who still says YOLO these days?

~~~

The human.

A title bestowed to that of which fits the criteria. The, as in the only. To say otherwise would be contradictory. Human, as in… well. An identifier of a species. A different species than the already boosting variety of monster. 

Such a simple, easy way to think of it; it’s definitive in nature. Might be hard to identify for those who’ve never seen such a creature. At least, Kris had assumed.

Monsters can have said characteristics; they’ve learned so at a very young age. Skin? Warm-blooded? Fine hair? Two eyes? A skeleton? Ten fingers? (Eight with two thumbs, if you want to be annoying about it). Monsters can have all that, too. More or less. 

It’s possible to share genetic similarities with other monsters. Mammal-like, bird-like, reptile-like. What makes humans so different? Why’re humans the genetic outlier, to the point of a separate label?

Is it the soul? The variety in colour compared to the monochrome white? The power contained in them? Who knows.

They didn’t really have a baseline to go off of. The most they had was the internet – which introduces a plethora of new issues – and themself. But that goes without saying. The idea of exploring their body is something that’ll never interest them. Sounds pretty nasty. Nor do they need the reminder of… yeah.

They don’t go out of their way to pummel their differences through their head. They don’t care. At least, that’s what they tell themself. 

It’s a struggle to distinguish the two in practice, sometimes. At some point, they thought they might not recognize another one of them if they saw it.

How utterly wrong they were. 

Their foreboding; it started during a drive unlike any other. They were refused the luxury of sleeping in as per their mother’s stern request. She seemed more on edge than usual, but they chalked it up to nerves fresh into the new year. 

Her hands tightened on every turn, tendons protruding from her fluffy paws. She had a permanent furrow in her brow, smothered into ripples as soon as she noticed their secretive analysis. 

They never asked what was wrong, but she reassured them anyway. “I am alright, Kris. Do not worry.”

She pulls the car into her signature spot, shifting it into park. She hesitates. Frozen in her seat, she glares through the front windshield at anything she can; passing kids, the sidewalk, the trees. None of it means anything. As if in retaliation, they refuse to move, either.

A minute goes by. An excruciatingly long minute. It’s been so long since they’ve seen their mother this stunted before.

When the entrance clears of any life, she exhales, long and slow, and leaves the car. They blink, once, twice, and follow her lead. As soon as they shut the door behind them, they turn to the school. 

She’s planted at their feet; statue still. Her face is rather devoid of any emotion. There’s a crack here or there – it oozes nervousness. Pleadingness.

Her hands envelop their own. 

“My dear,” she croons, rubbing their skin with her thumbs. “I do not mean to put this on you in such short notice. But I have a favour to ask of you. It is not a big one, but it is important.”

This can’t be good.

She might be able to read their lack of a reaction. Or they do react in some way. It’s hard to tell.

She attempts a smile of reassurance. “There is a new student coming today. A very special one. A one unlike many others. I want this student to have a pleasant welcome. Not overwhelming or staggering. Just a nice, warm welcome.”

There hasn’t been a new student since Susie, and she’s been around for a while. The prospect itself doesn’t make them feel anything. It’s the fact that their mother has come to them about the newcomer. 

It’s unspoken, what she wants them to do. Help them to their classes, walk with them between periods, talk, talk, talk, conversation, conversation, friends, friends–

She knows they’d rather do literally anything else. Being forced into babysitting the new kid? That’s a fantastic idea. Get the socially unwilling, tired as fuck human to be the first impression of an already impressionable mind.

“Okay,” they urge through their teeth. It doesn’t really matter what they say. From the way she phrased it, it sounds like they’ve already been pawned off as the unwilling volunteer.

Besides, it’s not their fault if new kid runs for the hills at the sight of them.

As soon as they break through the doors, their mother beelines towards a lingering couple at the entrance. She seems to have known who to look for. Two wolf-like monsters, both of which huddle together leaving no space between. Kris can’t tell if they’re amazed or frightened at the sight of a new environment. 

While students begin trekking towards their classrooms, they begrudgingly step towards the trio. Even with her back to them, it’s obvious that her usual mannerisms are shielded with a layer of professionalism. She doesn’t want to scare them off. 

They make a great effort to stay out of view; using their mother’s body to block the couple’s line of sight. It does little when the presumed father intentionally peeks over Toriel’s shoulder. 

But they can’t, for the life of them, read his reaction.

Toriel follows his gaze, and to no surprise, ushers them to stand next to her. “This is my child, Kris,” she effortlessly keeps everyone on topic. “Say hello, dear.”

“Hello,” they parrot. Both eyes lock onto them.

They expect the usual. A natural shock morphed into a practiced distance, masked under an unbearable politeness. But that’s not what they get.

It’s… strange. That look. They both stare with… friendliness. Familiarity. Oozing with sincerity. No suppression, no feigning a reaction. It feels as though they aren’t an enigma. Abnormal. Just another person in another town with another life.

It’s nice. Oddly nice.

…too nice.

“Hello, Kris,” the father greets, introducing both him and his partner. “I apologize for our lateness. We… struggled a bit to get the little one out of bed.”

“Oh, do not worry,” their mother chirps. “I should be the one apologizing.”

It’s an easy back and forth; one that seems to relieve the cloud of anxiety in the air. They pretend to be an active listener. 

It isn’t until they find themself questioning where said new kid is. 

They catch the tail end of an explanation, something about how ‘it was supposed to be a quick bathroom trip’ and ‘no one answers their phone anymore’. 

Eventually, they’re nominated by their mother to scan the bathrooms for any signs of a loiterer. When they give her a face of ‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for’, a flicker of guilt flashes across her eyes.

“You’ll know when you know,” she encourages ominously. 

The hell does that mean? They don’t have time to linger on it. 

The first bathroom they check is a dud. No one’s inside, not even any in-school skippers standing on the toilets.

The second bathroom has a bit more promise. They watch as some people scurry out of it, whispering to each other in a gossipy manner, maybe a hint of confusion. Good enough for them. 

Right before they push their entryway open (with their elbow, obviously), they hear a distant crash. It’s slightly muffled by the sounds of running water. They wait for the faucet to halt before continuing.

The door groans against the frame with a struggle they’ve never heard it have before. It takes an extra umph to get it ajar.

And there you stand. 

Hunched over the bathroom sink, breaths deep and paced. Your hair shields your eyes. 

The mirror is shattered to pieces.

Drip, drip, drip.

It’s not the sink.

A rosy colour drenches your fist. You clutch it like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

Your blood cascades down the edge of the counter, puddling to the floor. 

You look insane.

It’s not too late to turn back; you haven’t noticed them yet, a voice reminds them.

An intelligent, incorrect voice.

You’re staring right at them. 

They can’t help but stare right back with wide, frozen eyes.

Because you’re like them.

You.

You’re human.

They don’t know how they can tell. They don’t know why they can tell.

They knew you were human the moment they laid their eyes on you.

You– how?

How’re you?–

Your phone vibrates; the one resting on the counter, away from the shards of glass and puddles of human blood. It breaks your mutual trance. 

It’s blurry from where they stand. Far from you. A human. 

It says ‘mom’.

Their eyes return to you before yours do to them. They can see it clearly now. Your pure, crippling shock.

They swallow. Something rises from within them. Might be bile. Might be mania.

A human. You’re a human. 

Human. A human.

You visibly jump when something slams against the jammed door. 

They’re quicker; instantly dipping into the nearest stall. Their breathing grows shallow. Their hand rests on the door, holding it shut. They don’t wait to see what you do.

From the sounds of it, you follow their lead a few stalls down.

You’re a human. You have human hair. Human eyes. Human skin. Human features. 

But what if you’re not? What if you’re just human-like? 

You look like them. You feel like them. Your breaths; you sound like them. You bleed like them. You’re like them.

Like them. You’re like them.

They feel attentive eyes on them. Bloody knuckles slip over the top of the stall. Your fingers trickle trails of red down the wall. Their glare follows the dollop up its path, right to your large, beady eyes that peek over the edge.

Eyes that stare like theirs do.

Your mouth inches open. They can hardly make it out.

Teeth that clench like theirs do.

“You’re…” you mutter, not once letting them escape your vision.

A tongue that swirls like theirs does.

A few footsteps pass. A third stall closes. 

Their head’s pounding.

The stall door slams against the wall. They might’ve left a dent.

They’re bolting before you get the chance to unlock your own.

They retreat back to their mother. To the parents– to your parents. They don’t need to be told. They know they’re yours. They don’t want to hear it. You’re certainly– like them.

She asks if they found you. Their throat isn’t working. They exhale an incoherent word. They’ve never seen her so confused before. 

She asks if they’re alright– right. They can’t be weird about this. Get through the day.

A finger caresses their spine.

They pivot, retreating into their mother’s oh so loving arms. She halts them by their shoulders. They’d bury themself in her if they could. 

There you stand with an outstretched finger. Your dominant hand hides behind your back. The one that’s most definitely cut to shreds. 

Your fingers look like theirs, too. Same size, shape, indents–

You don’t hide your disbelief the way they do. Maybe you’re trying to, the way they’re trying to.

Maybe you have the same expression. The same.

“It is lovely to meet you! You can call me Ms. Toriel.” Their mother outstretches a hand. Over their stiff form. “And this is my child…”

It’s an opening for them to introduce themself. They can tell by the way she squeezes their shoulder. You haven’t ceased your fixation on their eyes. They haven’t exhaled in a minute.

“Kris,” she fills in, as both an answer for you and a hidden scold for them. Once she realizes you’re not going to take her hand – whether it be intentional or not – she grabs Kris’ free hand and offers it to you.

They can’t help but tear it away. They don’t need to look to see their mother’s disapproving frown.

Their movement breaks you from your hypnotic state. 

You smile up at her, understanding and forgiving. “It’s okay. I’m used to the, uh… it’s fine.”

You hardly acknowledge their existence as you circle to your parents, offering reassurances and meaningless goodbyes. Their mother’s the first to follow. Obviously.

They stand, their back to you and Toriel, savouring the moment to clear their head; a head that refuses to be cleared. It’s over before they know it.

She tugs them to face you once again. And just like that, your eyes pierce through their soul. She tries to get something going. “You just moved, have you not?”

But they can’t stop that sinking pit in their stomach. It digs and digs and carves through their ever-beating heart.

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat bobbing. They track the movement intently. “We settled in yesterday.”

“How was it? No complications, I hope?”

You pause for a moment. “No. It was good.”

You can’t hear a word she’s saying, can you?

She shakes their shoulder. Their eye twitches. “Kris, would you like to ask any questions? About the other town, perhaps?”

Other town?

“Oh,” you click in realization. Your voice softens, as if scared you’ll trigger them. “My last neighbourhood was like this. Where I grew up, I mean. All monsters?”

They bite their cheek. 

Fuck. You’re exactly like them.

“See, Kris?” The voice coos. “You two have so much in common.”

Human. That’s it. You’re both human. You– you’re…

Your facade breaks. You take a step forward, decreasing your already miniscule gap, biting your lip. Your brain’s clouded over.

“I’ve never seen another human before,” you sigh wistfully. 

They can’t suppress the full-body shiver that assaults their skin.

Their mother, for some ungodly reason, thinks this is going in the right direction. “Kris, I need to get to class,” she turns her attention to you. “They will show you to your homeroom.”

You nod, seemingly very into the idea.

They can’t stop glaring at you. Even as their mother gives them an unreciprocated hug. Even as she opens her mouth on the way out.

“Maybe you can ask Susie to hang out! All three of you?”

Their nails dig into their palms. No. Not happening. Never would that ever happen. 

As she turns down the hall, you seem awfully lost to your thoughts. 

“Susie,” you murmur, deep in dreams.

They don’t like the fact that you know the name of their friend. They don’t like how they’re expected to spend one-on-one time with you. They don’t like anything about this. 

“Kris.”

Their name leaves your anxious throat. They don’t know how to feel. It sounds weird coming from your voice. Humans don’t have distinct voices, right? Why does yours sound so utterly human?

Their legs want to pull away from you; to attempt an escape to their homeroom. They can’t believe they’d rather be at class right now.

But they don’t have it in them to leave. Is it your stare? Your face? Your fear?

“Is Susie another human?” You ask. They hate that you’re asking. They know you know the answer. “Or is it really just you?”

“Just me,” they grit, hoping that’s enough to keep you satisfied. Of course it isn’t. 

You take another step forward. They take one back.

Your face morphs from one of pure curiosity into… something else. It’s tainted with ulterior motive.

“In the bathroom. That wasn’t…” you glance to your feet. “I slipped.”

Sure you did. You’re a horrible liar, too. 

“Okay.”

Please be enough. It’s not enough.

Your wounded hand peeks from behind your back. You slither your cut-open knuckles between their limp, dead one. They don’t feel it at first. Nor do they register it. Maybe they’re a bit too dumbfounded to realize.

Your breathing is heavy. They can feel your rapid heartbeat through the pads of your fingers. 

“I’ve never felt another human before,” you say. You act like it’s a normal thing to admit.

They don’t think it through. They squeeze your hand. As tight as they can.

They can’t help but bathe in the way you wince from the pain. The way your face contorts, as if begging for relief. It’s somehow the most satisfying thing in the world.

And they wrench it from your grasp. 

A part of them wishes they’d have stuck around to see your reaction. But it’s not worth it. 

You’re a human. You’re warm-blooded. You’re disgusting.

You’re like them. And that’s horrible.

~*•*~

You’re not quite sure why, but there’s been a pain lifted off your chest. That nagging parasite, deep between the recesses of your mind. It’s gone; vanished as if it never existed in the first place.

You get those same questions that you’ve always gotten. It’s borderline fascinating – the way so much has changed, and yet, somehow nothing has changed at all. 

But they don’t bother you. Not anymore. This is different. Everything is different now. 

You wish Kris wouldn’t run at the mere sight of you. To be honest, you still can’t fathom why they do so in the first place. That revolting look; it makes you more curious, if anything.

The reason doesn’t matter. Your soul made its decision the moment you saw them. 

It doesn’t take long for you to learn who Susie is. She’s Kris’ best friend. Lizard, dinosaur, purple; lovely to be around. Well, you had assumed. 

You ‘accidentally’ meet behind the school, long after hours have ended. Your steps are light in an attempt to sneak up on her, though it isn’t difficult with her back to the sky, hands pawing at the dirt. At first, you thought she was burying her nuts for winter (or some teenage-drug-related equivalent), but she’s actually assembling a collection of sticks into a pile. 

Once you make yourself known, her head zips to your overjoyed form. Her shock is apparent, maybe a tad warranted, but you’re desensitized nonetheless.

“Whatcha doin’?” You sing like a toddler.

As if that was the confirmation that you’re not a threat, her eyes begin to narrow. “Uh, making a campfire.”

“What for?”

She doesn’t expect the question. Nor the way you squat next to her kneeling figure. To your surprise, she visually dismisses you, returning to her task at hand. “A– friend told me she’s always wanted to go camping. So I’m practicing making a fire so I can take her.

You’re pretty sure there’s more to camping than making a fire. Don’t most people use firestarters? Or matches?

“Ooo,” you rock back and forth on your heels. “I can teach you.”

Assuming she won’t deny you, you pat your pants for a hidden pocket, withdrawing a trusty pair of scissors you’ve had since you were but a wee child.

She seems amused. “Do you always have those on you?”

“Maybeeee. Are you a snitch?”

“No, it’s just–” You can hear the growing smile in her voice. “Nevermind.”

You force the scissors wide open, using the blade to shave a few sticks of their outer bark. Once you decide you’ve gathered enough kindling, you steal one of the bigger sticks from the pile (might as well be a mini log), stabbing a hole through a centralized point. Your knife only indents the shell enough to form a small divot. 

“Now use this,” you fetch a different stick, inserting it in the hole. “And rub it back and forth real quick.”

You briefly mimic the action, using both hands to spin the stick. Your smile only grows when she does so, no questions asked.

While you wait for a spark, all that fills your ears are the rustle of leaves and coo of the wind. You lay next to your manmade contraption, watching Susie from your worm’s eye view.

She avoids eye contact, laser-focused on the wood. “So you’re that new kid, right?”

“How’d you figure me out? Ooh, is anyone talking about me? Who is it?”

You yearn for a certain name.

She scoffs, but it doesn’t feel as rude as it should come across as. “Who do you think?”

“Everyone?”

Her lack of an answer is an answer in itself. “Nothing bad, though. New kids are rare, y’know?”

You can appreciate her intentional sparing of your feelings. Though you don’t like being lied to.

“Go figure.”

Your eyes drift shut for a moment. When you feel her foot nudge your shoulder, you’re a bit stunned to see the rather earnest look in her eyes.

“Don’t worry. It passes. The feeling, I mean.”

“Oh?”

She nudges you again. “Before you, I was the latest talk of the town.”

You roll onto your stomach, interest piqued. “You were the new kid?”

“Mhm. Barely knew jack shit about this place. Still don’t, actually.”

“Damn,” you slam your fist to the grass. “That means I can’t get intel from you.”

She snorts. “Just get it from Noelle. She knows everything that goes on.”

“Who’s that? The mayor?”

“Her daughter. You haven’t met the mayor yet?–”

“Ohh, yeah. No,” you cut her off, feigning disappointment. “Too suspicious. Got anyone else?”

She seems to think for a second, as if truly pondering your horribly obvious bait-of-a-question. “I guess you could ask Kris? But they’re not exactly the biggest talker.”

“Really?” Your heartrate bleeds through your ears at the very sound of the name. “You think they’d talk to me?”

Whether she takes your question as rhetorical or not, she still raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they?”

You could list a million reasons, half of which you’re awfully unsure of. But you don’t tell her that. Why would you?

Before you can smoothly change the topic, the spark catches, shining golden embers at the base of the stick. Susie’s initial excitement is engulfed in immediate panic. “Shit. What now?”

You gather the carvings into a nest and guide her stick’s end to lay in it. Once you notice a lone scrap catch, you lightly blow on the shaved bits to promote the spread. It’s enough to set the pile to flame.

“Boom,” you brag.

And Susie practically liked you unconditionally from there.

Noelle wasn’t hard to hook long after. You’re pretty sure she saw you talking with Susie and was surprised by the notion of the girl having more than two friends. And you shared a mutual smile once. 

It was meant to be.

~*•*~

You wait a good twenty minutes before entering the grocery store. Some might call it ‘stalking’, but you have no malicious intent. That means you’re lawful good. 

Over one of the shelves, you make out two antlers and a fluff of that purple-brown-plum coloured hair. You know of the third with them, but you’re not trying to alert them of your whereabouts. 

They don’t seem to like you very much.

The front desk skeleton guy doesn’t spare you a second glance as you sneak around to the freezers, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person you’ve been searching for. 

You see Noelle, Susie… neither of them spot you. Where’s?–

Your ears pick up the front door’s aggressive opening. 

Over your shoulder, there’s a speed-walking green blob behind the window. Outside. Leaving the store. Leaving you. What a shame.

Noelle’s the one to pick up on the departure. Susie’s too busy balancing an egg on her nose to notice.

“Hey, hey– Kris,” she wobbles, eyes trained on the chicken’s spawn. “Grab another one. I could totally stack–”

Noelle’s fingers squeeze the girl’s arm. “Uhm, Kris just… left?”

As if on cue, the deer spots you, letting out an ‘eek!’ that she’s quick to cover up. Susie doesn’t acknowledge you, but you know she sees you. Reaction – whether positive or negative – you try not to despise it.

“What?” You glance over your shoulder.

“Think she might be scared of humans,” Susie jokes, lip curling as the egg begins to tip.

She flushes, voice cracking with defence. “No! That wasn’t– I just didn’t see you there…”

Before the egg gets a chance to splat to the ground, you pluck the protein from her nose. You toss it in your hand, once, twice, before giving them the eye contact they’ve both been waiting for.

“Didja know eggs are good for hair?”

Susie’s eyebrows practically fly off her head. “Woah, really?”

“Yeah. Human hair, at least. Makes it shiny.”

You think one of your old friends tried rubbing the whites into his fur. He was too aggravated from the stickiness to give an opinion. 

A huff. “Humans are weird. Who sees an egg and thinks it’s good for anything other than breakfast?”

Noelle’s the first to react, tugging the reptile by her jacket– notably away from you, as if she’s poisoned you with her words. “Susie! That’s– you can’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“I– I don’t know, it might be offensive,” she murmurs as if you’re out of ear shot.

You act stupid. “Why would it be?”

“I… is it not?”

“Ehh,” you shrug. “Only the really creative ones hurt.”

Before the doe can begin to relax, Susie bursts from her grasp. To ridicule you. 

“You sayin’ I’m not creative?”

“Some people think ‘weird’ is a compliment!”

She thinks for a second, finger tapping her chin. “Kris is a total weirdo. They’d probably take it as a compliment–” and the question you’ve all been wondering pops through her skull. “Where did Kris go? You two should meet.”

While you don’t visually acknowledge that they haven’t shared your meet-cute to their friends, your soul may or may not feel a pang of displeasure. 

“I dunno,” you sigh. “I don’t think they like me very much.”

You play up the dumb factor. Sprinkle in some sheepishness, pity-inducing disappointment; Susie can’t comprehend it as fiction. You’re a bit nervous about Noelle, though. She seems to hide her skepticism, though she offers you a sympathetic smile on the surface.

“They’re just… a bit quiet,” she explains vaguely.

She had an idea as to why your point stands. You just know it. Though, it may take an idiot to not know, at the very least, the main cause.

Maybe humans are weird. Like hell you’d know. 

You’re okay with weird. You’re okay with quiet. 

You’re okay with being a liar. 

Things always work out in the end. All it takes is a little push.

“Do you know where the tallest tree is?”

Susie deadpans. “Do you lay eggs or something?”

You hope she can’t see the way your face tenses. “Nope. I wanna climb it.”

“Oh. Yeah. That makes sense.”

It hasn’t been too long– five minutes? Stretching on six? Your internal clock’s never failed you before. It was useful for avoiding lunch rush. And closing time at your old town’s burger place. And that guy who always tried beating the living shit out of you.

“There’s a good one behind Noelle’s.” Susie flicks her hand in a ‘c’mon’ motion.

She’s already leaving the store, assuming you’ve both decided that following her is the best course of action. Thankfully for you, your mind was made up hours ago.

While you stare at the back of her head, you wonder why she’s quite adamant on showing you herself. Not that you don’t mind the company – you’re practically banking on her being here.

You’ve been here about a week, give or take, and you’ve already memorized the layout of the town. It’s familiar; that nauseating, cramped feeling. All it takes is one more left to see Noelle’s gate in view.

And, of course, that silky brown head of hair halfway down the street. 

Susie perks up moments after you do. “Kris!”

They’re slightly hunched over, hands slid comfortably in their pockets. You’re sure you would’ve seen their fingers curl into fists if they were free. They were so close, too. One more right and they would’ve been home. Your speedwalking definitely paid off.

You’re not one step behind Susie when she jogs to catch them. Not that she had to try; they’ve been halted in place.

“Wanna come climb a tree with us?”

There’s a clack of hooves to your left. You almost forgot Noelle was with you. “It seems like they were on their way home. Maybe we shouldn’t bother–”

“Woah!” A high-pitched, girly voice stabs your eardrums. 

In front of a neighbouring house stands a purple cat, not far from appearing adultish, and yet she automatically strikes you as the migraine-inducing type.

“Krissy!” Despite the single callout, the name draws the attention of all four of you. “I didn’t know you could, like, what’s the word? That nerdy, sciency thing where the little dots clone themselves?”

“...Mitosis?” Noelle cringes.

“Yeah! You can do that, Krissy?”

And she’s gesturing to you. With her big kitty paws. And a stupid, ignorant smile.

You and the name in question lock eyes. Big, disbelief-filled eyes. They’re the first to turn away. They look ashamed to be near you. It’s a horrible feeling.

Mitosis? Really?

Looks like the education here’s not that much better.

“Damn,” you start, voice easing into a calm confidence. “I wish I knew how to mitosis.”

The purple monster’s teeth expose themselves. “Whaa? You can’t do it?”

“Nope. Maybe then I could skip school without getting a beating,” you exaggerate, adding just enough for her to take the bait.

“OMG! Same!” The unknown cat squeals. “I’m, like, sooo ready to burn all my notes in a dumpsterfire!”

You pretend to care when you exchange names. And when she talks for far longer than you thought she would. Stuff about her sister, an ‘Asriel’ character, a neighbour that you should watch out for…?

You’re backing up from your unintended quad before you realize it, attempting a retreat. You can hardly make out what she’s yapping about. It isn’t until she switches her conversation topic, that you’ve become insanely in-tune with her voice. 

“Krissy! I, like, love your clone. And you two would make such a cute couple! You’re both, like, totally matching in aesthetics–”

“Super cute!” You agree with a bit more desperation than intended, escaping further down the road. “Definitely. Gotta go do homework! Big essay.”

The buzzwords seem to work; trigger her to the right degree. Thankfully, the trio understand this is a ‘let’s leave now please’ moment. While the newly-identified townsfolk Catty re-enters her house, you’re surprised to see Kris’ gaze glued to you. Blank, stiff, calculated.

At first, you’re a bit doubtful.

There’s no way in hell the cat’s comment affected them, right? Is that even possible, for someone so closed off? 

Although, that would be a lovely thought. Wouldn’t it be? For them to be flustered at the thought of you two? Together? 

Two similar in nature? Two souls, seeking respite in each other? From a cruel, dark world?

No. That’s not it. It’s… something else.

Something you can’t quite place. 

It’s almost…

…confusion?

They glance to their feet before you truly understand it.

Susie and Noelle are not-so-subtly whispering to each other. You’re sure you make out a ‘don’t ask’ from the latter, definitely serving as discouragement from saying something stupid.

You’re the first to cross the threshold into Noelle’s humble (not humble) abode. The gate. You’re talking about the gate. Like hell you’re going inside. You met the mayor a few days after arriving. She didn’t seem like the friendliest face. 

Susie rounds the side of the mansion, bolting to the tree in question. It’s actually lower to the ground than it looked over Noelle’s fence, even while standing at its roots. It’s about four Susies wide. Not bad.

You gesture to the two girls. “Ladies first.”

“Wait, me?” Noelle freezes in place. 

“Yeah, you,” Susie rolls her eyes, seizing her wrist before she can oppose. She’s practically dragging the deer up the thick trunk, halting at the first large branch to take a break (and ensure she’s not about to die). Noelle clings to her like there’s a universe where she’d let her fall.

For each unstable nook Susie wedges her feet into, you think she’s about to bring them both down. Noelle hugs any branch she gets her fingers on, fear evident in her little squeals. You stop yourself from scolding her as she continues to peep at the ever-distancing ground. Every time she screams for Susie to rescue her, the saviour laughs. 

While you watch this sad display at flirting climbing, you can’t help but feel some sense of melancholy. They’re about halfway up the tree when your eyes find Kris.

They seem mildly interested in the pair; eyes lidded, jaw relaxed. You break their indifference.

The moment they notice you staring, they debate something. You can see it in their eyebrow. It’s small– the twitch. But you’re intrigued nonetheless.

When they turn on their heel and head for the gate, your heart drops.

They can’t leave. Why’re they leaving?

You’re about to reach for them, follow them, do something, when–

“You two coming, or what?” Susie yodels from above. 

And they halt, once again; back twitching with confliction. 

Noelle’s just blatantly hanging off Susie’s back while she climbs. Though, she’s paused mid-step to peer down at the two of you. 

A giddy grin forms on your lips. 

You zip to the tree’s base, placing one palm on top of the other. It’s not long until their gaze returns to you.

“Need a boost?” You offer, knowing they won’t take it.

Their eyelids shut for a prolonged second before they come to your side, wordlessly digging their shoes into the divots Susie used (and created). They propel themself upward, requiring a lot less effort than the other two.

Your cheek rests against the bark as your smile turns dopey. Is it bad to say you’re enjoying the view?

As if reading your mind, they glance down at you with a look that could kill. 

Well. Looks like someone doesn’t want to take their time.

To anyone’s surprise but yours, you climb the tree with a practiced ease. Each branch’s hardly used for more than a second as you launch yourself to the next. To your content, you smoothly lap Kris, though they don't seem to be trying much.

While they do ascend efficiently, you ensure you’re still a jump or two ahead. Every few seconds, you offer your hand. And every time you do, they give you that same look. Like they have to hold back from pushing you off the branch. 

The reject stings, sure, but…

You find your stomach churning anyway.

Once the four of you find yourselves at a stable branch, about three-quarters up the tree, you perk up. “Oooo. Let’s go on the roof.”

Noelle, though far less out-of-breath compared to Susie, opposes greatly. “I-I don’t know. Didn’t it just rain? Won’t it be slippery up there?”

“C’mon,” Susie squeezes her thigh, legs still wrapped around her torso. “It’ll be fun.”

This girl’s totally on your side. She’s a great oblivious teammate.

Noelle practically blooms. “Okay!!!”

As you did before, you wait for the two to shimmy down the branch, hopping onto the roof rather confidently. She treks up the tile to the apex, resting Noelle on her hooves, and gesturing for her to sit down.

Once they’re in conversation, you try your luck again.

You step across the branch like a gymnast on a balance beam, turning to offer your hand once again. The cool wind tickles your neck. 

But this time, they hop to an adjacent branch, ignoring your gesture. Once again.

You hate to admit it, but you feel a part of yourself snap to pieces.

And maybe you’re feeling gutsy.

Once they pass you, you hop to their branch. 

You snatch their wrist before they can stop you.

A shiver breaks out beneath your fingertips. And their eyes; wide and broken– they almost look scared.

They… definitely hate it.

You squeeze anyway.

They rip their wrist from you. 

You don’t let them leave. And thankfully, they don’t try to.

You grab their hand this time. Your fingers interlock with theirs. Not that they’re reciprocating.

But it’s… such an odd feeling. It feels as though you’re holding your own hand. But you can make out the differences. The stark, obvious differences. Those that you’ve learned to identify. 

Their hands are grittier– not unpleasant, but notably rougher than yours. About the same size, maybe slightly bigger than yours. Not by a lot, though. They’re colder, too. You wonder how it’d feel against your heated neck. Your clenched stomach. Your–

Their free hand wraps around your wrist, trying to yank it off. You clench harder.

“I’m just trying to help.”

No, you’re not. You know what you’re doing.

“I don’t need your help,” they grumble.

It’s the first sentence they’ve ever spoken to you.

And it’s to push you away.

Your free hand digs into their sweater, pulling them real close. They wince once your breath hits their cheek.

“I’m not an enemy,” you murmur like you’ve actually got a chance to convince them. Looks like you’re out of luck.

You weren’t trying to imply anything. But judging by their widening eyes, they take it rather offensively.

You’re shoved onto your back, bark digging into your clothed skin. A leg dangles off the branch’s edge, as if reminding you how high up you are.

When their body perches on top of yours…

Knees bracketing your trembling form…

Unadulterated rage radiating from their stoic face–

All you can think is:

This feels so right. Is it bad how right this feels? 

You feel right, Kris.

A knife presses to your throat.

So, so, so so so so right.

Wait. A knife?

Their teeth clench, threatening to press it into your poor neck.

“Doesn’t this feel right?” You croak, feeling more manic than you probably look. Or maybe they can see it. You hope they can see it. You hope they can see what they do to you.

Their grip falters. The blade brushes your jugular.

And their eyes. 

They’re masked with absolute disgust.

But… somewhere in there. Deep, deep in there.

Something forms. A thought, maybe. 

An idea.

The knife digs into your neck. Your blood’s already leaking through the seams, dripping down the confines of your neck. 

And your mind clouds blank.

Because they’re about to slit your throat. 

Fear overrules any semblance of reasoning you had left. 

You try to shove them off– push the weapon out of their hand. Either they have more momentum or they’re blatantly stronger. But you can’t get them away from you.

When you swallow, your throat bobs right back into the blade. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Bleeding isn’t exactly your specialty. 

Because fuck, is it starting to sting.

You don’t know what to do. Propel both of you from the branch? Break a few bones, maybe die in the process? Might be your only option.

The blood’s starting to cake through your hair. 

Like hell begging would work, right? After everything you’ve tried? There’s just…

Just… no…

Your lids flutter open. The knife’s not probing any further. Though, that doesn’t mean much. It’s still half-a-centimeter through your skin. 

And Kris.

Kris. 

Their pupils are blown to hell and back.

But they’re just… watching you. With hooded eyes. 

Your eyebrows furrow, fingers brushing their calves. You’re about to speak without thinking.

Something breaks their trance. Might be your confusion–

Their wrist twists. The blade threatens to dig deeper into your flesh. 

You wince, sad and pathetic. A noise escapes your throat. You might’ve squirmed a bit.

Their lips purse. That seems to fix it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

They’re almost… smug.

They’re fixated on your face. 

Your eyes.

The attention’s… unusually earnest.

Your hands stay glued to your side, hoping that a complete and utter withdrawal is enough to show you’re not planning anything.

They… might like that, too.

Their face inches up to yours. It has returned to an experienced neutrality.

“Back off,” they spit.

It’s a vague threat. You’re not sure if you believe it, either.

“Okay,” you mewl obediently.

They don’t move from their perch on your hips. The warmth’s starting to become overbearing.

Not exactly unwelcoming, though.

You have horrible self restraint.

All you want to do is–

“Hey, are you two coming?”

Susie’s grueling voice breaks whatever moment this was. Maybe more for Kris than you, though. 

The light leaves their eyes in a heartbeat.

They scurry off of you like whoever just did that wasn’t them and they were possessed and none of that should’ve happened. You almost have the guts to call them back.

Nothing in their expression reveals how they truly feel, though. 

Your teeth clench as your blood soaks into your collar.

Why did you do that? Why did you do that?

Not your instigation. Your response.

You’re never that… 

Compliant.

~*•*~

You excused your gaping neck as a slash from a branch. The lie slips from your teeth like you’ve been contemplating it the moment they cut it open. Susie didn’t see through it. They thought Noelle would’ve, but she didn’t, either. 

They wish they’d finished the job. They don’t know why they didn’t.

Murder is a big bad, for one. 

They let their knife soak in bubbly water for hours after scrubbing it down. Through the floral scent of their mother’s dish soap, they could still smell it. 

That iron stench. It’s uniquely fleshy. Uniquely yours.

To have you– keep you on your back, fingers away from them, able to be influenced by the most intimate committed-to threat of death.

It was wrong. It felt wrong. 

It was intoxicating. 

So, so, so wrong.

They shouldn’t have been anywhere near you. They’d been making sure. You keep seeking them out like some fucked up hitman.

If you want to kill them, you should’ve done it on the tree. You had the chance. You should’ve taken it. They wish you’d have taken it. It’d be a blessing to be rid of you. 

Instead, you choose to torture them. Become buddy-buddy with everyone they talk to. Curse them with late night dreams and horrid nightmares they’ll never forget. You’re too– everywhere.

You talk to everyone, actually. You pretend you want to chat with the unfamiliar voices on the streets, staring with curious, oblivious eyes. The conversation’s the same every time. And you know it. They wish you were a blatant idiot. Maybe then they could chalk it up to your lack of pattern recognition.

They know the truth. The way your jaw clenches without fail. They know what it means. But that garners the question. Why put up with it? Why torture yourself with what you know is coming? 

They don’t understand it. They don’t want to understand it.

A small part of them really, really does.

You’re no better than them. Deep, deep down.

You feel the way they feel. They know you do. 

You’re lying to yourself, if you think you aren’t.

You’re the same. You’ll never not be the same–

“Ms. Toriel,” you greet. You greet. That’s your voice downstairs.

What the fuck.

She gasps your name in surprise. “Oh, do not worry about the formalities outside of school! Toriel is fine.”

The rest of the conversation’s muffled. They’re sprinting down the stairs faster than they’ve ever done so before. 

Light on their feet, they halt right before the last step. Your voices are as clear as day.

At least, they would be if you were still talking.

“Where are you going?” Their mother asks, though more out of confusion than defensiveness.

Are you leaving? They hope to the Angel that you’re leaving.

Your head springs from the corner like some fucked up jack-in-the-box. 

They have to hold back a snarl. How the hell’d you hear them?

“Kris,” you hum, reaching for them like a clingy child. They retreat up a step before you touch them. “Are you ready?”

God. What’d you do now?

“Kris. Your friend,” their mother stresses the word. Likely for your sake, “says you are going to the library together.”

Your self-satisfied grin speaks volumes.

Right. They completely forgot you were project partners. All they remember is walking out of the classroom before you’d gotten the chance to talk about plans or dividing the work or please come to my house. Looks like it’s biting them in the ass, now.

You somehow rigged it. They have no idea how you’d have done so, but they refuse to believe it was up to chance. 

You were ecstatic. That’s another thing they remember. 

Your face is burned into their retinas. They want to gouge out their eyes.

They were so ready to fail it; to never see you outside of class. 

You’ve been around each other more as of late. 

Not of their choice. Of course not.

They only play along with your premeditated lie because they know you’ll rat them out to their mother. And if they’re going to lie to anyone about you, it’s definitely not going to be the person who’s praying for your success– who set you two up to begin with. 

It’s an argument not worth starting.

They can suffer for another day. What’s one more to their collection?

You both walk, much to their dismay. A drive would’ve made the trip faster. It also would've prevented your attempts at holding their hand. Brushing shoulders. Linking your arm with theirs. Your skin feels like lava against their own.

It’s like you’d just read some article online about making people like you more. If they cared to give you advice, they’d tell you physical contact does the exact opposite. At least for them.

Unless that’s your goal.

They wouldn’t be surprised. 

Once you see the library, you make a beeline for it. They’d have left once you entered, but you hold the door open expectantly. 

Despite it being relatively empty – even Berdly’s absent from his place at the front desk – you still (metaphorically) drag them to one of the secluded corners shielded by the bookshelves. They blindly follow you, because what else are they supposed to do?

They attempt to tune out most of what you say – stuff about your classes, tests, homework you have, notably nothing related to your social life. Not that they care.

You don’t even seem like you know what the project’s about. Even if they don’t know what it’s about, they have the excuse of going into it with the mindset of we’re gonna bomb it. Why drag them here if you have no clue what to do?

Well, they think they know why, but…

Zoning out wasn’t a good idea. Their lack of responses are evident. At some point, you’ve just started staring at them.

It’s not that off-putting, dazed stare they usually catch you with. Better or worse depends on what happens next.

The gears are turning. Your eyes are lidded. You jab a thumb to the stairwell.

“I think I saw some good books upstairs.”

They should’ve known not to follow you. 

Maybe some part of them was curious.

They should never admit that. The implications of that are… bad.

Upstairs is a lot quieter, with the absence of anyone. The air conditioning’s buzz is far more muffled at the top of the steps. There’s no hum to break the unbearably tense silence.

You’re walking with purpose, stopping in front of a specific bookshelf. You sift like you’re looking for a certain one.

They lean against the opposite shelf, not wanting to hover near the stairs in case someone sees them with you downstairs.

Once you spot a book, you hug it to your chest, intentionally hiding the cover from them. They don’t need to see your face to see your poised expression.

You turn, tongue wetting your bottom lip. Their eyes trace the movement. 

They need to stop doing that. 

You take a step. Then another. And another.

Their back presses into the shelf, trying to get as far away as physically possible. 

You blink, slow and sweet. Not sweet.

“Ever seen this one before?” You hold up the cover. “I just saw it the other day. Didn’t read it, tho.”

Their breath hitches. Like hell you did.

It’s that stupid book. The one they wish would mysteriously disappear, burnt to a crisp in some dingy alleyway.

Just the humans on the front make them want to–

They instantly wrench it from you, letting it hang by their hip; far enough from you. Though you’re slightly surprised, you seem to let it happen.

“Isn’t it crazy stupid?” You gesture to it like they’re not thinking the exact same thing. “‘How to care’?– It’s like we’re pets, or something.”

You’re awfully coy, intentionally appearing less offended than your words make it seem.

And for some dumb, idiotic reason, they feel the need to correct you.

“That’s not what it’s about.”

Not that they’ve read it. Front to back. They’ve skimmed it reluctantly before. On one horribly vulnerable day. They’ve never looked at it since.

But they can assume.

There’s something about the way your eyebrows clench, and then release. 

Your face falls. “Huh.”

Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek.

They can tell.

Your mind goes to a completely different place. 

A very, very bad place.

You’re both still.

They’re about to correct themself: “That’s not–”

But you’re already lunging for the book.

They try to shove you back, but they don’t have the same momentum they had before. On the tree.

Instead, they press the sole of their foot to your stomach. They extend their leg as hard as they can.

You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the bookshelf.

Though you’re at another standstill, you’re straight-faced. But then, your mouth slowly turns.

Like you’ve just hit the jackpot.

They panic much harder than they’d like to admit.

Right before you pounce, their hand digs into their back pocket.

Their knife slashes the air between you.

And that shuts you down.

Saucer-eyed, backing off, scared.

Their vision’s clouded with the image of the scar on your neck. Right on your adam’s apple. The way it discolours your skin.

Your hands float in the air. A surrender.

You’re frightened. They know your heart’s beating at twice the pace. They know it’s not for the right reasons.

They know because they feel it too.

“Okay. No book.”

Their nerves loosen. You actually listened. It’s…

You bite your lip. Fuck, it’s…

Their fingers tighten over the spine of the hardcover. Just– stop thinking.

You’re swallowing. “But…”

You’re curious. That much is obvious.

“The stuff. In there.”

You nod to the book.

“...have you looked at it?”

They have the gull to look grossed out. As if what you’re asking is completely ridiculous. 

You take a step forward. Deja vu.

Because it is ridiculous. 

Your hands hover between you. 

Why would…

They jab their knife. It’s an empty threat.

Why would they…?

You know it, too.

They’ve never had a reason to.

You’re an inch from their face. They feel the book slip from their digits.

A heat crawls up their spine. “Don’t open it.”

They hope you’re going to put it back. To try to deescalate the situation.

Of course you weren’t.

Instead, you taunt them.

“You gonna stop me?”

Their jaw clenches so hard their teeth might’ve cracked.

You hardly try to run. Or they’re just that desperate to stop you.

You’re both on the floor with a loud thump.

They’re perched on your abdomen again. More deja vu.

Except this time, they don’t hesitate.

They try to stab a hole right through your palm.

You release the book, shielding your hand to your chest.

Their head’s fuzzy. Fuck, that look–

Now that’s a face of pure terror.

You shove them to their ass. They might’ve been too enamoured with your expression to keep their footing.

You begin crawling away, grabbing the book in the process what the fuck’s up with your priorities?–

They drag you back by the ankle. Then, the calf. You hold back a scream of panic.

Their hand’s firm on your stomach when they straddle you. The rush of adrenaline that flows through them– at the sight of their knife to your throat again–

It’s almost ruined by your rather murderous tone.

You whine, as if this was just another Tuesday. “Again? Seriously?” 

“Quiet,” they hiss accompanied by the push of their blade.

They align it to that spot.

Right against that damn scar.

A groan. “C’mon.”

You look like you want to beg.

They gesture for you to start–

Not begging. That’s just– no.

No.

But–

Could you imagine?

God, what a sight that’d be–

“I’m sorry,” you decide on.

Their hand clenches the fabric of your sweater. They can hear their breathing over yours.

You whimper, burying your skull deeper into the carpet.

“Please.”

And that does it.

The pad of their thumb presses into your esophagus. 

It’s not for the reasons they– other reasons. It’s in response. A natural, human, human response. 

But fuck, does it set their stomach ablaze.

“Yeah?” They think they mutter. They even sound as deluded as they feel.

It sparks something in you, too.

They feel your foot curl around their own. Your knee drags along the side of their leg, up to their inner thigh–

You flip them on their back, pinning their arms beside their head.

Nothing reveals their surprise besides the part of their lips.

Seems like you realize that, too.

But then, your eyes find something across the floor.

Your breathing turns laboured. Your fingers strain over their skin.

They take your stun to flip you on your back. Your arms aren’t much difficult to restrain, though.

And it gives them a perfect view of what destroyed your composure.

That awful book. It’s flipped open. To a rather graphic image of–

They feel their expression morph to mirror yours.

That’s just– not. Fuck.

They don’t know what else to do. So their pupils meet yours.

You might’ve been staring at each other for hours. They wouldn’t have known. Their head’s cloudy with the thought– 

The idea of you–

You shake one of your wrists free.

They let you.

You’re slow to take one of their own.

They let you.

You guide it to urge your sweater up your torso. Just enough. Their cool hand lays against the warmth of your stomach. It feels like theirs. But softer. More jittery.

…nicer.

They let you.

You inch it to drift to your lower abdomen. They press down experimentally. You stiffen. Just slightly.

Their pinky brushes a belt loop.

You release them. Your gaze turns hesitant. As if asking a question.

And there’s something wrong with them.

Something very, very wrong.

Because they want to.

They really, really want to. And they hate that they do.

They hate that they’re about to–

Someone’s footsteps. They see the moment you hear them, too.

You both scurry away from each other, deciding this isn’t the best situation to be caught in. You kick the book in an attempt to shut it, but it ends up sliding right to their feet. They don’t have to think twice before shutting it and stuffing it in some random shelf.

The stranger sees you both rooted on the floor, raising a rather accusatory eyebrow. You both stand smoothly.

He continues staring. It’s that stare. They recognize him; he recognizes them. But he definitely does not recognize you.

Two humans. Together. What a fantastic sight. He must think he hit the jackpot.

“Oh,” you chirp, sounding more than out of breath. “Did you need something up here? Are we in the way?”

He doesn’t expect the question. Maybe he doesn’t think you can talk, either. “No. You’re alright.”

And back down the stairs he goes.

Your performative smile vanishes into neutrality. 

The way you derail the subconscious thought; remove any semblance of it from the target’s head. That’s what it is. 

They sigh. They can’t help but admire it.

You catch them staring. You give them a look.

It’s a look they’ve never seen before.

And then, you beam. It’s so real, it makes them sick.

“Wanna go play games in the computer lab?”

You know they’re going to reject you. 

And yet you ask, anyway.

~*•*~

They don’t get it. They truly… don’t.

You’re an enigma. You’re not real.

You’re patiently impatient. You’re stubbornly insistent. 

Your similarities are alarmingly evident. It’s not just– y’know. And yet, it doesn’t affect you the way it does them.

They don’t know why you’re different. You’re everything they are. You’re nothing at all.

Every time they see you, it’s like you’re trying to redo your first encounter. You act as if everything’s been wiped clean; like this is a blank slate you’ve got the upper hand on. It always ends the same, too. 

Even now, as they hear their window open and shut. It can’t be a minute before three in the morning. Though their body remains buried in their coffin of blankets, they know it’s you. They can’t fathom why you waste your time coming. What can they offer you that you can’t get from others?

They also wonder how many times you’ve done this.

Your footsteps are practically nonexistent. The covers briefly shift before stilling. They feel a finger prod at their thigh, sheet doing little to hide your touch.

It’s a rather innocent touch. But it makes their mind whirl through bad, bad things.

Their eyes peek through the threshold; your shadowy figure is the first to be seen.

And then, the vague outline of their knife in your hand. Were you under the sheets?

You seem to sense their confusion. “How else am I gonna eat your mom’s pie? Hard to beat the professional.”

God, you’re such a stalker.

You bolt to their bedroom door. They’re not sure what else they can do other than get out of bed.

They’re hardly chasing you, but you still slam their door with all your might. It’s loud, reverberating through the walls. They’d say you’re immensely lucky if their mother sleeps through the noise. 

They test their luck, pressing a hand to the wood. It doesn’t budge. They lean their shoulder into it. You must be pushing back.

You slip, every so often. The door cracks open a smidge, right before crashing closed. They give up, choosing a different plan of action.

They slide their window open, making sure it clicks against the frame hard enough for you to hear. They match your aggression when they shut it.

You instantly run downstairs. Here we go.

They follow you, ensuring there’s no possibility of you hearing them. You stand with your back to the stairs in the middle of the kitchen, watching the door with anticipation. Their blade in hand.

You let out an ‘eek!’ when they jump you from behind.

They’re not sure if the bang was your head hitting the tile, but you seem winded either way. You skid the knife across the floor, knowing you’d lose the fight for it. They watch it skid to a halt, debating whether it’s worth the trip or not. You’re smart, sometimes. 

Though you’re pinned, stomach to the ground, you couldn’t sound more cocky. “Damn. You got me good.”

Their fingers lace through your scalp, pressing your cheek to the chilly surface. Your skin’s a feeling they’ve started getting used to. They wish they weren’t.

At their lack of response, you continue. “How’d you know I’d fall for it?”

It’s bait. You want them to insult you.

They want to, too.

“Susie says you sneak out a lot. She only believes things she’s seen with her own two eyes, too. Never one to assume.”

It’s like you’re gathering intel for some top secret mission. “Stop talking to her.”

“What about Noelle? She likes me. I think. I wouldn’t want to break her sweet heart.”

They tighten their grip. Your face twitches. “No.”

They can tell you’re hardly fighting back. Your arms lay limp to your sides. They’re hovering above your torso, too. No contact. But you refuse to move.

“I’m not allowed to have friends?”

They don’t care. They just want you to leave. Move away. Go find some other monster town to rot in. It’s not like you’d make friends there, either.

…do you have friends? Here?

They don’t like the thought. They really, really don’t like the thought. 

It shouldn’t matter. Why does it matter?

“No,” they find themself answering.

You’re unphased. Maybe even a little happy.

Your smile’s distorted. “So you’re my only friend?”

“We’re not friends.”

“Are you sure?” You ask rather genuinely. “What if this is just how humans make friends?”

There it is. 

You’ve only ever brought up that word when you first met. It’s almost foreign to hear on your tongue. Like you’ve never said it before. Or you just hate saying it. Do you hate saying it? Is it as unnatural for you as it feels?

“It’s not.”

Like hell they’d know.

You shrug to the best of your ability. “Could be. Not like you’d know.”

And their heart plummets.

They hate how your eyes light up in realization. They hate how you feel complete and genuine sympathy.

“I mean– I wouldn’t know either!” You correct yourself.

They feel like they’re getting that sitdown with their parents again. About why they look different than everyone else. About why people look at them differently. About why they are different. 

And even then, at that ripe age, they could feel it. 

That sense of not knowing. Of not wanting to know. They’d have been better off lied to. 

Your eyes close. You must be tired of looking at them.

“Do… Do you know anything?”

It’s not mocking or accusatory in any way. You don’t sound so sure yourself.

Their hand slips from your hair. It limply drags down your neck. They wish they didn’t wonder what it’d feel like. 

Their silence is an answer in itself. They don’t want to give you one. They don’t want to hear you say it. To rub it in their face.

“Is it normal for human friends to want to kiss each other?”

They swallow. It’s like molten lava. “What?”

“Is it?”

Is it?

“I–” It’s too late for this. They aren’t thinking straight. “I don’t know.”

You’re pleading, now. 

“Would you do it? If I asked you to.”

“No,” they grit their teeth.

It’s like you don’t want to hear the answer. 

They don’t feel as good about it. When you stare at them with large, beady eyes. You look pathetically sad. 

“Can you kiss me?”

Yet, you ask anyway.

They can’t will themself to say no. Like they said they would. To spit in your face and tell you you’re insane, like they’ve wanted to do ever since meeting you.

Because there is something wrong with you. It’s you. The way you are. 

It’s always been you. You’re the disgusting human.

When you realize they’re unmoving, your head flops against the tile. You melt into the floor. 

“Guess you’re no liar,” you state with little surprise.

They’re off you in an instant.

You’re startled by the sudden movement, but you don’t lift from your place. They don’t do much more than shift next to you. 

When you realize they’re not leaving, why aren’t they leaving, you crawl to sit, knees touching their own.

“I don’t get it,” they admit.

“Get what?”

“You.”

You pause.

They don’t want to hear it.

You rummage through your pocket, slipping out your phone. You show them your homescreen. It’s of a group of monsters they’ve never seen before. Your old friends.

“My friends always asked when my tail was gonna grow in. Or my ears. I always told them it’d happen. Late bloomer, y’know?”

You place your phone face-down, as if wanting to wipe all the memories that came with it.

“It’s just– another reminder, y’know?”

Another reminder. 

It’s like you never see it.

They can’t help but feel vulnerable. When they mumble, it’s practically inaudible.

“How does it not… get it you?”

You huff. It’s a poor excuse for a laugh. “It does. It never won’t.”

…it does?

They knew it did. They think. 

But to hear you say it?

It’s. Different.

It’s a nice thought. A nice feeling. That you’re capable of it. Of understanding.

You’re staring at their hands. You rub a thumb over one of their fingers. You’re… warm.

Not as unpleasant as they remember.

“But we’re not that different, right?” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” they say with little conviction. It’s a silent admission. You seem to pick up on it.

You shrug. “Maybe it doesn’t.”

There’s a moment where you hesitate. It’s like you’d rather keep it all to yourself. Bury it deep, deep down.

And yet, your lips part.

“Or maybe I just hate the world more than I hate you.”

~~~

guys say u asked for this. say it.

why do i like when kris abuses me LMAOO STOP THIS IS BAD

i focused more on the mental fundamentals of their relationship bc last time was physical and idk i think kris canonically being sorta sadistic + being weird with humans is kooky

anyways sos for delay crosspost is done im gonna finish up the poll fic then post that sometime soon sorry to keep a lady in waiting ;))