Xiaohongshu

Monarch examined the plushie closely, studying the embroidered details on its fabric. Despite its toy-like appearance, it was undeniably the spitting image of Crimson 1. Monarch's thoughts raced with confusion and conflicting emotions as he held the plushie in his hand. It was undeniably a strange thing for an ace pilot to be fascinated by a toy version of their deadliest foe.

"War criminal plushi.."

"Yes."

"He's in a plushie form now."

"He looks cute, actually."

Monarch pointed Crimplushie.

"He used to be taller than me. But now.."

pat pat Crimplushie's head

"Smol."

Monarch's fingers tightened around the plushie, his breath hitching slightly as he pressed it against his chest. The soft fabric muffled the sound of his racing heart- too fast, too warm - as he buried his face into Crimplushie’s stitches.

"Tsk... Pathetic," he muttered to no one in particular, voice strained with something between irritation and reluctant affection. His grip didn’t loosen; if anything, it grew tighter when the plushie squished slightly under pressure. So damn soft.

He jerked upright suddenly - as if caught committing a crime - glancing at Sicario’s insignia on the wall like they might judge him for this weakness (they would).

Monarch could only hope that his fellow wingmen would never stumble upon his secret.

The thought of them discovering him holding a plushie version of Crimson 1 was ridiculous… and embarrassing. He cringed, imagining their snickers and knowing grins at his uncharacteristic vulnerability.

The King of Hell, cuddling with a plushie. It was absurd...

But Monarch found himself unable to put it down, unable to tear his eyes away from the toy's soft form.

A grown ass man, hugging a child's toy…

Monarch's face flushed. He felt ridiculous, like a little boy cradling his favorite stuffed animal on a lonely night. The plushie was incredibly soft, its synthetic stuffing molding easily to his grip.

"Goddamnit," he hissed, his fingers digging into Crimplushie's body.

It's so soft...

I'm not a little boy.

Yes, I'm a grown man.

That's why I feel that it's so damn cute.

That's why l hugged it.

Peter and Evelyn had been "hanging out" (read: relentlessly interrogating) when they noticed the smudged crimson on Monarch's lips.

Peter pointed lazily at his own mouth. "You've got... uh... war paint?" He licked his thumb with exaggerated care, wiping it off Monarch's face like he was cleaning up a toddler.

Evelyn leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. "Monarch- Why do you use lipstick?"

"I don't." He looked away instantly - brunette hair practically glowing against the sudden red flush creeping up his neck.

Peter snorted so hard he choked on air while Evelyn gasped dramatically: "OHHHH! Soooo... girlfrie-" "Or boyfriend!" Peter cut in cheekily, knowing exactly what buttons to press.

"I just..." Monarch started weakly. But before he could come up with a decent excuse, Peter decided to be a proper wingman and took the reins.

"We're all friends here. Nothing to hide," he said, wearing a smug smile that said he was thoroughly enjoying Monarch's predicament. Monarch shot him a dirty look behind Evelyn's back. Thanks for nothing, dickhead.

"Right! Exactly!" Evelyn chirped. She leaned closer, eyes locked onto Monarch like a radar system.

"The lipstick was from... a friend." Monarch mumbled, his voice flat with forced indifference.

Peter's grin widened dangerously. "Oh? Just a friend?" He dragged out the word like it was covered in honey-sweet and sticky with implication.

Evelyn practically vibrated with excitement, elbowing Peter hard enough to make him wheeze. "SHUT UP AND LET HIM ANSWER!" She whirled back on Monarch, who looked about two seconds away from bolting for the nearest emergency exit.

Monarch clenched his jaw so tight you could hear his molars creak: "...We were drinking. Some idiot kissed me mid-sentence." His glare could've melted steel-but it did nothing to stop Peter from miming exaggerated kissy noises behind Evelyn's back while making direct eye contact (monster).

A beat of silence passed before Evelyn burst into laughter: "HA! So which unlucky bastard got their face planted on Mr.-I-Don't-Care-About-Relationships?"

"Nobody important!" Monarch snapped, a little too quickly in Peter's opinion.

Evelyn was not deterred. "Nobody important." She repeated, her voice edged in the same sly mockery Peter always used.

Monarch's cheeks were blazing at this point-not that he'd ever admit it-but before he could say anything more, Peter decided to add: "Yeah, can you even name anyone special to you? Other than your precious planes?"

Monarch's teeth audibly clenched as Peter hit the bullseye on that one.

He couldn't name anyone off the top of his head. There were people who respected him, people who worked with him, people he tolerated.

He was close to his wingmen... but not too close.

Peter was still wearing his mocking grin like he'd won the lottery.

Jerk...

Evelyn sensed the brewing tension and cut in. "Come on, you must have someone! Right?" She prodded, oblivious to the glare Monarch threw at Peter behind her back.

Monarch's eye twitched.

Peter-traitorous, smirking Peter-was now leaning back against the wall like he owned it, arms crossed and looking far too pleased with himself. "Ohhhh? What's that face for?" He tilted his head mockingly.

But fate is cruel in its mercy. The blonde pilot did not burn; he fell - far from Presidia, into an uncultivated field where wildflowers swayed under blood-orange sunsets. His fuselage groaned against rough soil before settling with eerie finality.

Monarch landed nearby without hesitation (had he been watching all along?). He pried open the cockpit to find his enemy motionless - golden hair strewn across grass stained crimson by trickling wounds. Even unconscious, there was something unbearably poetic about it: a sleeping beauty wrapped in thorns and petals alike.