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au: in which the monster in your bed is worse than the one in your head | @whiterxbbits

( he tells you ugly Lies, with his smoke-wreathed eyes;   cherry-stained lips and a Cheshire Smile— )

Winter does not retreat gracefully from this city; blurry faces under a psychedelic watercolor glaze, dull outlines grayer than the concrete they walk. The curdling sky bears down, heavy, an imaginary weight against the sea of drooping shoulders and bent heads.

No one spares a second glance for a Cat hidden in plain sight here. No one cares for a Lost Boy tucked into his own shadow.

Black flakes off his knuckles in patches of decay, a Constellation of violent pride manifest spotted red. It stands in stark contrast to the Rabbit’s white coat, scabbed fingers drawing false comfort along a soft cheek. “Are you still wearing my ring?”

he is too calm, to still in contrast to his shaking - both perhaps shadow-ghosts in their own right; wisp and a haunting. the way kanta smiles is familiar under his skin, this needle-pricking throat-closing feeling that he associates with the other, both a comfort and a choking.

there is a fear in both running and staying. he forces himself to meet the other’s eyes, trembling, ring on finger too heavy when he lifts it up to look at it, too out of place with threadbare clothes and smudged cheeks.

“a - a gift? what do you - you want in return? what do i give you in place of it, i can’t - can’t accept this for nothing.” is ha afraid of what he wants from him, or curious of what he sees in him that has him so - endeared?

“please, i - i would just like to know. i don’t… don’t understand what you want from me.”

What does he want? A lot of things. Nothing. He doesn’t quite know, hasn’t since the day he lost the Original version of himself. ( perhaps not even before then. ) The question no longer amuses him to consider, too much a reminder of what he’s lost and what he no longer is, and the ever-present Grin finally falls from his face.

( beware a Cat who doesn’t smile. )

Fingers find flesh now, pressing skin to bone, willing the blood to pool under pressure until bruises form in his fingerprints. Another reminder of who is in control here; a reminder of who this little Pet belongs to.

There’s wide-eyed curiosity even in horrific things.

Upon arriving, Lenore felt like she had been instantly transported into one of the terrifying fairytales Metzger would spin for her as a little girl. Empty threats to ship her off to the Starlight Carnival that would make her dart and hide behind her father’s legs.

But the more she looked, the more her fear subsided—the more she wanted to explore this strange, crumbling place. In other words: Lenore is being nosy.

Lenore sticks to the shadows for the time being, perhaps not paying too much attention to her own surroundings to notice a set of footprints with (what appears to be) no source coming right towards her. Not until Kanta’s practically almost tripped over her. She gasps, “Coño, what the—Kanta?”

Pausing, she feels the invisible air for a pair of familiar shoulders, then pats up until she reaches where his face is, one hand on either cheek. “Should’ve known you’d be out and about. Can I see your face, or are ya gonna stay invisible? Am I gonna have to hold your hand so I know where you are?”

He submits to her search with a fond resignation, knows she will not be satisfied until she has found his shape in the air. He never did understand this little habit of hers; what is the merit in knowing his exact location? Is it not enough, the knowledge that he is simply There, somewhere, always watching.

Rough palms are a familiar warmth against his cheeks, their texture and shape well-remembered after countless games of hide-and-seek like this, played out in the dark. His mouth stretches into a grin, pushing against her hands slightly.

“That would be fun wouldn’t it?” he laughs, jarring in the otherwise quiet night. “Careful, people will start to talk, think you’re going crazy making friends with invisible Cats.”

he is not sure if he wanted to see the other or not; needed a reminder that haggard breaths and dirt and snow in lungs is not all there is to this place, not sure if the silhouette of kanta is a more that is better or worse in this kind of wasteland place. there is both a comfort and a fear he can’t quite explain, body a contradiction when he touches him.

“i just - just wanted to - “ boy stutters out, words chopped out of throats haphazardly “ - needed to, to - escape, just. just for a little bit. please.”

does not not know what he is begging for, but for a thing curled onto the ground, it is fitting. when heavy ring’s unfamiliar weight sinks down on fingers, eyes are too wide, darting between the other and the gem, pink rising to cheeks and spreading to ears, unable to meet sharp gazes again.

“what - what is this? what is it for - it… mean? kanta, i don’t - don’t understand - “

Curious boy, little rabbit more Fear than person, curled into a hidey-hole, jumping at his own Shadow. Is this any way to live? he wants to ask. Is this fun? Are you having fun, running from the night? 

“Hmm?” he feigns ignorance, smile the closest to Innocence that his brother’s madness in him will allow. “You don’t have to understand, just accept it. As a gift.” ( a sign of ownership, a reminder that there will always be a Cat watching wherever you go. )

“Here Puppy,” he calls into the dark, a sing-song taunt dangling like a lure, waiting for the bite. It shouldn’t take long; the Cadejo has never been fond of this particular pet-name, and it never fails to produce the desired result.

( how many fingers do you have still? careful those teeth don’t find You instead this time. ) Not that he would mind. He’s always preferred the Black side of his ‘friend’, finds it to be better company than the usual farce of civility that he puts on.

His footsteps crunch quietly in the white noise of the night, invisible only to those who cannot find their way in darkness. The only other sound is his voice echoing, an open invitation for fellow shades. “I know you’re out here Mateo. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

He has nothing to hide - or at least that’s what he likes to tell himself, what he wants to believe. But those very secrets he denies are the ones keeping him here, knowing that Metzger will sell him out to the cops if he makes one wrong move. But that’s exactly what they are - secrets - but for some odd reason nothing is a secret to the thing that sits beside him tonight.

His eyebrows knit together when he sees Kanta, watches his mouth carefully - too carefully - because he never knows what to expect from him. And surely enough, he speaks.

“I don’t recall saying that you could sit here,” is what Omari manages in return, because he doesn’t care about Metzger enough to talk about him here of all places, with someone he barely considers human.

“If there’s something you want, say it. I don’t have time to think about what Metzger could have been if he hadn’t been such a fucking asshole.”

His grin widens a fraction. Though he doesn’t turn away from the spectacle Metzger is putting on for them, it’s apparent his attention is no longer totally devoted to the show. There’s always been something incredibly Amusing about how easily the ones like Omari make it for him to dig in under their skin. ( always the ones who put on the biggest Front, who have the most to Hide. )

“And I don’t recall needing your permission for anything, least of all for what I choose to do or don’t,” he echoes—taunting, mocking. Eyes slant to peer over at Omari, laughter there, quiet and chilling in the dim lighting. “Relax, Mr. Boogieman, I’m not here for you.” ( this time. )

“There’s an interesting little Theory going around amongst the rabble, care to hear it?”—there is no pause, no opportunity given for the other party to respond to what is not a question—“This bit of entertainment tonight has been a set-up, and we are all unwitting Players.”

There isn’t much point carrying on in his usual ways here, not when the snow remembers and preserves every step he takes. ( a nuisance to be sure. ) So, for once, the Cat is fully corporeal even as he continues to slink around the edges of the pockets their people have formed—an unusual sight perhaps to those not accustomed to seeing his face outside of shifting Reflections in the dark.

But never mind them; years of sharing the same space and these old silhouettes have lost their novelty. Besides, he has plenty of Time in the future, to pluck whatever secrets they still hold onto out of their heads. It’s the ‘locals’ he’s interested in at the moment.

“Hiding from the Wicked World again? You know how futile that is.”

He’s been looking for Theo since the morning, searching through the various unfamiliar nooks and pockets that occupy their new ‘Home’. Like a little animal scared of its own shadow at noon, the boy always did have a habit of burrowing into inhospitable corners, seeking refuge where none can possibly be.

He crouches, makes himself as small as this Rabbit who is ducking.into the snow banks, trying to turn away from the accusing gaze of the moon overhead. ( a Cat and its pet? toy? what title can be assigned to this relationship now? )

He brings the rings to her, cascades wealth off his dirty fingertips, smiles wide and casual up at her. She holds back for a second, surveying, before allowing herself to touch the jewelry, caress beauty with greedy care. “Well done,” she offers, nonchalant approval dangling from her lips the way she sets a newly acquired necklace to sit dangling from her chest.

She watches as he considers the emerald, turns it this way and that until it glitters gold in the low light. She knew as soon as she demanded it that he would keep the green jewel, knew that the sharp, imperfect cut would catch his eye. “Not at all,” she murmurs, gently taking the ring anyways. She holds it up next to his face, tilts his chin up with a sharp fingernail to compare. There’s a flicker there that matches, that echoes perfectly between dark eyes and dark forest-gem.

“It does suit you nicely,” she says, letting teeth, fangs show. “And in any case, I much prefer these myself.” She lifts a nearly clear silver blue sapphire to her eyes, inspects it closely. Abundance for him. Discipline for her. Delightful. “Will you wear it as a ring, or would you like me to make it into something a little more…” She considers, for a moment. “Fitting?”

A brow arches, expression amused, but still tolerant of the talon digging into his chin—of the scrutiny in those chilling eyes. ( what are you looking for in the Dark? are you finding what you want? ) It’s not until she holds up the emerald that he understands.

He laughs, a short, curt sound not entirely lacking in humor.

“Doesn’t it? I’d take you up on that offer, but alas, it’s not for me.” The ring falls back into his hand, plucked away by thieving claws used to getting what they want. It’s a mesmerizing color, certainly, but he has no interest or use for jewelry. Material goods never did have a pull over him; he’d much prefer what he can steal from the depths of a person’s head instead.

1. had sex: $10.00 2. smoked: $3.00 3. got drunk: $7.00 4. went skinny dipping: $5.00 5. kissed someone of the opposite sex: $5.00 6. kissed someone of the same sex: $5.00 7. cheated on a test: $2.00 8. fell asleep in class $0.50 9. been expelled: $5.00 10. been in a fist fight: $10.00 11. given oral: $10.00 12. got oral: $10.00 13. prank called the cops: $3.00 14. stole something: $2.00 15. done drugs: $5.00 16. dyed your hair: $0.50 17. done something with someone older (3+): $3.00 18. went out with someone over 18 (if <18): $4.00 19. ate a whole thing of Oreos: $0.50 20. cried yourself to sleep: $1.00 21. said you love someone but didn’t mean it: $1.00 22. been in love: $4.00 23. got caught doing something that you shouldn’t have been doing: $1.00 24. went streaking: $4.00 25. got arrested: $5.00 26. made out with someone: $2.00 27. peed in the pool: $0.50 28. played spin the bottle: $1.00 29. done something you regret: $3.00

She picks up a nice ring, probably from a wedding, single diamond framed in two rubies, twirls it between deft, manicured fingertips. “It’s nice,” she says noncommittally, sparing an offhand glance at the watch the boy has brought to her. “Would be nicer if these things didn’t all have blood on them;” inspects a hair clip dripping with viscous red. It can probably be washed, she thinks, imagines it in the burning girl’s hair, imagines the cuff links sewn into the flying child’s chest. Maybe for him she’d leave the blood.

It is a waste, for dead men to hold onto their silver niceties, their earthly jewels of precious sentiment. It might be more of a waste, however, for them to have it, the way they hoard and pick over other people’s memories, no real consequences, no real care. Grow a life out of other people’s bones left behind, it’s easy to decorate using broken wedding bands.

“I’ll probably sell what I can,” she replies, considering a pleasant leather and silver wallet he’s brought her. “Others will be for costumes, because what better facade than that which has been taken by our own claws?” She looks past him at the room, all the beautiful chaos in red and gold and shattered glass. A nice painting, if that was still a thing she allowed herself. She pushes away thoughts of oils and paintbrushes and points languidly at a woman laying contorted on the ground. Her fingers are gilded in a few sparkling rings, emeralds and sapphires clear in a pool of blood. “Get those, will you?” she asks, rubs a spot of blood off her fingernail, waits.

He blinks at her, expression blank, eyes flat—not uncomprehending, just uncaring. What does it matter if leather and silk are stained? Dyed a shade of red with far too natural sources? After all, is that not what their adoring audiences come to them for: an alternate kind of entertainment for a night, a facade of civility painted with undertones of something darker.

“Hmm, suppose it has a poetic edge to it,” he agrees easily enough, attention already turning elsewhere. The matter of costumes and glittering exoskeletons to be worn under the light does not concern him, given the nature of his Act. No point in dressing up, when he sheds his skin so often.

His gaze follows where her finger directs, landing on a still-writhing figure in black not two steps away from their position. ( Curious little creature. what do you suppose she’s trying to accomplish, imitating a dying worm at your feet? ) No matter, he’ll still gladly strip her of all she has.

The rings require some tugging to remove from her clenching fingers, but he manages without ripping anything else with them. For now that’s all he needs of her. Sapphires and diamonds cascade onto the counter, a small fortune left in a haphazard pile, only slightly tainted by the red of his hands.

The emerald, he holds onto.

It’s hard to tell how long they’ve been here, caught up in someone else’s Show, unwitting partakers to a scripted performance none auditioned for. Yet here they are, playing their designated roles perfectly. ( here, Cryptid 2 can be seen attempting resuscitation upon Cryptid 1. there, another Murdered Man 5, Human falls. )

If you were to ask him, the entire thing is starting to become rather a bore; any good Story, left to run unchecked with no limits, no culmination to aim for, will go stale. They passed that point some time ago.

And at last, along comes the main actor, the Star himself, gracing them all with his presence.

He perks up, interest restored by this change in pace—so it seems he’ll be staying for the Finale after all. Slipping into the empty seat next to his favorite bogeyman, he settles in for one last spectacle.

Death. So final, the one thing that cannot be reversed, even for those with her ability. They’re not divine, after all not omnipotent, despite the impression many seem to have. And here in the bar, the gravity of it doesn’t seem to matter, carnage surrounding all of them.

She has passed bodies in her quest to somehow minimize the amount of violence going on, trying to break up scuffles, trying to heal those hurt, but she hadn’t actually seen someone dying … until now.

It is a weird feeling, one she cannot place. Knowing in her head that it was likely self defence, that many had no choice but to kill in order to keep their lives, and yet she still can’t help but wish that there was another way.

Blinks, starts to apologize for staring, but her words halt in her mouth. Perhaps this was his way of dealing with such circumstances, gallows humour seemed to be a common practice, and yet she can’t entirely convince herself of it.

“ Not much of a party anymore, though. Are you … alright? ”

Oh what a Dove she is, truly living up to the white feathers she wears as often as skin. ( and what would happen if he were to reach out and touch those gossamer wings? will they still Fly when dripping blood? )

His fingers twitch; tempting, to paint this Rose Red. She’d match the rest of them then.

“Really?” he feigns surprise, as though this is a revelation he hasn’t stumbled upon yet. Cat eyes—never still for long with such an interesting montage playing out around them—hold hers briefly in the pause, Cheshire grin sharp as the glass that crunches beneath their feet. “On the contrary, it seems to be in full swing finally.”

With the fight migrating away from their little corner, he sheathes his claws again, and settles in to watch the Show unfold. The section of floor next to him is swept clean of shards, an open invitation for her to join him.