, but you don’t seem to care.

You release your grip, to which they feel immediate disappointment over. You clasp them on the shoulder as your voice turns teasing. “I’ll give you my pie slice tomorrow if you can catch it for me.”

They could eat pie all day, every day if they chose to (if they begged their mom). They don’t technically need to accept your challenge. But from the way your eyes gleam with hope, they know they can’t deny you.

“Deal,” they welcome, already advancing to the frog.

The mud’s sticky beneath their soles, creating an odd suction whenever they lift their foot. They’re slow like a hunter stalking its prey. When their shoes begin to submerge into the water – just about a centimeter – they cringe. 

They don’t mind. It’s just a weird feeling. 

Their hands hover menacingly, far enough to not scare off the creature. One quick swipe, and–

It struggles in their grasp, only for a second. They cup it between their small hands, only opening their DIY cage when standing in front of you. They lightly press their finger on the frog’s back to ensure it doesn’t hop away.

Your smile only widens. “Is it slimy?”

“Not really. Just wet.”

You cup your hands as a signal, gaze almost pleading. Instead of handing it to you, they pinch the frog between two fingers and apply just the slightest pressure to its vocal sac. It lets out a sound similar to a rubber chicken, making you flinch.

“Wha?– How’d you do that?”

They let the frog slide into your palms, mesmerized by your interest in the green thing. “Are you asking me or the frog?”

You don’t respond. In fact, a laugh escapes from your throat.

They’re glad you’re laughing and not crying.

Your voice poses as such a lovely distraction that they don’t notice their brother’s voice drawing near, your name on his tongue. Once he immerges from the trees, they’re almost tempted to drag you away to not let the moment be ruined.

“There you are!” He sighs with relief from the other side of the river. “Wh– Kris! I thought you were helping, not distracting!”

You smile, small and soft. But you’re still staring at the frog, brushing your fingerpad along its back as if it was some strange cat.

“They can do both,” you mutter to yourself. 

By the time you three make it back, Azzy started spewing some random excuse to their parents; something about you wanting a snack from the grocery store, in which he had to make up more excuses as to why it’d be open a few hours from midnight.

They don’t bother helping that sinking ship. Both them and their brother are doomed no matter what. Instead, they’re more focused on you. 

Noelle apparently already headed back home after her mom called. Dess stuck around because she didn’t care about curfews. And she wanted to make sure you were okay. 

They weren’t sure if they expected you to run off again or give her the silent treatment. All they can guarantee is they didn’t expect you to grace her with a real, warm smile and say you were fine.

And, selfishly enough, they want to think they’re the reason why.

~*•*~

It’s become instinct at this point. You’re almost inclined to believe there’s something luring you to this damn window. 

You stand stably on the roof’s shingles, fingers hooking under the frame and lifting just enough so you can squeeze yourself inside. And even as the shine of the trophies scream at you to stare, your eyes are brought to the more barren side of the room.

There’s a smile that unwillingly paints your face. 

Kris sleeps completely submerged under their blanket, undoubtedly asleep. All you can see are the odd strands of brown peaking out and the slow rise and fall of the lump.

You wobble your tired legs to the bed, intrusive thoughts telling you to rip the blanket off to get a close look at their face, but that’s nasty and weird and why’re you thinking that–

Instead, you lay down parallel to the bed, somehow getting comfortable with the cool floor against your clothed back. You close your eyes.

Your friends are pissing you off. Of course, it’s normal to argue and moments like these are how relationships strengthen and blah blah blah. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re feeling like burnt out garbage.

There comes to a point where some people can’t take a hint. You’ve been busy with school and all you wanted to do is go home and sleep. And you’re grateful for friends who ask to hang out, but when it turns into insistent nagging and half-ass solutions to every excuse you have, it becomes unbearable.

Just to shut them up, you agreed. You’ve never acted so fake in your life; feeling like you’re being dragged along. Now you’re exhausted.

And just to top it off, this is one of those insomniac nights.

But maybe you needed relief. Maybe you wanted to see Kris–

You feel something graze along your hairline. 

Your eyes peek open to view Kris staring down at you; neutral, normal expression. Of course they’re not surprised you’re here. You probably do this every other day. 

Their hand hovers just above your eyebrow. You don’t flinch. 

“What’re you doing?”

“You’ve got something,” they wiggle their finger as a hasty pointer. 

You decide to feed whatever this is. “What do I have, Kris?”

“Spider.”

“Har, har.”

They don’t waste their time trying to gain your trust. Instead, they… their digits comb through your hair, just barely kissing your scalp. You can’t help but hum in contentment, eyes drifting closed once again.

But then they snap their other fingers to get your attention.

And you’re gazing at a huge spider trapped between their pointer and thumb.

Oh god–

Your breath instantly hitches, scurrying away until you accidentally hit your head on their dresser. 

“Ow,” you hiss, massaging the pulsing pain in your skull.

After they undoubtedly start snickering, they bend the plastic spider’s legs. Just to see how durable they are. 

You roll your eyes. “Do you just have a drawer of those on standby?”

They quirk their head. “Is that not normal?” 

“You’re not normal.”

You’re glad they take it as the joke it is, because you immediately regret it as soon as you say it.

You’re not sure what it’s like being the only human in a town full of monsters, but you’re sure it doesn’t feel amazing. Feeling normal is probably the last thing on their mind.

All those (probably offensive) questions they receive on a day to day basis? It must suck, to say the least. It’s probably why you keep your own curiosities to yourself. 

You could ask the boring questions, like ‘what’s it like having skin?’ or ‘does your head feel naked without horns?’, but the good thing about monsters is that they come in all shapes and sizes. Some have skin; some don’t have horns. In fact, you think most don’t have horns. Growing up around both horn-slash-antler-filled families made you think otherwise.

No, no. You want to know what their soul looks like. Their human soul.

But you’ve never gotten the right, smooth chance to ask.

“You feeling the floor today?”

They snap you out of your racing thoughts, indirectly offering you a spot on the bed.

“Not really,” you rub your neck. “Got the fattest headache.”

They nod and roll over, pressing their back against the wall. You follow, climbing onto the cushions. 

The bed is small. You’re facing them. Your noses are almost brushing. 

Your fingers tangle into their blanket, trying to distract from the flutters in your stomach. This is Kris. Why’re you losing your cool?

Their mouth parts, just slightly. They’re trying to read your eyes; you can feel it.

You’re a bit worried they’re going to ask you what’s wrong. You don’t want to hear it. It’s not like they’ve done so before, especially when you show up out of the blue. But, for some reason, something feels different. It’s like they’re preparing for something.

They break the silence. “We have Tylenol. Maybe.”

You huff, already smiling in your dazed state. “It’s fine. I think I’m just tired.”

There’s a brief pause. “I take Melatonin sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It works.”

They gesture for you to get up. Their leg grazes your own as they shift to pull their drawer open, digging under a few identical sweaters, and retrieving a hidden bottle. Unscrewing the lid, they shake a gummy into their palm and offer it to you. 

Your hand is enveloped in warmth as you take it from them, not thinking twice as you pop it in your mouth. They watch you chew intently, like a parent does when ensuring their kid swallows their vegetables. 

“You’re staring,” you smirk, flopping back onto your side. They follow ensuite, conveniently laying on their back to stare at the ceiling.

They ignore your comment. “Takes half an hour to kick in. For me, at least.”

And that’s how it starts; the sweet, peaceful silence. No pestering about your day, no questions as to why you’re here. They didn’t ask the first time, and they don’t now.

Maybe that’s toxic, for most people. Yeah, you know Kris, you’re fond of them, but you’ve never– shared an emotional moment. And for some reason, you don’t really mind.

You’re too tired of giving everyone your all. All you want to do is sink away into an emotionless state. With Kris– of course, with Kris. They’re perfect for it; perfect for you–

“You’re staring,” they mimic, not once breaking their eye from the ceiling.

Oh. Yeah, you’ve been staring.

You tilt to settle onto your back, arms by your side. Your pinky completely, totally accidentally nudges their own. Maybe you’re hallucinating, or maybe you’re just going crazy in general, or maybe melatonin makes you fuzzy, but you think you feel their pinky interlock with yours. 

You hook their own like it’s your lifeline.

They check their phone every few minutes, not once allowing their eyelids to shut. Even though you’re the one struggling to sleep, you don’t let your eyes close either.

You wonder if they’re tracking how long it’ll take you to conk out. 

…

You feel your vision go hazy. Not long, apparently.

Your lids feel heavy. You don’t want to stop them.

But something distracts you. Kris lets out a sigh of relief, and you can feel their phone bounce on the bed. You can’t help but peek, even at your awkward angle. Their phone reads 12:00 AM.

Then, you feel a faint whisper in your ear. It sends shivers down your spine.

You can hear the smile in their voice.

“Happy birthday.”

…

Your pinky squeezes. 

To pretend relationships without fights or flaws exist would be completely unrealistic. 

Well, you would believe it’s unrealistic if Kris didn’t exist. 

~*•*~

Sometimes you find them at your window, too.

You’re always doing something dumb, like clipping your toenails or blasting music so no one can hear you sing along. Or, in this case, both.

They’re usually quiet– unnervingly so. But not unusual. 

They either close the distance and sit beside you, or stand perfectly still like a statue. They’ve chosen the latter this time. You don’t ask, you really try not to, but sometimes your eyes convey what you’re holding in.

“Mom’s being weird,” they answer simply.

You don’t question it.

Instead, you’ll approach them slowly, carefully, as if trying not to scare them off. They won’t run. You know they won’t. You slide your fingers into theirs innocently, ignoring the way their ears tint just the slightest rose. 

Oh, who are you kidding? You store the memory to play on repeat over and over after they’re gone.

Then, you flip their hands to examine their fingernails, stroking the chipping black polish. 

“Could use a new coat,” you remark casually, as if it didn’t take you a straight minute of hard thinking to come up with the idea. 

You drag them to perch on your carpet next to the nail supplies you already have out. There’s a specific nail polish you keep around solely for this. You’ll never admit that you’ve spent a hundred or so dollars testing out which brands are the most durable.

You take your time; almost unbearably so. Removing the chipped mess, applying cuticle oil, rubbing it into the skin. You might as well be caressing each digit, using the excuse of positioning and stabilizing to justify it in your head.  

You feel them stiffen as you reach for the black polish. 

“Calm down,” you scoff. “I’m not cutting off your fingers.”

But they’re not watching you anymore. They’re eyeing the frame on your desk.

You’re not a neat freak, necessarily; you have plenty of decorations, posters, random crap plastered on your walls – many of which are pictures of you and your friends. You’re laughing in most of them.

Except the one on your desk. The one of you and Kris.

You don’t remember taking it, to be honest. One of your arms is wrapped around their neck, another holding up the phone for the photo. Your mouth and nose are buried in their sweater, eyes peeking from over their shoulder. Kris glanced at the camera just as you took it, eyes still hidden as ever. They’re not smiling, but neither are you, from what you can make out.

You thought they wouldn’t notice it. Apparently you were wrong.

“Thought it was nice,” you cough, suddenly very entranced by the act of painting a nail. 

You feel their eyes shift to you. “You’re barely in it.”

“I didn’t like it because it’s of me.”

…

And your teeth clench so fast you might’ve broken a tooth. 

Neither of you speak for the next two coats, but you’ve become very aware of how hot the room’s become. Is it the fumes? Maybe your face?

Once you finish, you screw the cap on tight and make eye contact for the first time in twenty minutes. “Done.”

They inspect their nails despite having a clear view of them the entire time. You think they’re about to get up and leave, when–

“No clear coat?” They question.

“Woah, Dreemurr. That’s a bit out of my price range.”

Their eyes narrow, reading right through you. “You always do one.”

“Ran out,” you lie. “Gotta restock soon.”

You ignore the fresh polish you bought a week ago, begging to be used from where it sits in your cosmetics bag. It may or may not have clicked recently that no clear coat means less durability.

Which means they may or may not have to come by more often to get them redone.

Yeah, you probably don’t need to give them an excuse to come over, but that means you must admit how often you think about texting them. You must admit how much you want to see them.

But that’s not how your relationship works.

And you’re fine with that.

You’re aggressively blowing on the semi-wet coat, dismissing the way your chest warms when they laugh.

…

You’re fine with that.

~*•*~

“Damn it,” your friend curses, slamming the knock-off flappy bird machine with his fist.

“C’mon, one more,” you taunt. “You were thirteen away from the highscore.”

He stares at you as if you’re stupid, but then proceeds to reposition himself into his focus-stance. He grips the joystick so hard you think he might snap it off the panel. “Okay, do it. Last try. This’ll be the one.”

You roll your eyes at his optimism, sliding three coins into the slot with practiced ease. “Whatever you say, man. You’re gonna be a gambler when you grow up.”

Once two more of your friends show up, you’re more than happy to stop cheering him on as his sole audience, making your leave before they can notice.

You tread across the sickly colourful carpet, sighing when you realize it just hit two in the morning. Your phone’s at twenty percent. The twenty-four hour arcade is dead empty, excluding the large group you came with.

As you try to locate where the rest of them went, you spot one of them third-wheeling a newly developed couple within your bunch. Maybe you’ll rid her of her misery.

They’re surrounding the Wheel of Fortune machine, calling out random letters and groaning from disappointment when they guess wrong. The couple might as well be sitting on the same seat; he’s practically draped over her – arm resting casually on her shoulder – while she selects each letter. 

You smoothly insert yourself as she calls your name enthusiastically. “Help, please. We’re dirt broke and this game costed six tokens.”

“Wow, yeah. You guys are ass at this. Hmm,” you faux-think, barely glancing at the screen. “Try ‘S’.”

She listens, selecting said letter credulously. She gasps in celebration when there’s a single ‘S’ in the second word. 

“What about ‘T’?” She suggests to no one in particular.

When her boyfriend agrees with loyalty, you shrug. 

She selects the letter, moaning when the ‘X’ flashes on the screen. “Shit. Ugh, whyy…”

You (for some reason) can’t help but stiffen when his arm squeezes instinctually, pecking her temple. His voice is filled with comfort. “Hey, it was a good guess. C’mon, I’ll buy you more tokens.”

She continues mumbling to herself while he leads her away. Once they’re out of earshot, you snicker. “Looks like they didn’t take long to warm up to each other.”

As if realizing she’s no longer a spectator, the third-wheeler huffs understandingly. “Yeah, you’d be surprised.”

You find her wordlessly following you as you explore more of the games, allowing your mind to wander.

…

That shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did.

Yeah, you’ve never been a fan of PDA – but to each their own, right?

…

You wonder what such a casual arm would feel like around your neck. All the time. Every day. 

Would you get sick of the contact? 

You don’t need that kind of security.

And the kiss was a bit much.

You’re stable with yourself. 

Maybe it wasn’t a bit much–

“Woah, that’s– really ugly,” your friend giggles, pressing her face against the glass of the machine. The claw machine.

You copy her. “Which one?”

“The bird-looking thing.”

The off-yellow blob stands out amongst the variety of animal plushies. At least, you think they’re all supposed to be animals. Some of them look slightly mutant.

Your eyes narrow. “You mean the duck?”

“That’s a duck?” She asks incredulously. “Why’s it in a constant state of shock?”

You’re already inserting two tokens impulsively. “I’m in a constant state of disgust just looking at it.”

The machine activates, playing some annoying jingle to show you’ve started. You immediately hover the claw above the duck-like creature and slap the button.

“You hate it, but you’re trying to get it.”

“I don’t hate it,” you give her an incriminating look. “I think it’s stupid. Bare minimum. There’s a difference.”

“Your standard is ‘stupid’?”

Apparently your aim was near perfect; the sickly-yellow body gets caught between the arms, being gracefully carried to the funnel. 

You snatch the duck from the dispenser, digging your fingernails into the (somehow) firm fluff. “What can I say? I have bad taste.”

You let her take the lead for the next few games, a few other friends coming and going as they please. Your new favourite couple finds your group again, not trying to be even remotely subtle when he squeezes her hip or she kisses his neck. 

It’s practiced, easy intimacy.

And, despite it being two thirty, your senses have apparently been heightened. You notice everything; not just from them.

You listen as your friends pat each others’ backs, shout words of encouragement, give advice, everything. But it’s not like you don’t have that type of familiarity with your friends. You do, maybe a bit too much.

The real problem is that you’re indifferent to that type of affection from them. Them specifically. You’re not sure why.

…

A different name floats in your mind. You spit it out, intending to never look back.

You don’t need it.

…

You glance at the duck for the first time since winning it. It stares deep into your soul.

You’re heading to the washroom before anyone notices you’re gone.

Choosing the furthest stall from the entrance, you lock it and lean on the door. You pull out your phone to snap a picture of the yellow mutant (pointing the camera away from the toilet) and open the first contact you can think of.

You send the photo.

Reminds me of you, you text simply.

You wait a moment. Then another.

And you’re not surprised when the message is read. You’re not surprised they’re awake.

As if they had it ready, they instantly send a photo in response. It’s an incriminating picture of you, hanging upside down on their bed, mouth half-open, mid-sneeze.

This little–

You start cussing them out over text, duck now squished between your thighs (because god forbid you touch anything in this bathroom more than you need to). They’re rendered silent for a minute, still reading your texts.

You stare at your phone.

Then, you get a call. 

Their contact picture is a blurry one, albeit very special. It’s the only picture you’ve ever gotten of their blood-red eyes. They’re pushing the camera away as you snapped it. Just the memory makes your lip turn. 

You press the phone to your ear. 

“Hi,” you echo in the empty bathroom.

Their voice is mumbly and monotone, significantly amplified by the time of day. “Where are you?”

You’re not sure why you like it so much.

“Bathroom.”

“You’re using the bathroom right now?”

“No,” you ridicule fondly. “I’m not going right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay.”

“Why?”

They ignore your question. “Are you at home?”

“Why?” You repeat.

There’s a brief pause. 

“Kris?”

“I got locked out.” You can just faintly make out their lying tone. Even so, you know they can climb to their window with ease. 

You retrieve the duck from between your legs. You fiddle with the noodle legs. 

“You wanna come over?” You suggest despite your current situation.

“You’re home?”

For some reason, that fact didn’t click for you.

“I’m not.”

More silence.

“Okay.”

You feel yourself grow a bit desperate and you can’t stop yourself. “Can you wait, like– half an hour?”

“No,” they state plainly.

“‘No’?”

“I’m going to bed.”

It barely registers how they’re completely contradicting themself. ‘Locked out’ my ass.

You nearly beg. “Wait–” 

And they hang up. 

You gawk at your phone. You can’t believe they just hung up on you!

You’re about to start cussing them out again, when their text comes in.

…

dont leave early

…

You don’t realize you were completely planning on doing so. For Kris. Your unconscious mind is odd.

Actually, you’re a bit more concerned that you’re that predictable.

You start typing.

I think I’d have more fun w u to be hones

You reread the unfinished message. And you immediately delete it.

Instead you send something more safe.

I was gonna go home soon anyways

They read it immediately, sending a single thumbs up. Looks like they don’t want to fight you on it.

Maybe they want you to come home for them.

You’re dashing out of the bathroom, scanning for any group. If you tell one of them, they’ll eventually spread the news. 

You find your flappy-bird-obsessed friend, slapping his shoulder mid-game. “I’m heading out.”

He snatches a glimpse of you. You’re surprised he looked over at all. “Need a ride? I can drop you off.”

“Nah. I’ll get an Uber.” It’s a thirty minute drive. That’d be the most asshole move you could pull.

He nods in understanding. “Alright. G’night.”

“Night.”

You hope that’s good enough.

The duck hangs by its leg as you spin it like a propeller. You’re on auto pilot as you weave through machines to find where the entrance is. And, as luck would have it, right at the doors sits the fantastic duo. 

He’s comforting her. Something about a phone call she just got off of; a missed opportunity for an art scholarship. You’re not really listening, to be honest. You’re too tuned in to his thumb caressing her cheek. She leans into it, waterline moist.

“Hey. If she can’t recognize your talent, then she’s blind,” he coos. 

You decide to take the side exit.

Your other hand reaches into your pocket. The glow of your screen blinds you in the pitch black night.

The first thing that opens is your texts.

You stare blankly at the thumbs up on your phone.

…

His thumb caressing her cheek.

Yeah. You can live without that.

~*•*~

For the past week, give or take, you’ve noticed a distinct lack of Kris in your homeroom class. You rarely talk during school, so you didn’t really care. They have a habit of skipping mornings, anyway. 

But the multiple days in a row concern you just a bit. Especially when you know Toriel isn’t exactly fond of the habit. It makes you think she’s allowing them to. 

When Alphys asks the obligatory, “Has anyone seen Kris?” You get some stares. You shrug indifferently as if saying how the hell would I know. You’re not– like that.

You’ve made it standard for yourself to not show up unannounced at their bedroom window unless you either see them at school, or you text them beforehand.

Of course, you don’t text them to hang out (or whatever you do) everyday, so you left it for a day or two. Or three. And you caved on the fourth. 

…

You’ve been left on delivered for two days. 

They never do that. Never. 

You don’t want to seem clingy. Or worried. Or stressed. You don’t want to text them, asking what’s wrong. You’ve already triple-texted, each one a different version of ‘are you free haha im bored’ with underlying tones of ‘where are you please tell me’, but you’re hoping only you can pick out the latter.

A ‘what’s wrong’ on top of that? That’s really out of character for you. You can’t do that. That’s just… not normal.

So you keep waiting. You change your path home, looping down their street just to see if you can catch them outside. At their door. In their room. 

Nothing.

…

You’re standing at the gate to Noelle’s, conveniently in perfect position to view their bedroom window. You take a deep, slow breath in.

You exhale.

Your thumb presses their contact; the call button.

…

It rings once.

And you immediately hang up.

Your hands shouldn’t be shaking this much.

“God damn,” you groan.

~*•*~

It was a normal day. At least you pretended it was. Whatever normal was to you. You feel embarrassingly empty without your semi-daily routine of random, spur-of-the-moment hangouts. 

You give your usual greetings to friends. Y’know, to keep up reputation and whatnot. Pretend you’re not losing your mind just a tad. 

But as you take your seat, Alphys calls out a familiar name. 

Kris is back!–

Ahem. Kris is here. At the door. Standing there. Waiting.

…

Just a little detail you noticed. Not a big deal. Actually, it's a relatively small deal.

“Y-You just made it!” Alphys smiles nervously. “Welcome b-back…”

They make no move, blindly gazing ahead.

She coughs. “You can sit d-down, now.”

And you wait. You watch intently. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s because you’re itching to spew as many questions as you can before they disappear again.

They plant one foot in front of the other. Yeah, that’s how walking works. And yet, it seems more… manual than usual. Like they’re really thinking about where their steps land. They take long, lengthy strides despite their average height. 

But they don’t trudge to their desk. No, no, of course not. That’d be normal for them! And since everything’s been anything but normal–

–they pause in front of Temmie’s desk. Temmie.

And they talk to her. Of all people, of all people. After their long, extensive leave. Temmie is the priority. Of course. Yeah. That’s right.

…

Are you kidding me?

It doesn’t even register how unusual this is. You’re too busy trying to hide how disappointed you are that they didn’t come to you first (even though that would be strange in itself). Maybe you’d rather they plop in their seat without a single acknowledgement. 

But then, they move onto Monster Kid. 

Then, Snowy. 

Berdly. 

Noelle. 

Noelle? What?

Why’re they talking to everyone?

Are they doing this to spite you? Did you do something wrong? Your chin rests on your clenched fist while your other fingers drum on the wood. You knew three texts were too much. Or maybe it was the call. They thought you were some nosey freak–

“Hi.”

Oh.

They’re standing at your desk now. 

They’re studying you expectantly. Like you’re obligated to answer them. It doesn’t matter though; you fold immediately.

“K-Kris! Hi! Hi,” you cough, cursing yourself for stuttering. “How– uhh, where’ve you been?”

…

Smooth. Real smooth.

You’d think the only functioning part of their face is their mouth. “Nowhere.”

“No–” you pause. “Nowhere? You– okay.”

You feel every ounce of charm you’ve ever had be zapped away in an instant. But worst of all, they’ve turned away, why’re they turned away, ready to leave you once again–

“Wait,” you mumble, capturing their wrist before they get too far.

Their head tilts to you. Your eyebrows furrow, trying to read absolutely anything from their face.

Their eyes are hollow.

“Nevermind,” you squeak, releasing them. 

And that’s it. Sounds about right. You avoid their entire side of the classroom for the rest of the period. There’s a sting of uneasiness in your soul. 

You make sure to bolt before they do, which isn’t exactly difficult considering they passed out as soon as they sat down.

You’re walking to your next class when you spot them again. Alphys must’ve woken them up. Not unusual. But they’re chatting with students you’ve never seen them even interact with before. Yeah, it’s a small town, but just because everyone knows each other doesn’t mean you’re all buddy-buddy.

Ignorance is key, a voice in your head whispers. It’s not a big deal unless you make it one.

They’re kind, friendly, social. But you know damn well they don’t really want to talk to all those people. 

Right? 

Right?

You don’t like how much they remind you of yourself. 

Maybe Toriel is encouraging them to be more outgoing? Become more of an extrovert?

Not a big deal. Stop thinking about it.

Class passes quickly. Lunch approaches without you registering it. You blindly follow your peers as they sit under the trees across from the school parking lot. You’re just going through the motions, now; headspace gone for the day. 

You can tell your friends notice. You never really butt into conversations, but you’re never as quiet as you are right now. You’re never drifting off to the side as though you didn’t belong. They can tell, but you don’t care. You’re too busy trying to think of anything but–

“Are you alright?” Someone asks; you don’t register who. You saw it coming from a mile away.

“Oh, yeah,” you sigh, playing up the tired act. “I’m just starving. Forgot a lunch.”

It’s not exactly a lie. It’s technically forgotten in your locker. You didn’t grab it. 

“Here.” Someone else throws a granola bar by your feet. 

“Thanks.”

You busy yourself with the wrapper; picking at the edges, reading the ingredients. You’re not exactly at peak performance–

–especially considering you don’t detect a certain green sweater approaching your group.

You’ve gotten the plastic open by now, chomping down on a small piece to distract yourself. 

Flappy-bird-extremist calls out to someone. “Oh, hey! You’re that quiet kid who naps in my third period, right?”

Your breath hitches. You immediately start choking.

But you’re silent about it; you don’t want to scare them off, right?

So there you are, face probably turning blue, trying to dislodge the chunk with a fist to your chest like a moron. Half your friends give you amused looks. 

Once the bit comes up and you ensure you’re not dying, all you can think is what in the everliving fuck.

Yeah, your friends know you have an interesting backstory with the human, but you’re not sure if they’ve ever even met them. You’re grateful as hell you’re currently surrounded by the most extroverted people on the planet, as this would likely be the most awkward interaction to ever witness.

Well, that’s what you thought.

Kris is actually… talking to them. Although your friends lead most of the conversation, they do initiate with questions and seem to actually be paying attention. 

It’s not odd. Correction, it’s not odd for you.

You’re supposed to be the one they intently listen to. It’s like you’ve been reset to zero. Or, rather, everyone else has been brought up to your level of friendship, in their eyes. That comfort you feel around each other. The one you never talk about.

Now, it feels like you’re no different than anybody else. They can talk to everyone the exact same way they talk to you.

God. Why’re you so jealous?

They’re going around the circle, as if squeezing every bit of interaction they can out of everyone. You stuff the rest of the bar into your mouth. It’s an excuse not to talk if anyone asks about the obvious scowl on your face.

Moving onto one of your arguably closer friends, they repeat the process: asking random, semi-related questions about her. Some of them surprise you; you’re not sure how they know so much. Maybe it comes with the benefit of asking around.

Then, your name slips from their mouth–

–and you almost start choking again.

Her teeth peak behind her obvious attempt at holding in a snort. Even with your planned excuse of a full mouth, you can’t help swallow painfully and let your grimace deepen. “I’m right here, y’know.”

Both of their attention is brought to you. “That looked like it hurt,” they comment apathetically.

“It didn’t. Felt great.”

“What’s got you so riled up?” She sighs, sticking a thumb at the abnormally stiff human. “They not allowed to ask about you? What if they wanna know about some nice places they can take you?–”

Okay. They apparently know more than you thought.

You cut her off with a hard foot to the side, making her wheeze and double over. “The hell is wrong with you?” You hiss, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you might be bleeding.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to them as they glance to the side, slight flush overcoming their nose. Huh.

Maybe some things haven’t changed.

“Okay, okay,” she laughs, backing off. “Have your private, one-on-one time.” 

She scooches closer into the circle before you can punt her, and you’re left with an unusually familiar feeling. 

A sweet, sweet silence with Kris.

Your eyes begin to relax on their own (curse your lack of self control) and you find yourself grinning up at them. There’s an unsure quirk in their lip – as if testing if their mouth works – but they eventually give you a small smile of their own.

This feels right. See? Nothing’s changed.

And although you’d usually do this over text (or not at all), you want to hear them answer you with their own quiet mutter. 

“Are you doing anything tonight?” You ask, despite already knowing the answer.

A disgustingly envious part of you wonders if they’ve made any friends today, and plan to hang out with their new pals.

But they respond with a simple: “No.”

You ignore how unusually firm their voice sounds.

“Okay.”

You flick the crumpled-up granola wrapper at their face. 

They don’t flinch. Not even a little.

~*•*~

It’s strange how different tonight feels.

You’re nervous as you approach their bedroom window. It’s like you’re seeing a friend for the first time in a year, and you’re concerned that everything won’t feel like it did before they left.

It’s been a week. Calm down.

But even as you climb through, you’re brought with an even more alarming sight:

They’re not here. 

You thought they said they weren’t doing anything. Unless your brain just heard what you wanted to hear. That’d be embarrassing.

But before your brain begins to spiral, you hear commotion downstairs. 

Thank god.

They’re just… spending time with their mother…?

Actually, that might be just as strange. 

They’re usually cramped up under their covers, busying themself with nothing. In their room. That’s the important part. 

There’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Okay.

Maybe they’re just getting something. Or eating a late, late dinner. Well, you are a bit earlier than you’d usually be. It’s still a few hours to midnight – you just couldn’t help yourself.

So you wait.

And you wait.

And you’re dying from waiting because what the hell is so interesting in the hallway–

You end up caving, turning the doorknob and peeking with an extreme urgency.

But you’re not expecting them to be… rummaging through an old drawer. You’re almost certain you’ve never seen them open it before. 

Even though some loose strands of hair fall to shield their face, specifically their eyes, they somehow notice you as soon as you make yourself visible. You freeze immediately.

Maybe they got some omniscient powers and needed a week to recuperate!

…

No. Dumb idea.

“Hey,” you voice casually. “You, uh, still not doing anything?”

They shut the drawer forcefully. “I’m not busy.”

“Cool, cool.”

You sound awkward. You don’t like it.

You leave the door open for them. It takes a moment, but they follow you inside. There’s a part of you that wants to just bail. But you know you can’t. Not when you’re this close.

Close to what? You know damn well you don’t have the guts to ask what’s been going on. You’d rather just pretend nothing’s happened and go back to normal. Mostly because nothing did happen. Not to you, anyways. Not to your friendship.

…

You feel unsure, even in your head.

You plant yourself next to the bed, reclining your back to rest on the side.

They’re not automatically joining you. They’re not doing anything, actually. There they stand, in front of the closed door, seeming lost as ever.

“You want me to tell you to sit?” You joke.

Neither of you laugh, but it seems to do the trick. They sit by your side; head limp, gazing blankly at the floor.

You’re enveloped in silence. It’s not right. 

It’s different. Worse. You feel horrible and you don’t know why.

…

What happened?

Maybe it’s the sigh you let out. Maybe it’s the quiver of your lip. You’re not sure how they notice.

But their eyes gravitate to you. You don’t grace them with eye contact.

And they whisper something you’ve never heard them ask before.

“Are you okay?”

…

You feel like you’re ten again.

Knees to your chest, lip buried in your sweater; it’s all coming back. Even those damn tears.

You blink them away faster than they can form.

But instead of offering you the distraction you craved at the time, they present the words you never wanted to hear– never want to hear.

Not at ten. Not now. Not ever. 

Not from anyone.

…

But maybe you’re a liar.

Because you hate how good it feels to be asked such a simple question. 

And yet, you know how much you’d despise the question coming from any voice but theirs. It’s all you’ve ever craved, after all. That’s something you’ve only ever admitted to yourself.

You know they’d never ask you such a thing. It’s not how either of you work. It’s also why it’s so special to you – to hear them silently admit that they do care about you. About how you’re feeling. About what’s wrong.

You’re not ten anymore. You want them to ask.

And so you answer.

You don’t say anything about them, of course. About your concerns, thoughts, feelings–

That’s something you don’t have the brain space to deal with right now. So you start with something easy.

Your acquaintance, classmate at best, was nearly begging you for homework answers a few days ago. He doesn’t ask you often enough for you to deny him, but you felt underappreciated when he didn’t even offer you a ‘thank you’.

Yeah, it’s sorta petty and you’re mostly over it. But you can barely express how nice it feels to talk about. Complain about. To Kris.

You’re too distracted by the relief in your chest to notice how they’re staring at you. You listen as they give you weirdly good advice. You lean into their cold hand as they squeeze your shoulder. It’s just… really pleasant.

And as you start to calm down, you’re left in a state of confusion and bliss; a relief you’ve never felt before.

But they twist their entire body to face you; expression serious, but warm. They utter, slow and real:

“I appreciate you.”

And you’re automatically taken aback, warmth crawling up your neck. You’ve sorta always known, considering how they put up with you, but it’s different when you hear it from their voice. Not the one in your head.

“I– thanks, Kris.”

You both smile. Small, quiet. 

It’s…

…

Just…

You struggle to keep your lip up.

It doesn’t feel right.

It doesn’t sound right. 

It doesn’t sound like them.

~*•*~

They finally came over since they got back from their little hiatus. It was well past midnight. You weren’t sure if they’d come or not.

But something was off. A different off. 

Yeah. Obviously, things have just been very off in general. You’re starting to mix them up in your head.

You’re snuggled up in your blankets – in some sort of limbo, half-asleep half-awake state – when you hear the tapping on the window. They’re so quiet that you thought it was some bird. Or a branch. But it’s incessant.

So you investigate, only for your eyes to narrow in confusion.

“Kris?” You slide your window open with ease. “You could’ve let yourself in.”

They’re leaning heavily on the window sill, hunched over like they’re about to throw up. “Can’t.”

“I didn’t lock it.”

“You should. This is a dangerous neighbourhood.”

You snort, gripping their biceps to help them inside. Their fingers tangle in your sleeves for balance. They’ve never needed help before. You feel the urge to ask what’s wrong more than you usually do.

So you do. Indirectly, that is.

“You been working out at the gym? Sore from the gains?”

Their first foot climbs inside, perching on your floor. “Mhm. Just benched 350.”

“Yeah?” You challenge, a giggle working its way into your tone. “Think you could lift me?”

“Easy,” they huff. As both feet make it inside, you immediately feel the weight of their body fall onto you. You can’t tell if it’s some elaborate joke, or if they’re actually struggling to stand.

Although you’re acutely aware of the way your foreheads touch, they seem too out of breath to notice. Hopefully that means they can’t feel how sweaty your palms are.

You lead them to the bed, noticing the sigh of relief they let out once their back touches the sheets. You instinctually crawl to rest next to them. 

You feel yourself getting comfortable. See? This is what you mean.

This is what feels right. The easy banter, the familiarity.

…

But you still find yourself craving something meaningful. 

You feel like you’re at an altered square one. Even when the next step never feels like a step in the right direction. 

Something’s changed, and yet nothing at all.

After that, they sorta just… stopped coming over. They used to come over as often as you’d go to theirs. But now, you find yourself doing all the work.

They text you more often. They randomly send you an odd message, telling you not to come over after midnight anymore. Something about their mother finding out. They encouraged you to come over earlier, if at all. They seemed to insinuate you should text more.

You don’t mind. You like texting. You don’t care that your sleep schedule’s been ruined from the continuous waiting. It’s always worth it.

Especially when the Kris at school feels like a completely different person. Not necessarily bad, just different.

Texting Kris feels like them from the past ten years. School Kris feels like an off version of them you’ve been craving for the past ten years.

They talk to you more. They’re more forward. For god’s sake, they held your hand like you used to do when you were ten and young and stupid. It was casual; it almost felt normal. You liked it more than you should’ve.

When you come over, they let you gush your heart out about your newest complaint. Doesn’t matter what it is; they always listen. 

But when you send them a text to thank them, you’re left on read.

The night after, you’ll stay up texting all night. Talking about stupid, irrelevant garbage. Although a majority of the texts come from you, they still make you laugh so hard that you cry from the few they send you.

It’s weird how they’ve lost their deadpan, sarcastic sense of humor when you talk in person. They mostly just say random shit now; some so oddly noble and serious that you can’t help but laugh in their face.

On an especially honest night, you admit how much you like spending time with them.

You were nervous at first. It felt odd to say out loud. 

But they tell you that they like spending time with you, too.

You feel the urge to peek over your shoulder. You swear you hear two voices.

One coming from them.

One behind you.

~*•*~

You’re trying to come up with excuses as you climb onto their roof.

Yeah, I know you said ‘no past midnight’ but I can’t sleep and your melatonin really worked for me last time.

Eh…

Okay, maybe I just wanted to see you and my thumbs are lowkey tired of texting.

Too much.

I got locked out.

…

Yeah. That’s the one. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

It’s been a few weeks of this new routine you’ve found yourself in. Texting, chatting, everything. Your whole life’s been flooded with nothing but Kris.

Recently, you’ve been craving a sense of nostalgia. You miss hanging out past midnight. Things are always funnier when you’re both sleep deprived.

So you lift the window as you’ve done many times before. Your lip only raises higher as you prepare your stupid defence. You don’t think they’ll really care.

But you feel a sense of foreboding grow within you.

Kris is knocked out. Their breaths are deep and drawn out, as if trying to swallow every atom of oxygen they can. 

You start to feel bad. They’re really tired. 

And yet, you don’t find yourself reaching for the window.

…

Instead, you’re trying to stop yourself from screaming.

Your eyes are locked onto the faint glow of the birdcage. The one you questioned a few days ago, to which they had no answer for you.

And as you stare at the contents, breath shallow–

You can’t help but wonder:

Maybe that’s why.

…

You’re shaking.

There’s a soul between the bars.

What the fuck?

…

It must be.

You’re sure of it. 

You’re so sure.

…

It’s a human soul.