mmh..mreow

You're staying up later than what's healthier, the time being… Actually, you don't want to double check.

2am. Okay, sure whatever. Not like you have anything you're doing tomorrow, so who cares! (Coping).

Awake and watching YouTube on your laptop, snug and sat up beneath the covers of your bed. The brightness of your screen blinding enough to not give you a headache in the pitch black of your room, enough to make it seem as though it's not 2am, and… Y'know, again, it's the only source of light in your room, making it so that literally every other corner is pitch black since your eyes are so unadjusted.

Not that you're at all caring to look away. You're quite busy right now, watching your fourth analysis video of the Backrooms movie in this one sitting.

The YouTuber going on about Still Lifes, which… You have your own thoughts that he hasn't really covered, and you're hoping he will later.

Out of these three and a half videos you've watched, nobody's touched on why some Still Lifes are aggressive, and others aren't.

What makes a Still Life a monster, and what makes them docile?

Is it the mentals of individuals that make their Still Lifes so hostile? How they were viewed as people, if they were created by the memories of others who've been into the Backrooms, or if THEY have to go into the backrooms to be given a Still Life?

Sure, we saw Mary be given a Still Life at the end of the film, but whose memories did the Backrooms take to create that?

Does it NEED hers?

Maybe not, if you look back to how many clothes were in that monster's… den? Lair? Whatever territory that was. Very clearly a type of hunting ground, but it can't possibly be just of humans, given the infinite expanse of the Backrooms. Imagine so many missing people in one small area? That math just doesn't make sense.

So many of those clothes must have been from Still Lifes! And it would have needed to be a LOT of Still Lifes!! More Still Lifes in such a large—infinite—space must mean far fewer humans, of which all their memories were taken to create all the people they know.

Well, unless those were just random piles of clothes that didn't belong to victims? But wasn't there also a lot of blood splatter that could justify it having been a killing ground?

—You need to rewatch. There's too many trains of thoughts happening, things you're thinking starting to not make sense, and the memories are beginning to blur.. Pun intended.

…

Thinking back to the seagull that got trapped. If someone who visited the Backrooms were terrified of birds, thinking of them as scary and threatening, would the Still Life bird be a monstrous… monster?

Or if the bird being there triggers a Still Life to be made, would it just be a regular Still Life? Chill, but weird-appearing in a 'normal' way?

There could very well be animal Still Lifes in there. You didn't get to see two of the three monsters! The intro one, and then the one who killed Bobby and Kate.

…You need to pull up Kane Parson's web series immediately to see if there's any animals in his adaptation. You're not even actually listening to this analysis playing, anyway.

Doesn't take any long. You already know this guy's name, and it's not like his series is unpopular or anything. The playlist is found a small scroll beneath the movie trailer.

First episode's 9 minutes? Nice! And looks like the rest are.. differing in length, with a lot being around 2 minutes—except a 45 minute one?! Hello!

Few minutes into the first video, you're feeling the unease that comes with watching such a well-made horror film, but… It's kind of hitting a little too hard.

There's an unfamiliar yet familiar queasiness while you wait in nervous anticipation for whatever jumpscare you can smell coming.

—You look into the darkness of your room on instinct. Like.. a prey instinct. Something your Soul caught wind of faster than your brain.

A chill is in the air, like your AC cranked itself and didn't waste any time altering the atmosphere.

It's Nightmare.

And despite knowing this, and not fearing him aside from what his aura just passively does (…unless he does this on purpose to play with you?), you still swallow a freaked-out lump in your throat as you cautiously turn your bright laptop to shine your dark room.

You don't get the opportunity to light up a lot of real estate before an obsidian-black hand comes to press and settle on the mattress, just beside your leg.

Whatever scream you let out didn't appear to bother him. You don't even really know if you actually screamed or not, but you feel like you might have.

Something in your throat feels pinched all the sudden after getting scared by him, which you can only assume was because of a scream.

Though what you were able to register of yourself was the great flinch away your whole body made. Across your bed, clean to the farthest corner, somehow not getting any tangled in blankets.

Your fleeing slung the laptop from your hands and to the bed, coincidentally positioned to perfectly light up your guest—if 'perfect' were ominous lighting from below, enhancing his features the way a kid with a flashlight would during spooky campfire stories.

…He's smiling. Smiling. Of course he'd be, of course he'd find entertainment in your startle.

Despite the embarrassment you've made of yourself, you're just glad to see your reflexes are on fleek. But what you're NOT glad to see… Is him—Well. That's not true. You are happy to see him, because he's a little cutie (derogatory), but right now you're choosing war in search of justice for your heartrate.

"What could you possibly want so late at night?" The sass is going up to a ten. He does not deserve kindness for how horrendously he introduced himself.

Nightmare's mouth opening and posture straightening to respond—you cut him off, "And turn the dang lamp on so I can see you."

There was enough laptop light on him to see the way his expression rolled in playful aggravation. His left cheekbone raising that slightest millimeter you know well, smile loosening into something authentic. The way his head and gaze move with him as he turns for your lamp as told, posture no longer as rigid in properness.

When on business, he's one that likes to keep his head and gaze straight. If turning to look at something, what he'll do is look with his eyelight first—in the corner of his socket—keeping his head straight to you before tilting the smallest bit to look away. Treating a constant front-facing with you or others as a power move. Which… yeah, it has its intimidations. Certainly does the job of making it seem he's always one step ahead of everyone. Always on guard, self-aware, in control, almost regal with his movements.

Being in control is where he's most comfortable. Things are predictable in a way he can.. well. Control.

But with you… He turns his back. Looks away. Isn't so on point at all times around you, though he certainly enjoys a bit (lot) of showing off.

You retrieve your laptop in time for your lamp to be turned on by him.

…Also in time for you to have reached the jumpscare part of the Kane Parson's video you were watching. What was still apparently playing and you didn't realize.

Safe to say you registered this short scream.

Laptop slammed closed, pushed away, head in hands as you bend forward at the waist in shame. Your elbows resting on your thighs, letting out an almost pained breath into your palms.

You do not want to see Nightmare's reaction to you getting got by a short film of all things.

Not that you have any of a choice, though. Hearing the impending doom of his quiet footsteps, a small dip in the bed… and you feel the drag of your laptop as it's taken. His weight leaving, too, like all he wanted was to reach over for a moment. For the laptop.

Then the small thud of it being placed on your desk. You didn't hear him move, so his tentacles must've been at play.

"Last I recall, this hour is far late for you." Already being scolded in his soft yet authoritative tone. Velvety, like he's trying to sweetly persuade you over being mean about it.

You might just listen so you can be rewarded with more of his wonderful voice.

…But also you really want to stay up and keep watching more of Kane's series! You only just turned it on and didn't even get to finish the first episode!

Using your own sweet voice (which almost never works on him), "Yeah, but I don't have anything happening tomorrow! I wanted to watch YouTube."

"If nothing tomorrow, you can watch it then." Looming over you with finality, though the room warms with affection.

Topic needs to be changed pronto. Distract him. You know you can get what you want if you put elbow grease into it and divert his attention.

Sitting up a little taller, moving away from where you fled and closer to him. Peering high to look him in the eye, "Did you want to hang out some? I—ah, don't actually know why you're here…?" That's a good question. "But I imagine you're not terribly busy right now. Want to spend some time? Talk?"

Take the bait… Please. Dude, c'mon. You're not going to bed without a fight.

…Silence.

Is that a 'yes'?! Quiet contemplation is a good sign!!

He looks at you with absolute focus, unblinking (not like he ever does, really)—and then he blinks! Hello, sailor!

"I suppose…" He mumbles, taking a moment to glance away before back to you, like he's suddenly become unsure about his stance on your bedtime. Like you even need one?

Before he can think any deeper about a possible rejection, you further grab his attention by patting at your bed, and then lifting the corner of the blanket. Inviting him in with a disarming smile. "Sit down with me! We haven't shared a bed in a little while."

…He removes his shoes and tucks them to the side.

What's the phrase? 'Hook, line, and sinker?' Gottem.

His guard so effectively down, you so beautifully won, but just before he can hike a knee up to join you under the blankets—"Wait! Please get the laptop!"

You're given a very stern look, though he still does as asked of. "Do not mistake me for fooled. You make your ploys apparent, rat."

"Yeah, whatever, I literally don't care. Shut up and lets watch a pirated Backrooms."

Nightmare pauses with the laptop in hand, "…" He blinks, "Remind me what that is?"

The way you summarized it was with one word. 'Life-changing.'

He, of course, didn't think anything extraordinary of your lame explanation. But still sat all pretty beside you, allowing your head to lean against his shoulder. And despite his hands polite in his lap throughout the movie, his tendrils were lively. Moving to continuously prod at you throughout the film, squeezing your limbs here and there, holding you flush to him.

Though now, with the movie over, he is the opposite. His hands active in gestures as he speaks, while his tentacles have been since put away.

"Memories of memories of… even further is an intriguing concept." He admits, even continuing, "Though what wonders me is the 'how' and 'why' of the Captain's bleeding when Ms. Kline bludgeoned his head with the stone of her demolished childhood home—a whole other literacy element in itself, perhaps like she was letting go of her past? I do believe I saw a hesitance in her action; one unrelated to the emotional charging that comes with bracing oneself for self defense."

You give him a small and delighted shake, "That's what I was thinking, too!! And back to the Captain's bleeding, which doesn't make sense! Unless he's NOT a Still Life? Or unless some Still Lifes don't bleed! But then what sets them apart? And that must've been pain he felt, given the reactions to being harmed.. Unless those were just cries of distress to not being able to get to Mary?"

His intrigue toward interesting fiction isn't anything shocking. Night's always been one to nerd out with you over stories. It's his whole thing. Speaking with you about the details of his own books brings him a joy. One of the few things he finds real indulgence in, one of them being bothering you.

Sometimes you'll speak of a something he's uninterested in, but he'll still sit and listen because he knows it brings you contentment. Entertainment and lovely company. And you do the same for him, when he relays you of a novel he enjoyed.

It's nice—these calm 'dates'.

His tone lowers, "It does make me wonder if such a universe exists…"

…

The heat of your back porch patio would have been too uncomfortable if you didn't have this stand-up fan.

Sure, it's shaded with a ceiling, and sure you could have just done this inside, but sewing by hand is most enjoyable when you're kicking off—rocking back and forth—on the ceiling-vaulted bench swing.

Here and there sounds of birds, the muffled noise of neighbors equally minding their business, cars passing on by.. The creak of your swing's chains. Your fan working double-time, giving an almost lulling white noise sound.

Hands steadily moving, you steadily moving as you absentmindedly swing in this peace, fingers non-stop with busywork you begged him to let you do.

Mending Dust's jacket of its abhorrent number of cuts and rips.

It's nearly finished, too. You've not been keeping track of the time, but given he's not yet out of his shower, it's at least been a while.

You'd say an hour and a half, give or take.

He… mm.

Dust takes the longest showers you've ever seen. It's almost comical if you weren't so genuinely baffled. And also concerned…—for the cost of resupplying your soap so frequently. Like, hello? He's so expensive.

When you got into this relationship, you didn't think he'd assert himself as a cute little sugar baby.

…He's not actually one in the fricking slightest, but internal banter is how you're choosing to cope.

At least it gives you time to make the final stitch in the final tear.

In time for the back door's hinges to alert you of a presence—statistically Dust's, right? You look up to see who it is, just for that good paranoid measure, and…

It was Dust, yeah, but not wearing what you were expecting.

Instead of a regular lounge fit you were imagining he'd put on, or at least his everyday get-up minus the jacket—it's the everyday get-up, PLUS an identical blue jacket on.

Visibly cleaner. Newer. Like it was literally just freshly acquired from a four-arm rack at a clothing store.

…What. What?

Then what was the point in letting you go through this trouble if he had a replacement?!

He's already crossed the patio and to the bench swing with you. Taking a seat, fishing his phone from his Inventory, and crossing a leg over the other.

All lax and content beside you. Not a tense 'muscle' in his shoulder or anything.

You hear him opening up Minecraft. The main menu music that you only need to register a few notes of to recognize because of how often you two play together.

If you were to stab him with a small sewing needle, would it do anything to bone?

He goes into the survival world you share, and he starts opening and closing all of your chests. The noise making you lose what composure you had, and your brow twitches.

You finally ask, "So.. where'd ya get that?"

He stops his semi-annoying onslaught of looking for an item he's misplaced, and turns his skull just enough to see what you're talking about.

And when you point to his jacket, and then a much more vague gesture to the one in your hand..

"infinite jackets."

—No, right, that makes sense!!!

Dust returns to his game, and you're just as quick to continue interrogating him. Not out of anger or malice or.. maybe frustration, but nothing severe. It's more such raw confusion that you can't place.

The type of bafflement at something where it feels you can only relieve the fog in your head by being theatrical and dramatic, "So. Help me to understand something, right?" Your voice raised a pitch, "What was the point in letting me fix your crap if you have infinite jackets?"

But he doesn't answer. You don't get whatever closure your reflexes were seeking.

You hear him begin to mine stone, and then the creaks of the swing's chains return. What you didn't realize had stopped until he only now took over the kicking for you.

He kills a skeleton in his game, and you briefly wish you could do the same.

With his old jacket in a tighter grip, you snap up the rest of your belongings, and then use the momentum of the swing to push off and to your feet in one motion.

Leaving, marching off inside in a huff that already makes you feel better, "Okay, I'm gonna do whatever I want to your jacket! It's mine now, thanks!!"

Slamming the door shut behind you, not letting him get a word in. Although he wouldn't have to begin with.

…

He didn't answer any questioning because he thought it was cute of you to do something like that for him.

You were quick to recall a popular pet name of his, and had gotten to work. In… what you think to be pettiness? Wanting to pull a reaction from him?

Not that you even remember the purpose of this anymore.

You had, at some point in your endeavors deep within your sewing machine, forgot about what brought you here.

All of your supplies lain out, along with a blue pillow case you tore up for its fabric (a spare you got for Dust), and a 3g pillow you pull apart for its stuffing when making other crafts.

So locked in on a project the past two hours that you've lost sense of everything outside your room.

..Well. You kind of need to be, when operating something that could so easily go through your finger.

And after all the crafty labor, the problem-solving creativity you've hard-earned from past practice and experimentation, and an annoying amount of pulling stitches to re-do it all.. It's done.

With one last and very firm tug to the ears, borderline abusing them to see if it's actually done, and will stay done for a long time—it is.

Quick to put it on, excited to bask in the euphoria of having finished a project (and also to stand up straight), you don't even bother zipping it up before you're already playing with the ears that… you find drapes all the way down to your chest.

Okay, that was an oversight and not how long you meant for the ears to be, but it's still cute and fun!!

Rocking back and forth, side to side, watching them bounce and swing and sway..

And then you bump into something hard behind you.

Dust, who you forgot was here, had at some point entered the room under your notice and was right there watching you for an unknown amount of time.

You back away on startled instinct, hitting the desk, knocking over your chair, the bunny ears swishing hard and fast; before it all finally settles. Your heartrate, too.

The two of you staring at each other.

"I literally forgot you were here. Hi. Hi?"

You're graced with a hum in the back of his throat, but otherwise no actual response. Meanwhile, the staring contest goes on.

Eye contact not any broken when he takes the two steps into your space to reach a hand for you—for the ears you've desecrated his past(?) jacket with.

He looks at you a little longer before being the one to glance away first. To the ears, where he gives them a small tug that takes you an inch with it.

You want to hit him with a snarky 'Okay, buddy.' But your desire to see where this'll go overrides the sass.

Wondering how he'll react, what he'll do, how he'll handle what you did. Staying put where he has you by the ear, and letting him explore what you've done to his hood.

But you can't read him. Not this time, at least.

…Up until he suddenly loosens his hold, and you catch an amused huff under his breath.

With the long and draping ear still held in his lax palm, his tone having a.. flair to it? If you didn't know him so well, you wouldn't have noticed the change in voice.

"swap me."

You blink, "…What?"

He lets go, though not bothering to take a step back as he starts to strip his newer hoodie off. And like nothing is wrong with his behavior, now clad in just his light grey turtleneck, he offers you what he was wearing.

"trade."

…You do. Mindlessly, because a part of you has decided that blanking out and doing as told would be better than questioning his impossible behavior ANY further. Taking off your bunny one, and you swap.

His grab carrying a wisp of excitement that you notice, but he just.. holds it in his one hand. Looking down at the lump of fabric like… You don't know, actually.

He's being weird—and he's gone. What. What?

Dust shortcutted away out of literally nowhere. No cue, social or otherwise; just gone.

Okay.

Well. Another morning without word from Dust.

You don't know what it is Dust does when he absolutely fucks off like that, but.. whatever.

Not picking up your calls or texts, either.

He'll eventually come around, you suppose. He's never vanished longer than a week, and it's been…You don't remember.

Like, what, three days? He's fine.

Not quite sure why 'three days' was so hard for you to remember. Maybe because you've only just woken up not long ago.

Dust used to not come back for almost two months, so wow, what an improvement!

…You shouldn't be so snarky this early in the.. 9am is not that early, calm down.

—The air shifts.

Turning to greet your (intruder) GUEST, this routine of him showing up unannounced a normalcy between you two, though he can still somehow manage to catch you by surprise.

Though this time, the 'surprise' being he's wearing the bunny ear modified hoodie.

The exaggeratedly long fabric framing his face as he keeps his head and posture low, looking up at you from beneath lidded sockets.

Morning sunlight from a window creeps onto his cheekbones, revealing a dusting of lilac flush. Barely there, but you see it.

He lifts his head the slightest inch, and the ears shift with him.

"morning."

…Dust Bunny.