uninterested

~*~ Masterlist ~*~

~POST CHAPTER 5~

Jealousy, Jealousy ~ you have no friends: the festival: the movie

On That Night ~ subconscious verbal masochist x rage baiter

Imposter Syndrome ~ sadistic kris because humans (you) are gross

~PRE CHAPTER 5~

Taking What's Not Yours ~ a stupid, one-sided academic rivalry

The Other Side Of Paradise ~ when two emos resonate

Take Me Home ~ diy how-to-avoid-being-pranked

Never Feeling Like I've Been Loved ~ wanting what others can't give Part 1: And When I Can't Receive Part 2: The Words I Know You Mean Part 3: Nothing Can Set Me Free

To Hell Or Paradise ~ halloween ft pining kris

I Still Feel The Same ~ enemies to uhh not enemies? Part 1 Part 2

I'm a Trainwreck Too ~ a bloody mess of double sided obsession

~~~

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 ;))

~~~

Radars are for the paranoid who care enough to keep up to date on others. If Kris had one, no one would be on it.

They struggle to keep their head up, nestled so comfortably within the confines of their arms. They’ve been at school for hours that drag like days; periods that drag like they’ve got nothing better to do. Everything blends together in the end.

They’re pretty sure they’re in psych. It was supposed to be that one explicit bird course they took as a free elective, but it ended up being more trouble than it’s worth. Tests (they don’t study for), homework (they don’t do), and a shitton of group activities.

That one’s more complicated. They don’t care to take the fall when they’re the only one to blame, but they’re not about to pull a bunch more familiar faces down with them. It’s not worth the argument. Might depend on who’s in the group, though. 

Everyone’s split up into groups of four, all with their large sheets of chart paper. Their designated island of desks is tucked nicely in the corner, rather isolated from the rest of the classroom. 

They’re seated at the same corner desk as Noelle, who they so happened to be assigned into the same group as. To Noelle’s direct left sits you. To your left, sharing the adjacent corner desk, is what they can only assume to be your friend. He and you share a familiarity with each other. Nothing much else to note. 

The teacher’s handwriting is an obvious outlier from the blank sheet. At the top of their group’s paper sits the word: Stress.

“O-kay,” Noelle squints at the board, tapping the capped marker against the wood in thought. “‘What is it’, ‘How is it expressed through action towards others’, and ‘How do people handle it’.”

You hum. “So… definition, result on others, and result on self?”

“I think so. That sounds right.”

Their yawn is strategically hidden against their sweater. Another class, another set of papers to hang up on the walls. Unlike their mother’s classroom of children’s drawings, which may be considered charming to some, these take up nothing but space. 

Your friend (they never caught his name) searches up a definition and paraphrases it from google. Then, everyone starts spitfiring.

“For the ‘self’ section, just list, like, mental health stuff. Like anxiety, depression, burnout… y’know.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Noelle scribbles down your words. “What about appetite? And maybe… self isolation?”

Your friend taps the ‘others’ section. “Mhm. For this, do ‘easily irritated’. Or, actually, don’t phrase it like that. Write ‘frustration issues’. Or–”

Someone’s voice pierces across the classroom. They watch as all three of their groupmates’ heads turn to your teacher, who’s begun lecturing one of your classmates about their gum popping habit. The woman’s rubbing her temples to ease away her likely exaggerated migraine.

With Noelle’s marker hovering in the air, you’re the one to break her out of her trance. “Just write ‘see teacher’.”

The deer lets out a cackle of disbelief, right before her hand flies straight to her mouth. Her pupils zip to their teacher, ensuring she heard nothing. Your friend, however, lets his snickers out low and sneaky. 

Once the room quiets down a tad, your friend continues. “What’s the word for someone who micromanages other people’s lives? It’s like that thing– about how they feel like they have no control over their own lives, so they’re… uh…”

“Oh! Like, codependency?” Noelle offers.

He snaps. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

“Surprised you forgot it,” you shove his shoulder in good faith. “It’s practically your parents’ middle names.”

He bangs his hand to the desktop for the dramatics. They can feel the vibrations through the wood. “Oh, dude. Did I tell you about yesterday? When I was out with Roxy and her friends?”

“She said something this morning,” your eyes squint in thought. “Something about your ass curfew, right?”

“Holy shit, I swear I was five minutes over – and we hit traffic from an accident that closed all the fast routes, mind you, so five minutes was lucky – and she still gives me crap when I get home.”

You gawk. “Dude, what? You’ve literally beaten your sister home with the same curfew and you’re still the one getting shot the most.”

His fist comes down harder. “That’s what I’m saying!”

“Evander!”

The boy winces, crowding in on himself at the sight of their standing teacher. “Shit, sorry.”

“Language.”

“Right. Sorry.”

You drum your fingers, ignoring the teacher’s temper tantrum. “Shows that the goodie two shoes always bites it first.”

“Psh,” Noelle huffs, eyes glued to the chart paper as she pretends to scribble nonsense. “Tell me about it.”

They can tell you don’t expect her chime-in – nor does Noelle herself, seemingly having let it slip – but you recover much quicker than your friend (whose name they now know), grin more curious than ever. “Oh yeah?”

Noelle’s not usually one to give any details about her family. The only way anyone would know is if they knew her growing up. It’s just the slightest surprising that she’s giving you anything.

Her eyebrows furrow. “Try being out for twenty minutes before getting a phone call.”

“Oh god,” you watch her with bated breath. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” she runs a hand through her hair. “And she’ll know everything before I leave. Where I’m going, who I’m going with, when I’m coming back– it’s like she’s just calling to call!”

“You sure she hasn’t hired someone to spy on you? Watch over you like some creepy stalker? Report back when they see something fishy?”

“Haha,” she snorts. It’s obvious you’re joking, but she thinks about it for a second longer. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Your guy friend squints. “What?”

The transition into not doing any work is almost immediate; their group’s devolved into rants about parents being annoying, school, sharing grades, upcoming stuff – anything like that. While the deer jots something down every once in a while, you and your friend pitch in out of courtesy. In the moment, anyways.

And you, smooth as can be, usher Noelle into any conversation you begin. It’s almost impressive the way you turn the concept of a trio into something other than a complete nightmare to be a part of.

You’re very eccentric when you ask her questions, ensuring you stare her dead in her eyes. Not to intimidate, but to show that you’re listening. Kris watches her ease from a shy ambivert to an open book. 

It’s like you’re subconsciously coercing her into sharing more details about her life with no ulterior motives.

…or what others would call “getting to know someone”. Same thing.

It’s interesting the way Noelle seems more than comfortable enough to talk to you about things they know she’d rather not talk about. 

But you don’t leave out your own friend, either. It’s oddly equal; the way you all interact. And yet, you’re the obvious standout. 

You seem to feed off of Noelle’s energy, judging by the way you charm her effortlessly. It’s like you know what to say to keep her happy. Not in the way that, say, a people pleaser would. You say things with an attitude that makes it a struggle to disagree with you. It’s weirdly ironic.

Now that they think about it, you might be friends with Susie, too. Know her, at the very least. They’re pretty sure you passed each other in the halls once. She glanced behind her, calling you a maniac. Some inside joke, they assume. But it wasn’t an insult. Your laugh echoed over the mindless chatter.

They’ve never had a real conversation with you before. And from what the current group dynamic seems like, they may never. That’s fine.

At least you’re not a douche. Might be bare minimum, though.

They don’t remember their eyes closing, but they do register sinking until their chin touches the desktop. It’s moist; the condensation from their heat sticking to their skin.

At some point, your voice becomes a noticeable absence from their lively conversation. They caught something about you feeling bad that Noelle’s doing a majority of the writing. There’s some rustling, shifting around. She must’ve switched spots with you.

While your friend keeps her deep in conversation (whether she realizes it or not), you jot away. The damp scratch of the marker engulfs their eardrums. 

They feel your eyes drift to them every few letters. They let out a breath. They’ve gone through this enough times to know what’s about to happen. The marker ceases. 

“Hey.”

A finger prods at their elbow. They snuggle deeper into their cocoon, hoping you’ll take the hint.

You don’t.

“Kris, right?” You might as well be caressing their arm. “Asriel’s sibling?”

That catches their attention. 

They lift their head just enough to be able to open their eyes. After their vision cries from the blaring industrial lights, they can make out your figure. You’re huddled within your arms, blatantly mimicking their form. 

They groan out a ‘mhm’, fully prepared for that to be the end of the conversation.

It isn’t.

As their lids drift closed, you seem to panic, ushering closer to their safe space. They can feel the heat of your breath through their sweater. 

After having confirmation that they’re not about to ignore you again, you continue. “How is he? College treating him good?”

“Internet’s out,” they mumble.

“Oh, right,” you ponder, appearing more disappointed than them. “So you haven’t been able to talk?”

“No.”

A noise of confirmation escapes your throat. They watch your pupils wander from the empty space of desk between you two, to their slowly-shutting eyelids, to the chart paper. You don’t hide the way your face lights up with an idea.

Right as their vision blackens, you clutch their bicep and tug lightly. It’s an attempt at unraveling them. They let you. Mainly because they’re too lazy to fight back. You gesture for them to look at your array of ideas. 

The sheet’s practically filled to the brim. Besides the description – which is still lengthier than what’s likely necessary – the following two categories barely have any white space left. They recognize Noelle’s calm, careful handwriting. The curlier letters must be yours.

You rap the marker’s cap against ‘self’. “We should do some physical effects too, right? Things like hair or fur loss? Even just patchy growth in integument in general?”

That’s what you’re doing. You’re trying to include them. Or you’re upset they’ve done jack. 

They let their arms dangle by their sides. “Sounds good,” they mutter dismissively, fighting to keep their eyes ajar.

You sit still, observing them intently. They can tell you’re waiting for something else.

A moment passes. You’re just awkwardly watching each other.

And you deflate when you get nothing. 

You scribble down your points with efficiency. They’re much too hopeful to think they’re off the hook. You’re not even finished the sentence when you turn back to them. What a nightmare.

Your mouth forms a straight line. “How ‘bout we do some effects on bodily systems, too?”

They’re unmoving.

“Okay.”

You’re unphased.

“Cardiovascular, from elevated heartrate?”

“Mhm.”

“Digestive, from nausea, bloating, aching, etcetera?”

“Yeah.”

“Musculoskeletal, from headaches, back and neck pain?”

“Uh huh.”

You swallow. You’re getting more ticked off as the seconds go by.

They wonder if you actually know all this stuff or if you’re making it up to test them. Doesn’t really matter. 

You’re already locked eyes, and yet your glare grows in intensity. The passive aggression is difficult to sense. But yeah, it’s there.

“Do you know if the soul gets affected? It is a source of other emotions – that means it could experience negative effects from negative emotions, right?”

They shrug. “Couldn’t tell you.”

Before you can say anything else, they’re plopping their forehead on the desk. They hear you huff. Your facade’s strong, they’ll give you that. 

A few minutes fly by in silence as you catch the flooded paper up with your ideas. It’s stiffly quiet; almost unnaturally tense for anyone who isn’t about to pass out from sleep deprivation. They don’t really feel it. But they can tell it’s there. 

Eventually, you softly get Noelle and your friend’s attention, claiming that it’s got enough to be ready. They come to the conclusion that it’s some type of informal presentation, judging by the way you ask who’s reading what.

“I can do the definition,” your friend volunteers. They can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. 

“You just wanna do the shortest part!” Noelle teases.

“Hey, you’re a much better public speaker than I am.”

“Pshh, have you seen me do presentations? I get all–”

“How about,” you announce, slow and calculated, “Kris reads it all?”

The duo falls silent at your interruption. At the sound of their name, they peak at you out of courtesy.

While the other two sit in confusion, glancing between themselves, you, and them, you wait with intentiveness. As if you’ve backed them into a corner you know they’ll cower from.

They force extreme indifference into their tone. 

“Okay.” 

Your eye twitches. It’s just the slightest bit satisfying.

“Okay,” you parrot. 

Noelle appears despondent, watching the back of your head like you’re about to crumble. She picks up on what’s happening sooner rather than later. Her eyes gravitate to them, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. 

“You, uh,” your friend hesitates, sliding the sheet towards himself so he can take a look. “You added a few things, right?”

A switch flips in your head. “Right, yeah. Look it over.”

Noelle scoots an inch to his side, leaving them more isolated with you. They can tell they’re both skimming it. Probably wanting this to be done as soon as possible.

“Oh,” the deer lets out a peep of surprise. “You guys commented on body systems?”

You grit your teeth. They can tell you don’t like the phrase ‘you guys’. “Yup.”

“I know the nervous system and mental health stuff sorta fit together,” she takes the marker when you offer it to her. “But it could also correlate to insomnia? Lack of sleep?”

Your eyes dart to Kris. If Noelle catches sight of it, she avoids it like the plague, deciding that the cap between her fingers is the most interesting thing in the world. 

As a result of your empty response, your friend pipes up. “Yeah, that works too. Add it–” he gestures to the other mental-heath-related words, “–over here.”

While the two give little comments back and forth, they decide to meet your eye. It’s not exactly venomous, but it’s still not the nicest look you could’ve given. At the sight of their non-reaction, you swallow.

Another switch flipped. You’re actually not that great at holding up your facades. 

You nudge them as if you haven’t been staring at each other for the past minute. “You ever try melatonin?”

Their face is stagnant.

“Or those nighttime Advils?” Your voice is unnaturally high pitched. “Those always knock me out like a light bulb.”

“I’m good,” they dismiss you rather easily. But they can admit they’re a tad curious how you’ll take it.

“You sure?” You almost coo. “I’m not one to judge, but it seems like you sleep an awful lot in class.”

As your mouth curls into a devious smile, your fingers drum against the freshly-painted words: 

“Sleep deprivation”.

“If you’re like this in here,” you continue, false sympathy in your tone, “I can’t imagine you outside of class.”

They blink.

They’re somewhat surprised. 

You are trying. 

Oh, how they struggle to fight back a grin. 

They uncurl, stretching their arm just enough to mimic your taps on a different word: 

“Codependency”.

And, through lips itching to lift at their corners, they tilt their head.

“Likewise.”

Your smile plummets into hell. 

“Pfft–”

Your friend – who of which you both now realize was watching the entire exchange in anticipation – bursts out into laughter. At least Noelle’s pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping, lazer-focused on empty space.

“Evan,” you bite, whipping your entire body to face him. They watch the tip of your ears beat blood red. 

Between gasps, he bats away your hand when you try to swat him (over Noelle). “Sorry!– sorry– you’re just… you–”

You sit back down, kicking his chair under the desks hard enough for him to tip backwards. You don’t seem nearly as concerned as the doe beside you.

As the teacher begins scolding him for howling on the floor (to which they’re sure he can’t hear), a soft voice comes to their not-needed defence, palm on your shoulder. “Kris didn’t mean it like that! They just… uh…”

Her words die in her throat as you snatch the marker from her limp hand, scribbling over the word with vigor. They watch you with keen interest. You’re notably avoiding eye contact; something rather unusual for you (from what they know).

You broke rather easily.

~*•*~

Once the period ends, they don’t think much about the interaction. They go on with their day, go on with their life, like nothing ever happened. Sure, it was entertaining to see you snap, but it wasn’t that different from, say, the way Susie would snap at them before they became friends. 

Maybe it was a bit different. You pout more. You’re a lot more eccentric with your tantrums. And maybe watching someone so put together collapse is satisfying as hell. But they moved on.

In layman’s terms, they didn’t take much of it very personally.

But you?

You took it like it was an attack on you and everything you stand for. 

It was a turning point. Who knew that’s all it would’ve taken?

The natural indifference you paraded around with vanished the moment you saw them. You were quieter, calculated, irritated. As if their very existence was a burden on your happiness. 

Turns out you share more classes than they realized. They only know now because you’ve made yourself abundantly known. 

You’d try a few witty quips as you pass them; lighter insults that intended to hit a bit too close to home. 

They’d whip back out of courtesy. Small stuff. Usually the first few words they can think of. 

You’re always furious by the end of it.

They’ve realized it’s not their comebacks that piss you off; it’s their lack of reaction. But it’s not like they’re going to fake a sob to get you to back off. 

And besides. It’s a good way to pass the time.

As per your perfect track record, it doesn’t surprise them when they realize you volunteer at the church. They’d come in with Susie and chug all the juice. While it isn’t their full intent to make your life more difficult, they will admit they’ll usher Susie in your direction to ask you specifically to fill it back up.

With strained features, you retreat to the back and emerge with more refreshments. 

Five minutes later, both bowls are empty. It’d repeat like that.

They definitely didn’t need to drink it all every time. Could’ve dumped it in the bushes and it’d have made no difference. But there wasn’t any honor to the idea.

Is the cycle worth it? The liquid vomit to come? To slowly chip away at your patience? Probably not. 

They remember the moment you stopped humouring them; eye twitching, fists clenched. “Why don’t you go slurp up the milk in that dingy alley? I’m sure that’d quench your thirst tenfold.”

They didn’t get the chance. Susie’d swatted her hand at you like you’d been buzzing around her all day. “Psh. Been there, done that.”

You never graced her with a response. Nor did she take it as the insult it was.

School’s not that different, even outside of class. You’d bump your shoulder into theirs, just hard enough to leave a light sting. They only started swerving when you’d up the ante, practically crashing into them at full force. 

You’d stumble into yourself, a genuine look of surprise on your face. It’d instantly morph into unadulterated rage as soon as you heard your friends’ laughter.

Days turn into weeks. It’s an oddly easy routine.

They don’t really go out of their way to annoy you, but they lowkey take the chance whenever they can. 

Gym seems to be your most favoured playing grounds. It’s your way of disguising your outlet of violence through good ol’ competitive sportsmanship.

Their school’s (trashy) version of baseball. You’d always aim for them when up to bat; friendly fire or not. They’d catch it every time, too. Your agape mouth fuels their ego more than it should. 

It came to a point where your team would ridicule you for your aiming skills. You’d brush them off, claiming you ‘aren’t on your A-game’. And then you’d proceed to snipe them till you strike out. 

Basketball. A shrunken court, but basketball nonetheless. They didn’t care much for defence. But when you had the ball? Perhaps they’d try a tad harder.

They’d calmly hold a hand up, managing to block a majority of your shots. At some point, you’d just start tossing it at their head. To which they’d catch. You might’ve growled at one point. 

And dodgeball… speaks for itself.

They remember Susie once confessing she thought they were outright bullying you. Your instigation and retaliation seemed to clear up the accusation. 

But, even after adjusting to the new norm, they never thought twice about you. You’ve just become another in their stoic everyday standard. 

~*•*~

A cool, broken breeze tickles their neck as they perch on their window sill. It’s three in the morning, maybe a few minutes past. It’s always quickly apparent which nights they can sleep through and which nights they shouldn’t bother with. It’s the latter, in this case.

Deciding that laying dead in bed isn’t a good use of their time, they think to scope out Susie. Throw a rock or two at her window; hope it’s enough noise to wake her from her deep sleep. Solid plan.

Their feet skid across their roof, shoes plopping onto the grass. They’ve found themself enjoying the trek. It’s a walk with minimal purpose, but purpose nonetheless.

About to make a practiced left turn towards the apartments, they halt when a figure dances in the corner of their vision. Someone’s stumbling into the middle of the empty street, seemingly having come from the direction of the school.

It’s you.

With your arms huddled close to your form, your drooping head lifts every few seconds to scope out your environment. You look lost. Somehow. They don’t think much of it.

Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it’s some weird plan of yours. 

But then–

“Kris?” 

You’ve spotted them, eyes refusing to leave their own. 

They blink. They’ve never heard you say their name like that. So sweetly. 

Like you’ve just woken up at their bedside, voice tainted with a tired smile. Like you didn’t think they’d be there the next morning, despite it being routine. 

Weird hypothetical to make up, Kris.

When you make no move, they break your stare. Not feeling like getting reprimanded right now, they pivot back towards the apartment streets. 

“Wait–” you trip over yourself in an attempt to catch up. You do so relatively easily; they’re not really trying to run.

When your footsteps are in proximity, they turn towards you in semi-confrontation, hoping you’ll do something other than gawk.

And you do. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Your legs conveniently lose their balance as soon as you reach for their person. They instinctually hold out their arms to keep you from crashing into them, to which you use decisively. There’s remnants of your furrowed brows, likely from their attempt at escape, but it’s been mostly smoothed out. 

They can feel you squeeze their forearms, right near the elbow. “I need your help. Me ‘nd my friends are in the forest. Well, they are. I’m not. They kept moving around… and I wasn’t really paying attention. And now I can’t find them. So I came back here. And I dunno what to do now.”

What an explanation. 

Your head sways as if the wind’s trying to usher it off your shoulders. One look at your glassy, fogged-over eyes has them raising an eyebrow. “Go home.”

Thankfully, you don’t take it as the demand that it sounds like. It’s rather out of character for you, though. 

“What? No,” you’re baffled, as if their suggestion was insane. “I need to go find them.”

“Forest’s pretty big. Doesn’t seem like you’re fit for walking, either.”

You clench up. “I’m plenty fit. I could carry you on my pinky finger.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Yeah. Just try taking the insult back. Dig in the trash for your… trash. Recycling’s better for the planet, anyways.”

They pause. 

“Are you on something?” They find themself asking rather boldly.

You flex your jaw. They can see the gears turning. You’re either preparing the worst excuse imaginable, or the harshest insult to date.

“No?” You decide on.

They expected something else. You’re not as quick-witted as you usually are. You bounce on your heels, fingers still entangled in their sweater. To be fair, they haven’t let go of your arms, either. It’s their main defence mechanism for if you throw a punch. Or something of the sort. 

You find no way to smoothly loop the conversation back around. “So will you help me?”

“No,” they remain impassive.

“Please?”

“No.”

You huff, nails drumming on their forearm. Your face is oddly impartial for someone proven to be highly expressive with emotion.

“Wanna hang out?” You say with complete seriousness.

This has to be some elaborate scheme. You’ve never even insinuated you’d ever want to do something like that.

For some reason, they can’t bring themself to outright deny you. “I’m going to Susie’s.”

Which is a blatant lie. They’ve never stepped foot in her house before. 

You hardly consider the fact. “Can I come?”

They have no idea how to respond to that. 

They must look lost; your eyes become lidded as your grip loosens from their sweater. They follow en suite, arms releasing yours to dangle at their sides.

But your arms don’t fall. 

Your hands trail up their biceps, perching on their shoulders. You mindlessly twirl a finger around a stray strand of hair near the base of their neck.

They swallow. Their throat is painfully dry.

“I won’t be mean,” you offer, as if it’s a solid argument. “To her, anyways.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Your pupils dilate at the comment. They have no idea why.

“What if I promise?”

“Means nothing.”

You scoff, eyes drifting up and down their body. After a moment, you return to indifference. “So you wanna hang out?”

Their eyes narrow. “You already asked me that.”

“And you said ‘yes’, right?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Can you say ‘yes’?”

“No.”

“What does ‘y e s’ spell?”

“Spells ‘no’.”

You seem actually offended. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“Are you sure?” You gaze at them expectantly.

Their lip quirks into an easy grin. “No.”

“Damnit!” You cry, shoving them with all your (lack of) might. 

They regain their footing easily. They almost have the heart to ask why you’re so adamant on the idea. Almost.

You grumble. “Why not?”

“Why doesn’t ‘y e s’ spell?–”

“No. Why don’t you wanna…?”

They know what you meant. They just wanted to see you snarl. “I never said ‘no’.”

“Uh, yeah. You did.”

“Not to your original question.”

Your jaw gapes with hope. “So it’s a ‘yes’?”

They bite their lip. “No.”

You let out the most childish whine they’ve ever heard, half-wondering if the sound even came from you. 

They might be extra sleep deprived. Because they accidentally let out a small snort. 

And that snaps you back into reality. 

“You find me funny, huh?” You challenge, lips lifted into a sneer.

“Of course not.” But with their poorly suppressed grin, they can’t imagine they’re even the slightest bit convincing. 

They let you grab a fistful of their sweater, tugging them to your eye level. You’re furious, sure, but your mouth continuously unhinges and clams shut. It’s like you have no idea what to say. Or you’re deciding which degradation fits the best for the situation.

It’s strange; the way they can see your thoughts slowly dissolve. Your creased anger, smoothing out into nothing. 

You’re staring at their lips.

They don’t know why you’re staring at their lips.

And you’re wrapping your arms around their neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You tug them nice and close. They can feel your breath on their cheek.

“You’d look good with a piercing. Right…” Your finger trails up their neck, caressing their jaw. You flick their bottom lip delicately. “...there.”

Their voice dies in their throat. Your calm eyes remain trained on their saucer-like ones.

Why the hell…?

You’ve never–

What?

Your own mouth curls into a satisfied smile, molars biting down on the meat of your tongue. You’re obviously pleased by their reaction.

Exhaling rather shakily, they don’t give themself the chance to process any of it.

They don’t know how to respond…

…so they try something else.

Mimicking your soft, sultry tone, they click their tongue. “You’d look good with a piercing. Right…”

Their finger strokes up your neck, caressing your cheek. Your eyes flutter, blatantly leaning into it. Don’t read into it too hard.

They stop once the pad of their index meets the space between your eyebrows. They press down, ever so slightly.

“...there.”

And they’re shoving you away by the forehead. 

Your eyes shoot open as you nearly fall on your ass. You’re instantly flustered; whatever persona you were adopting – the asshole or the… other one – disappears with the wind. And you’re left with nothing.

You seem to want to say something. An explanation, a defence, something. 

But you’re almost unsure.

“I–” you stutter, shielding your face half-assedly with your palm. You look warm. “Whatever. I’m going home.”

They want to bite back; say something dumb, like: “Now you’re listening to me?”

You’re gone before they get the chance to consider.

…

Your face.

They thought your reactions were interesting before?

Maybe they had no idea what the word meant. 

Or maybe this is a different type of interest.

Because damn, do they like that look on you.

~*•*~

Kris has been on your radar ever since that fateful day. That despicable group activity.

You’re a kind person. You’re an absolute delight to be around. It’s their fault for provoking you first. 

You’ve picked up on everything, just to be prepared. Their mannerisms, their schedule, their way of thinking. You know when to strike, and when to defend. 

It’s why you notice. Something’s changed.

Instead of your jab-for-jab, eye for an eye exchange-and-bolt that you’ve trained for, they’ve become someone you’re around all the time. You see them more than your friends; maybe even your family!

Not your family. Reasonable exaggeration.

They’re always in your bubble. Always in your space. Metaphorically and literally. 

You and Noelle hit it off after the unspoken day, and unlike Kris, you’d actually like to get to know her better. Hence the idea of a study sesh. 

Turns out, she and Kris are childhood best friends. And she has a crush on Susie. It’s painfully obvious. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention, were it not for the last minute decision on her end to invite them both. You didn’t actually need tutoring help, but you went into this thinking that you’d be able to spend more time with her. One on one? Cute, platonic study date?

Yeah. After you spotted them, still unaware of their future involvement in your hangout, you whispered to her. “With those two around? We’d get jack squat done.”

Subtle jab, but you thought it’d get your opinion across. It wasn’t until they both stood at the edge of your library table, an eye of expectancy lasered into you at the sight of your bag sitting on the vacant chair. 

Noelle didn’t have the gull to kick them out. You, with a smile showing a few too many teeth, told them: “The more the merrier.”

The girls ended up flirting the whole time. Very painful to witness. And Kris just kept on poking and prodding at you like you were a toy.

Sure, at least they’re not ignoring you anymore, but you’re far past the point of forgiveness.

The next few days, they’ve begun talking to your friends. Not like they would Susie, but it’s still far too friendly of passing conversation for your standards. Are they trying to recruit them to the dark side? Since when did Kris know how to socialize?

And another thing. Yeah, you instigate most of the hallway-shoves, but they’ve started… just… brushing you. Their finger against yours, their shoulder against yours– you thought they had poor aim at first, but it’s continued. Like this. 

You shiver at the thought. Bad shiver. It’s creepy. Human cooties, or something.

It’s why you’re not surprised when you step foot into your newly-sought-out cooking club with the intention of having a good time. The Angel thought you were too positive, you suppose. 

You join seats with a few people you’ve vaguely seen around, offering your greetings and easy small talk. The classroom’s round tables are about filled to the max, sans one or two. 

And, of course, the minute before the first meeting’s supposed to take place, a certain striped green sweater pokes through the doorway.

Fuck me.

You’re taken out of whatever conversation you’ve been juggling, hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to not rip your hair out. 

They’re standing in the doorway for no more than ten seconds before someone from your table pipes up. “Kris! Over here!”

You’re flabbergasted. Since when do they?– How?– 

Do you just so happen to attempt a friendship with every person they’ve ever known?

They spot you not long after you did them. You can see it; the cocky grin they’re fighting down. 

The girl waves them over, kicking the chair next to her, gesturing for them to take a seat. They do so with a monotone ‘thanks’.

The student leader stands at the front, jotting down some contact information on the chalk board. “We’re gonna get started in a bit, ‘kay?”

The room makes a noise of confirmation. You’re too busy trying to slyly kill the human with your eyes alone. 

Kris’ apparent buddy turns to them expectantly. “Have you finished that research paper yet?”

They rest their head in their arms. How unexpected. “Haven’t started.”

“What? Really?” She quirks her head. “I’d be careful, if I were you. It’s definitely not the night before type. The research alone took me, like, seven hours.”

The guy you’ve been talking with – Jasper – winces. “What subject?”

“History,” she groans.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me you thought that’d be a bird course.”

“I– well…”

“Dude. That class’s literally known for being one of the worst crammers.”

“I dunno!” She giggles. “I just thought learning about the big wars would be cool. And then I realized there’s a million things between said wars. So it’s sorta been… eh.”

The teacher – who’s hopefully only here to monitor the first day – flicks off all the lights except for the front ones. The students’ chatter slowly quiets until all that remains is murmurs of conversation.

Kris spares you a glance before turning to the front along with the rest of your little group. You resist the urge to kick them under the table. You’d have done it, were it not for Jasper’s well-in-the-way body. 

The leader begins introducing a vague outlook for the semester, claiming it’s a fun, easy club that’s mostly to promote teamwork and, well, strengthen your cooking skills. Duh.

You begin tuning her out, certain that you’re not missing much. It’s nearly pitch black where you’re sitting, were it not for the glow of the front lights. You almost miss the way Jasper taps Kris’ shoulder. 

You watch them slowly turn to face the culprit, and by proxy, you.

When their gaze zips to yours first – as in, before his – you instantly lock to the front. You stick to your peripheral, like a normal person.

You wouldn’t have heard him if it weren’t for your proximity. And the way you lean in. But that’s not important. 

“You’re a human, right?” He whispers.

You can tell they have no idea how to answer that. You think you make out a hesitant nod.

“Damn,” he leans back, hand rubbing his chin in mildly-obnoxious curiosity. “I’ve never seen a human before.”

You feel your jaw click. “They’re kinda hard to miss.”

It comes out a bit saltier than you intended. 

“I guess so,” Jasper hardly spares you a peep, eyes apparently too curious to leave the now-established humans’ for a single moment. “What’s it like?”

The hell kinda question is that?

You feel your forehead crinkle in confusion, and honestly, a bit of second-hand offence. “It’s probably not that different from us.”

Why the hell are you?–

He’s watching Kris, as if your answer wasn’t enough solid proof. You’re blatant about your staring, interested in what Kris’ next move is going to be. 

They say nothing. Instead, they nod to you once, as if admitting: “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You feel a warm, instant, satisfying gratification. You can hardly describe it. 

Jasper’s voice is a distant echo in your mind. “Do you guys know each other?” 

You’re both answering, to your surprise.

“No.”

“Best friends.”

Huffing out your nose, you’re about to go off – albeit unfiltered, not acknowledging your single-seat audience – when the club leader begins wordlessly encouraging everyone to shuffle their seats closer to the front. 

From the looks of the kitchen supplies in front of her, she seems to be doing a quick visual for the basics. Knife skills, cooking stance, mise en place…

Everyone follows her instructions, scraping their chairs against the tile until the back half of the class is empty. Well, minus Kris. Their head’s plopped back onto the table. My god.

You decide to strike while the iron’s hot.

You scurry your seat towards them, knees brushing the side of their thigh. You know they aren’t here for the same reasons as you. They’re here to torment you.

As menacingly as you can, you lean into their bubble. “Why’re you here if you’re not gonna pay attention?”

Their blood eye shines through a forest of hair. You’d almost think they were disinterested in speaking to you, were it not for their response. “Thought this was the sleeping club.”

It’s a horrible joke. It only makes you more infuriated.

“If you don’t take this seriously, then you shouldn’t be here. Like, you should leave. Right now,” you gesture to the crowd. “There’s obviously too many people here, and they’re probably gonna cut down the numbers.”

Their eyebrow raises. “What is this, ‘Survivor’?”

“Oh, if it was, I’d vote you out first,” you snarl.

“Excuse me, you two,” the teacher ‘tries’ to announce quietly. “Would you please scoot up a bit closer? We don’t want you to miss anything.”

Despite the club leader’s continuation of her demonstration, half the attention’s drawn to you and the lovely human. You have the gall to appear sheepish. Kris is unmoving.

You’re punting their chair towards the front, whether you want to or not.

~*•*~

Slight embarrassment aside, you follow the club leader to the actual kitchen for a free roam period. Everyone’s already gravitating to certain sections, leaving you planted at the entrance.

There’s a large, solid island at the front of the room, likely meant for the instructor. Three rows of two industrial steel tables are evenly spread from one another. Along the back wall are the ovens and stovetops, while the restaurant-style sink sits flush to the wall lined with windows. 

You hate that your eyes scan for Kris. They’re fiddling with stove knobs while two people are talking their ear off. It’s the club leader, and perhaps a friend? You think you’ve seen them around Noelle before.

All you can say for certain is that you’d never trust them around a stove. They’re probably scheming ways to blow up the school and chain you to the source.

Feeling as though your earlier conversation was cut short, you begin marching up to the trio. You catch the end of their conversation; something about a shared interest in baking.

“Hey!” You greet the two girls, smile a centimeter too large. Your glad Kris’ back remains to you. “Sorry to interrupt. Could I steal Kris for a sec?”

The human obviously knows you’re here, but they don’t acknowledge your existence. The only hint you get is the slight sink in their shoulders. You hope you didn’t just accidentally save them from unwanted socialization.

Neither of them seem opposed; maybe a bit disappointed. It’s the leader who speaks up, anyhow. “Oh, yeah. No worries.”

The moment they’re both out of ear shot, the human’s peeking over their shoulder. Not that it really matters; you’re spinning them to face you with a hand itching for violence.

They’re practically pinned to the stoves as you jab your finger to their rib. “Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. I know damn well you didn’t join this club because you like cooking.”

“Mhm,” they mindlessly agree with you.

“Don’t you ‘mhm’ me.”

They fail to suppress their amusement. “Okay.”

You’re not going down this road again.

A step forward; the tips of your shoes kiss. “So you don’t like cooking.”

“How would you know?” 

They hardly sound accusatory in their mannerisms. But you just know it’s lurking somewhere within their gut. 

You dismiss the question. “Why are you here?”

Like a shitty magic trick, their hand vanishes behind their back. You don’t know what you expected to appear, but it certainly wasn’t a knife.

“I’m good with knives,” they wave it around like a prize.

You’re immediately sent into panic mode, clutching the handle and their fingers and jerking it to lay flat against their chest. “Did you steal that?”

“Yeah,” they confirm, no doubt relaxed while the world burns around them.

Surveying the room to ensure no one’s watching, you instinctually shuffler closer to shield it from the general eye. Between your bodies.

You’re really close. Your noses brush.

“You’re gonna get us in trouble!– Or you’re gonna find some way to pin this on me,” you grit your teeth. “Doesn’t matter. Put it back.”

“I’m joking,” they say in the most monotone, non-joking way possible. “It’s mine.”

“Yeah, right,” you’re even more lost at that. “You just have a knife?”

“Yeh.”

No following explanation.

You’re about to question why they’re bringing a knife to school, but some part of yourself thinks twice. A knife. To school…

Thinking. Scheming. Planning.

Your face morphs into that of a smug winner, fingers tightening around theirs– their knife.

“I’m telling,” you purr with the most shitty grin to exist.

Their eyes widen a fraction. Somehow, they slip the blade from your conjoined hands and it disappears behind their back once again. “No, you aren’t.”

Your facade doesn’t last long; it cracks the moment their mouth shuts. 

“Yes, I am!”

You’re frantic as you shove them around like a ragdoll. Despite fighting back (half-assedly), you manage to flip them, trying to find the weapon that is the key to your freedom. 

But it’s like it never existed. No hidden pockets visible. Even feeling up their back, you detect no indents of any sharp objects. 

You toss them another 180 degrees, nails clawing into their collar. “Where’d it go!?”

The teacher’s calling your name rather disappointedly. “Please let go of them.”

“They have a knife!”

And she laughs you off? What a betrayal.

“They’re allowed to have a knife in the kitchen.”

As if on cue, your brain finally acknowledges your fellow club members, most of which are at their own stations, with their own cutting boards, with their own god damn it–

You groan, sad and pathetic, accepting your defeat. You don’t even want to look at them as you release your claws from their sweater.

The teacher must recognize your plummet in mood, as she verbally guides both you and Kris to one of the emptier tables. “How about you both go to that station? There’s some extra space over there; you can hone your cutting skills.”

Station, schmation.

You speedwalk to said table, hoping to lose them in the journey despite your shared destination. Jasper’s on the far end, board flooded with flimsy potato slices. You want to tell him he’s holding the knife wrong, but you don’t trust yourself to sound as composed as you like to come across. Whatever.

Cutting skills, schmutting sch… schkrills?

He greets you as you pass, fetching a cutting board and a knife that you’d like to stab through your soul. Right after stabbing Kris. 

You begrudgingly plant yourself in the predicted middle; it’s either you have Kris on one side and Jasper on the other, or Kris as your only arm buddy. Easiest decision to date.

He offers you and the new arrival his extra uncut potatoes. You ignore the way their arm has to reach over your station to pluck one. It’d be so easy to slice them to bits–

Focus. You’re here to have a good time. Make some new friends. Don’t obsess over the moron for one damn second.

Your thumb and pointer finger sit in front of the bolster, pushing into the blade’s beginning. You cut the potato in half, resting the flat surface against the cutting board. You line up your cuts slowly, but accurately. 

It’s therapeutic; the repetitive motion. You find yourself sighing as your nerves loosen. 

And your body betrays you. You can’t help it. You spare a quick glance at Kris.

They don’t even have a cutting board. They’re just slicing over the fucking steel table.

And they’re almost done cutting their potatoes. In what world is that possible? You both hardly started.

They’re super zoned out, too. And their strands are perfectly sliced – varying in length, but equivalent in width, thickness, straightness.

Oh. What. Ever.

You feel Jasper’s breath; hot against your neck? “Woah, dude. You’re really good at this.”

With just the slightest sliver of hope remaining, you turn to him, praying for the chance to thank him for his compliment directed to you. But it’s not directed to you! Who would’ve guessed?

“Thanks,” Kris practically dismisses. They hardly give either of you the time of day. Your expressions must contrast like black and white.

You hope they chop off a finger.

Your heart pangs. Wait.

The one they’re holding. That’s not the school-distributed knife. It’s theirs. It looks the same as the one from before? Probably?

That must still be prohibited. It implies they brought a weapon to school– how would they not get suspended for that?

You wait for Jasper to return to his station. You do the same, but you’re returning with a purpose. 

The teacher’s lingering at the door, telling the club leader something you can’t quite make out from here. You hear a note about aprons? Grabbing more from the supply closet? Judging by their body language, they seem to be preparing a quick trip over. 

You wait patiently, as you’ve always prided yourself in doing.

The door’s swung open. The nanosecond they’re out of the room, you strike.

You lunge for the contraband. 

And with your amazing track record, it should’ve been an expectation that they’d see it coming.

You paw at their sweater, their face, their arm – of which holds your prize just out of reach – uncaring of the few stares that zip to your figures. You can explain yourself later– this is your only chance.

Their face displays no struggle or burden. In fact, with the point of the blade to the ceiling, they wave their wrist mockingly. You couldn’t hold back your gasp if you tried.

Right as you think you’re inching closer (you’re not), the handle twists expertly through their fingers.

And the sharp edge’s aimed at you.

Understandably believing you’re about to get stabbed, you let out an ‘eep!’, curling up into yourself flamingo-style. Guess you know where you stand in fight, flight, freeze. 

You hear them snort. Even through your head shield, you hear them snort.

You don’t have the chance to react. Two hands slot against your shoulders, bordering the base of your neck. 

Jasper’s voice cuts through. “Uh, you okay?”

Reverting to what most would call a normal standing position, you face him, failing to hide your look of confusion. Either he didn’t catch what just happened, or he… left and came back? 

“Uhm,” you drawl like you’re paralyzed. How do you explain that?

For some odd reason, you look to Kris. Maybe they have a fantastic excuse they could lend you. Y’know, as an exchange for trying to kill you. Not that it wasn’t deserved. You’ll give them that.

And god, their expression’s something you just. can’t. place. 

They don’t seem to find much of anything that amusing anymore. They’re too busy watching your shoulders. And by proxy, his hands? That’re still hanging loose against your collar?

Not that the two could be related. 

It’s the type of standstill you’ve been in before. But it’s not nearly as light-hearted playful fun annoying as it usually is.

No. It’s tense.

Not coming remotely close to figuring out what’s going on, you take their stunted state as an opportunity. You’re crafty; you can’t help but be resourceful.

Your hand reaches for theirs, now dangling at their side, seizing the blade by its… blade. 

You feel it cut into your palm as you squeeze, slipping it rather easily from their grasp. The pain’s worth the way your cheeks burn from your victory grin.

“Haha!” You wave the… handle at their face, bolting past them to find the teacher. “You’re so dead, Dreemurr!”

You don’t care to look back. Especially as you find said teacher re-entering the kitchen. 

Her eyes instantly zip to your albeit very bloody hand, concern etched deep into her features. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Your mouth gapes and shuts just as fast. 

One glance back proves they’re watching you. And the rest of the class. Actually, that’s not technically true. Some are watching your blood trail, not you.

…fuck it, we ball.

You unclench the knife, waving your fleshy cut in the woman’s heart-attack-prone face. 

“Kris stabbed me.”

~*•*~

“–but nothing crazy actually happened. I just got sent to first aid,” you sigh, twirling yourself on one of the shop’s vanity chairs. “It didn’t actually cut that deep, so they just sterilized and wrapped it. Got sent home early, though.”

Roxy’s eyes run across the scabbed-over cut. “So… win-win?”

“Something like that.”

You may have stretched the truth a bit in your favour. You don’t need your friends knowing the whole story; just the minor, more important details. 

Your friends decided on an impromptu trip to your local (ish; it was a twenty minute drive from your nothing-burger excuse of a town) tattoo parlour for some impulsive body-related choices. Some are talking to the artists, others are already entering the private rooms to start. Not you. You’re just here for moral support. And to laugh at their immediate regret. 

Speaking of.

Roxy leans over your armrest, tilting her phone to you. “Whaddya think of this?”

It’s a picture of a stencil; her girlfriend’s name in a fancy font. You wince. “You’re gonna regret that when you break up after high school. But who knows? Maybe true love triumphs… actually maybe don’t listen to me.”

She shakes her head, continuing to scroll through potential ideas. “Thanks for the advice. Or lack thereof.”

“You’re welcome.”

Landing on another one, she shoves the phone extra close to your face. “This one?”

It’s a tattoo of a man’s face on someone’s big toe.

You blink. “Are you fucking with me?–”

“Evan!”

Someone calls the name as four figures step into the shop. You weren’t expecting anyone necessarily shocking to walk in, so you don’t look up right away. 

Key word: weren’t.

You’re boredly scrolling through your own phone as green enters your field of view. Not a lot of green, but green nonetheless.

And that mother fucking stripe.

Turns out Kris tagged along with your rather late additional friends, waiting slightly behind the other three as they talk to the front desk. You’re instantly tugging at Roxy’s arm. “Uh, what’re they doing here?”

She raises an eyebrow as if she has no idea what you’re talking about. “He said he was gonna be late, didn’t he?”

“No, I mean–”

“Kris!” Another friend calls. What the actual hell.

When the voice beckons them over to the other piercing chairs (opposite side of the room, thankfully), they follow, though they don’t seem that enthusiastic about it. 

You’re bolting to Evan, ignoring the way he tries to flirt with the receptionist in her mid twenties. “Hey.”

“Sup?” His attention’s peeled from her to you. She seems oddly grateful, choosing to retreat to literally anywhere else in the store.

“So…” you raise your eyebrows. “The fuck?”

He wants to cackle at you– you can see it in his malicious eyes. Neither of you have outright acknowledged it, but your distaste for the human’s undoubtedly implied from day one. Therefore, he’s the only one you’ll (mostly) outright admit it to.

“Look. It wasn’t my idea,” he trails on, attempting a sly escape by walking deeper into the parlour. You don’t let him, following closely behind. “They’re partners with Mar in chem, or something. He invited them, said we were all going out today, said you were gonna be there…”

“He– what?”

“They–” he stifles a laugh. “They said you were friends. Seemed to convince him pretty easily.”

Your eye twitches.

As if your brain tuned in on purpose, you can hear Mar from your central spot. He’s leaning on one of the vanity desks, watching Kris spin in the corresponding chair. Copy cat. “–but most of us are getting something. You should, too. If you want.”

You can barely make out their mumble. Something about how their mom would kill them.

Oh, you’d kill them were it socially acceptable. 

Roxy’s fingers wrap around your bicep, dragging you back to your designated debating spot. “Dude.”

She breaks your stare. “What?”

“You’re, like, way too obvious.”

“With what?”

“C’mon. You guys have the whole… y’know. Thing going on.” 

You’re a bit slow. Your first thought is that it’s about Kris, and you feel your forehead scrunch.

She makes a choking gesture for a moment. Then, she makes two V’s with her hands. And she crosses her fingers over one another–

“Eugh!” You gag, swatting her away.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

‘That’? You’d never!–

Never– that… 

That’s just–

Kris?

With Kris…?

That’d be… insane.

They’d never… what?

Would they?–

She slaps your cheek. “Lookin’ a little under the weather, there.”

You flush. “You’re so… indecent.”

“I just know your nasty mind’s thought about it,” she mocks. She taps the space between your brows as if proving a point. 

Despite the fact that you just– No, you didn’t. 

It reminds you of… something. You can’t quite place what, though.

After a few minutes, she distracts herself with something other than you, giving you the chance to scroll down to a certain contact you’ve been meaning to text back. That dude from the club. Jasper. He was lowkey pushy when asking for your number (and with every subsequent conversation) but it’s not like you outright dislike talking to him.

You’re straightening your knees, angling your phone’s camera to capture the new boots you got earlier this week. You feel Roxy lean over your shoulder. “The hell’re you doing?”

You don’t grace her with an answer, accidentally tightening your hold on your camera. It stabs against your recovering wound, sending a sting down your arm. “Ow.”

“That’s a bad scar. Looks painful.”

And the voice you’ve been dreading to hear has finally come to torment you.

“Kris, how you been?” Roxy takes a step towards the lone human, knowing damn well you’re not about to contribute to this conversation whatsoever. “How’s Susie? Tell her I wanna go another round of chess-boxing. Get two wins under my belt.”

“She says you cheated.”

“Cheated? At which one?”

“Boxing. She doesn’t know how to play chess.”

“Oh. Y’know what? That explains a lot,” she taps a finger to her chin. “Is that why her deer friend kept screaming chess notation?”

Of course Susie hears the word ‘boxing’ and doesn’t stop to think about the first half. 

You ignore their chatter as you continue angling your phone, snapping a half-assed picture and sending it with a follow up of: costed a days worth of shifts. totally worth it tho

It’s not long until an admittedly nice apple scent floods your nostrils. They’re standing right against your armrest. You don’t give them the satisfaction of your attention.

“We should be gym partners on Monday.”

You raise an eyebrow at them, half-immune to their bait. Specifying the ‘half’.

You catch a glimpse of Roxy. She’s nodding aggressively, giving you two large thumbs ups. Like you’d ever need a wingman, Kris or not.

And besides. Her hands only remind you of her nasty sexual innuendo–

“Sure,” you force out. You only agree to prevent her from gathering more fuel to use against you.

She slides an arm around their shoulders, leaning into them. They must not expect it; they stumble before supporting her added weight. 

“Aren’t you guys ‘competitive rivals in P.E.’?” At the sight of your contorted face, she holds up her free hand in defence. “Sam’s words, not mine.”

You stare at them expectantly, assuming they have some stupid answer prepared. But they just stare back at you. You’re at an odd standstill.

“It’s all in… good fun,” you decide on.

You don’t want to come off as defensive. The last thing you need is them knowing she knows anything. Not that there’s anything to know. What’re you scared of?

“Roxy,” someone calls from one of the side hallways. “The dude’s ready for you.”

“What?– Did you tell him I haven’t even decided yet?” She makes a beeline towards them out of panic. 

Your foot taps impatiently on the ground. Everyone’s relatively far aways, invested in their own mini chit-chats. “Why’re you here, Kris?”

You find yourself saying that a lot.

They tower over you. “I’m here to see you get that piercing.”

“What?”

You’ve also been saying that a lot. Maybe you’re just a naturally confused person. ‘Dense’ is another word for it.

They point to your glabella, finger inching closer. You snatch their wrist before it makes contact. 

You really can’t remember anything. Something about a piercing. It was late…? Weeks ago. You recall seeing them in the forest. Or was it the road? And then… you…

Oh… oh!

Oh.

Your grip tenses over their pulse. 

Oh, shit.

That wasn’t!–

Or was it?

That did happen. 

“Oh yeah?” You clear your throat, sounding just as confident as you appear. “Then you gotta get your lip too.”

Your pupils lock onto their lips. Automatically. It’s not your fault– blame the system.

They quirk their head, ever so slightly. As if saying ‘really?’.

You clench your teeth. “First one to back down?”

“What’s the prize?”

“Uhh. I don’t know. Twenty bucks?”

“And a favour,” they add on generously.

“Whatever– fine.”

You’re relatively confident you won’t chicken out. And with the addition of a favour, you can tell them to leave you alone. Forever. No contact. Ghosted. Hopefully it’s a non-negotiable favour.

You both wait a good half-hour for the workers to finish up with your (key word: your) friends. After that, it isn’t long before you’re both sitting parallel to one another, faces contorting into varying levels of (or lack thereof) emotion.

You’re perhaps a bit more cocky than you should be.

“Get the money out for me, loser.”

Alcohol wipes. 

“My favour’ll just be to quadruple my winnings, loser.”

Poked with surgical markers; yours on your bridge, theirs on their labret

“Hope you’re ready to lose… uh, loser.”

Piercing needles out. Needles– what?

You forget how to blink as your piercer lines up the clamp to pinch your bridge. The two’re practically in sync; Kris’ own clamp squeezes, jutting their lip out.

“You need me to count down?” Your piercer smiles warmly at your very alarmed face.

“Okay,” you squeak.

Your eyes dart from the needle to your piercer to Kris and you keep waiting and waiting for those words of relief.

But you never hear it.

The needle hovers menacingly. Right in front of your eyes.

“Three… two–”

Nope. No way–

“WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT–”

And breaking you from your panic is Kris’ fucking snicker. As if they knew.

You clutch the armrests. “Idon’tknowifIwantthisanymore.”

Kris, lip out, slurs out a ‘me neither’.

They both back off, sharing a look. You share a laugh – yours of which sounded much more forced – and he explains he didn’t think you looked completely into it.

Oh, you were into it. Just… the winning part, though.

Once they leave to help customers who actually want something done, you bang your head against the headrest, shielding your eyes with your palms out of shame.

A shadow looms over you, slim fingers gently prying your hands from your face.

They stand between your legs with the smuggest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Pay up, loser,” they mock.

You rip your hands from theirs, begrudgingly offering them the twenty cash you planned on spending on pizza. Not some stupid wager.

Your palm remains outstretched as a figure of speech, wanting nothing more than to be done with it. “What about the favour?”

They curl your fingers to your palm, pressing it to your chest.

“Keep it safe for me.”

This little–

You start flailing, launching your feet at their face. It doesn’t land, of course, but the intention is all there.

~*•*~

Roxy stretches her collar down her arm, revealing her back shoulder tattoo. You almost choke on your drink. As do many of the others watching the display.

You’re surrounded by one of the many crowds at a bonfire a friend’s hosting as a… Thanksgiving? Halloween? Thing? You’re not quite sure; he didn’t care to specify. 

It might just be because his parents are out for the weekend, and he felt the need to invite a majority of the school to his larger-than-average backyard. The lack of fence doesn’t make the space look any smaller, either. It blends into the trees of the forest seamlessly. 

You toss your head back, gulping down whatever’s in your cheap plastic cup. You have to give the tattoo a second glance to give your brain a chance to recognize the symbol. “Is that the Delta Rune?”

“Oh yeah,” she brags as if it’s something to flex about. “I thought I should stay on theme, y’know?”

You knew you shouldn’t have left early that day. You can’t believe you haven’t seen this until now.

Despite your second-hand embarrassment, your laugh is loud and garbled. “What theme? Everyone’s gonna think you’re religious.”

Clover looks at you like you’re delusional. “She’s, like, the least religious person to exist.”

The tattooed-up arm snakes around her girlfriend as a definitely not needed demonstration.

“Quit the PDA!” Someone shouts from across the lawn.

You’re already retreating to the drinks table. “Yeah, weirdos.”

Although the backyard’s pretty full, you don’t struggle to swerve around the little cliques that keep to their own space. Though he doesn’t have a mansion (like Noelle), the host’s backyard spans about the same area. 

Everything’s chill. You feel like you can finally breathe. Especially after the fifty pounds of homework you had to rush through last night. Class wasn’t an option, due to the little balls of paper being flicked at your back. Wonder who it was.

Arriving at the drinks, you scan through the array of sodas, glass bottles of pretty expensive shit (thank you, host), and punch bowls. 

Sam asked if you could borrow one (or a few) from the Church, as the last one shattered on the concrete during set up. You’re not sure why it was glass, but you’re not a punch bowl designer, so you wouldn’t know.

The slosh of pinkish-red liquid is most definitely tainted with something, whether intentional or not. But you already had a cup or two or three and you don’t mind the taste, so you go for seconds or thirds or fourths.

You’re more uncoordinated than you remember being, ladle slipping from your grasp as half the juice lands in your cup. The other half drenches your fingers, coating your touch in the sweet sticky substance. “Fuck.”

A warm hand rests on the small of your back. “Need some help?”

It’s Jasper. You don’t feel anything at the sight of him.

“Yes, please.”

He plucks your slathered cup from your fingers, tossing it in a nearby garbage bag before pouring you a new drink. “How’ve you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you much tonight.”

“Yeah… doing my rounds.” You sound awfully coy with the excuse. 

Your scalp’s awfully itchy. Or it’s just the eyes on the back of your skull.

“Who’ve you talked to?”

“I dunno, haven’t been keeping track,” you shrug, unsure of why he’s asking. “Gotta be nice to everyone or they won’t bring out the good stuff later.”

He laughs at your lazy joke. You feel bad for being so bored.

You’re peeking behind you to where you know a certain trio stands. Susie and Noelle are deep in conversation, on the verge of pda.com from the looks of it. Kris is… not so subtly staring at you. Their body’s tilted to the duo, but you can make out their glare. It’s a different type of creepy. Or just a different emotion in general. One you’ve never seen on them before. Or maybe you have.

Your head’s buzzing too much to realize Jasper’s waiting for a response. You manually tug the sides of your mouth up. “Huh?”

“Can I show you something?”

You look at Kris again. Now, they’re staring at him. Not you.

Your shoulders drop. “Okay.”

He doesn’t do so much as touch you as he guides you into the forest. You’re admittedly disappointed. Not that you’re craving it from him, necessarily, but you’re feeling a bit… what’s the word…?

He steps over twigs, branches, tufts of leaves, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure your stumbling self hasn’t gotten lost and died yet. You don’t care to look excited, though your curiosity is peaked.

Eventually, he stops in front of a bush of blue hydrangeas. He gestures to them as if it’s his first time seeing them. “Like them?”

Yeah, they’re pretty, but…

It was a five minute walk to get here. You’re almost certain it was a poor excuse to get you two alone.

“They’re nice,” you murmur, squatting to get a closer look.

There’s a slight awkward pause. You don’t register it, but just judging by his body language, he wants to say something.

He doesn’t get the chance. Your eyes widen, shushing him effectively; there’s an orange fox five feet to your right and you’re not about to scare it off. 

You slowly crawl towards it on your knees – grass stains at the back of your mind – reaching out. It doesn’t lean into your touch, but it lets you pet it nonetheless. There’s gradual, steady footsteps behind you. When he squats next to you, you raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah, this thing totally has rabies,” you whisper.

“I mean. It’s not foaming at the mouth. So you’re probably alright.”

It’s not even a joke. But your mind and heart and soul feel so light and you’re giggling anyways.

He might’ve smiled at you. You wouldn’t know; you’re not paying attention.

He’s reaching to pet it–

But it’s frightened by something. A sound.

When you both stand, you’re facing each other. He doesn’t seem to have heard it, instead joking that it got scared of him.

You huff out an excuse for a laugh. You’re too busy gazing past him.

You knew you saw that red glimmer.

Kris is stalking you two behind a tree like a fucking freak.

You lock eyes. They look like they’re about to kill you. Or him. Or both.

And something just… clicks within you.

A malicious, downright evil grin corrupts your face. 

You blink; nice and slow. A taunt.

That night’s so unbelievably vivid in your mind.

You’ve always been a fan of recycling.

“Thanks for showing me those, Jaz,” you coo, slipping out a nickname you’ve never used before. “They’re really pretty.”

You snap the stem of a smaller hydrangea, sauntering towards him to slip the flower behind his ear. 

“We should hang out more,” you suggest innocently. Once it’s secure, your arms naturally fall on his shoulders, slyly wrapping around his neck. “I feel like I never get to see you alone. Just the two of us?”

He bites his tongue. His eyes are lidded. You tug him closer.

“Yeah, it’s kinda weird,” he murmurs drunkenly (figuratively and literally), his breath mixing with your own. “I feel like we click really well.”

You have to stop yourself from saying ‘ehhh, really?’. But he doesn’t need to know that. Nor do the eyes in the darkness. 

His hands find their way to your hips. Not squeezing, though you kinda want him to. The warmth seeps through your clothes–

There’s a louder rustle from their direction. You were expecting a slipup; maybe they’d leave out of disgust.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Kris has fully emerged from their hiding spot. Still as a statue, regret drenching their stiff self. 

Outwardly watching you two be handsy. Not like they weren’t before, but at least it was supposedly unknown. 

You back up an inch out of courtesy. You feel that all too familiar rage travel through your veins. But it’s mixed with something else. It’s exhilarating. 

With one of the many rehearsed lines ready on your tongue, your mouth cracks open when–

“He has a girlfriend.”

Your jaw drops at their words, neck cracking to said ‘him’. 

“What?”

Jasper’s confusion only deepens. “Uh, what? No, I don’t–”

You’re not sure why you’re instantly believing your torturer, considering they’re most definitely lying, but you don’t get the chance to question your instincts.

One of the hands on his shoulder’s being pulled towards them. They want you to follow them. You obviously don’t want to, or maybe you do, you can’t really tell anymore, but–

“‘m cashing in that favour,” they mumble with a confusing amount of urgency.

Well, that settles it.

You may be an asshole, but you’re not one to dismiss a well-earned IOU.

“Uhh,” you say instead of an apology, allowing yourself to be dragged away.

Jasper’s wide eyes are the last things you see as you disappear into the plumage.

Their grip only tightens and tightens and tightens and you’re losing feeling in the tips of your fingers. 

“The hell’s up with you?”

No answer. While they step over an exposed root, you trip over it, almost bringing the two of you to the dirt.

“That’s what you use your favour on?”

You scoff in disbelief. You can hardly see anything besides their permanent deadpan. It’s much more strained than you remember it being.

“You could’ve done anything else, and you do that?”

You spend a good few minutes falling deeper and deeper into the trees. You might be losing your mind.

“I should’ve gotten it if I knew you’d cash in something so unbelievably ass–”

You’re being propelled forward. You’re about to tumble for the hundredth time today. But two hands steady your shoulders.

And flip you to face them. You get slight whiplash.

And their lips crash into yours.

You’re in an unparalleled state of shock.

Holy shit.

It’s quick, chaste. Sorta nice.

They’re pulling away before you can fully process any of it.

You’re both frozen, it seems; stuck a few inches from each other’s face. Oddly enough, it’s not the closest you’ve ever been before. 

But your ego only inflates. 

…and you’re giggling like a madman.

“You two-faced idiot. I knew it.”

Their impassivity falters. 

You smush your hands to their cheeks. “You hate Jasper!”

They stare at you like you’ve grown a second head. But you don’t let it deter you!

“I mean, the first thing he said to you was literally an insensitive comment about being human. Of course you’d keep that in the back of your head! And the weird looks you’d give him? And he’s weirdly forward, touchy, maybe a bit socially dense– but it was also strange how you knew I was texting him at the parlor and you interrupted me?–”

Their mouth presses to yours again, cutting off your much-required explanation. You’re somehow just as shocked the second time.

It’s even quicker. To your… disappointment?

They’re blinking at you. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

They…

Oh.

You pause.

Well.

“Well,” you echo. 

Yeah.

That’s that.

Maybe you’re just dumb.

You’re tangling your fingers in their hair, pressing them back to your lips. They let out a quiet noise that you eat up immediately. Once they relax a touch, your mouths move together in calm, slow patterns. It’s a bit sloppy, but you don’t mind.

You find yourself savouring the feeling. You don’t know why you do.

Their hands drop to your hips, squeezing and kneading your flesh like they want to take you apart. You’re nowhere near expecting it, nor do you take them for the type. Maybe they saw Jasper do it. And maybe you looked like you liked it.

And maybe you like that they’re doing it because they know you like it–

Your eyes flutter as you feel their tongue poke at your bottom lip. Your fingers tighten. You wouldn’t be surprised if you’re ripping hair from their scalp. But they outright groan and it doesn’t matter because your stomach’s flurrying with excitement.

You guide their chin with your hand, sensing their slight inexperience, ushering their lips to open a tad. Their fingers roll circles into your hips and they’re pulling you flush against them. The moment they shyly tap their tongue to your open mouth, you’re clenching it between your teeth.

They’re pulling back from sheer surprise. You release them, tasting their saliva on your lips. It’s drenched in the sharp burn of vodka. “Did you take a shot?”

“One,” they admit wholeheartedly. “Ten minutes ago.”

You peck the corner of their mouth. They try to chase your touch, but you draw back before they can meet you. Pressing your thumb under their jawline, you guide their gaze to the sky as you litter their neck in little bites and kisses. Their horribly-concealed little grunts and mewls send shivers down your spine, only fueling you further.

“What? Got too many nerves to deal with, Dreemurr?”

You feel them swallow under your lips. You lick a wet stripe up the length of their neck. 

“Do I make you nervous, Dreemurr?”

You get a front row seat to their shaky exhale. All rosy and warm; they can hardly look you in the eye.

They’re really cute when they don’t make you want to kill yourself.

“Shut up,” they curse out, rather uncharacteristically. They tug your hands from their face before shoving their tongue down your throat.

Yeah, there isn’t a universe where you wouldn’t be into this.

“You’re so rude.” You squeeze their bicep.

“You’re a hothead,” they groan back between kisses.

“You’re repressed.” You’re shoving them to the grass.

“You’re thin-skinned.” They let you pin their hands under your own.

“You’re a hikikomori,” you hiss as they bite your lip hard enough to bleed.

“You’re erratic.” They flip you over, straddling your hips. 

“You’re a sadist.” You lead them to your neck, wordlessly asking.

“You’re mine,” they suck a mean hickey right below your pulse.

You outright moan.

“Say you hate me,” you beg.

You think they’re about to do it, but some part of them second-guesses it. Crap.

They’re pulling away just enough to lock eyes. “What?”

Before you can feel embarrassed, the most grueling voice cuts through your already ruined moment. “Oh– shit, didn’t mean to–”

Jasper rounds a tree right before shielding his eyes at the unmistakable sight that is Kris on top of you–

You’re shoving them off of you before skiddling across the ground like prey, still horribly out of breath. “We weren’t!–”

You can see his blush between his fingers. “Sorry– I didn’t know you two were–”

“We’re not!–”

Kris wraps a wrist around your ankle before you can escape. “We are.”

“You–” You climb to your feet. They follow you like your shadow. “I–”

But you can’t will yourself to say anything. 

They’re giving you the most pathetic, ‘please be quiet’ type look.

“I…”

Your inhale is their exhale. Their lips are a deep, deep red. Matches their eyes.

Goddamnit.

“My bad,” you hear offhandedly, the unwanted form now retreating back into the forest. “I’ll, uh, go.”

And he’s gone.

You’re not really sure what happens next.

“Is this one of your dumb pranks?” You find yourself asking. It’s a shameful show of insecurity.

You think you’re asking semi-genuinely. You think they can tell it’ll crush you if they say something stupid.

“Yeah,” they mumble.

But you find your lip turning up. They’re not even trying to pretend they’re not lying out their ass.

Their face mirrors your own, perhaps toned town a few degrees.

You groan, slamming your fists into their chest. It’s half-assed. 

You hover for a moment, face all up in their shoulder. Remembering the smell as if it’ll fade.

“I wanna strangle you so bad.”

“I know.”

You’re giggling. “You should kill yourself.”

There’s two hands on your biceps. “Suicide pact? Or ten paces, fire?”

“Ten paces. Then we see who backs out first.”

“And if I win?”

“You wouldn’t. I would cheat. Fire at the third pace.”

“Then what?”

You inch away to give them a look. “Then what? You want me to say I’d regret it?”

They shake their head. “What would you ask for as your favour?”

“Another kiss,” you cough. “Like, out of courtesy. Because you’re dying on the floor. But I’m not into dead bodies. It’s, like, a farewell thing.”

There’s a moment before they’re snorting.

“I’ll get the guns.”

~~~ fuuuck this was so fun jasper the cockblock

i hope its clear why reader likes kris. its very specific. and very important. to me. and oh my god im gonna be thinking about this for the next few days.

to all the asks ive gotten asking if im down to do more suggestive content uhhhh take this as ur sign as yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes

I saw art of kris with snakebites last year in april and i still have it saved bc its so oh my god it did something absolutely horrible to me and that inspired half this fic LMAOO

~~~ the ask + another ask i got like a year ago (one of my first ever) that semi inspired a certain aspect of the story but i still wanna do smt with it as the focus so im KEEPING IT IN MY INBOX FOR SAFE KEEPING

~~~

Hometown isn’t one for extravagant events. Not compared to the holiday celebrations in every major capital across the globe, anyway.

While the world’s out parading with bright – albeit quite extra – fireworks that paint the sky, sweet treats that add up to an average mortgage for the month, and events that accumulate all friends and family into one claustrophobic, sweat-drenched room…

…Hometown is different. Whether it be good or bad is up to who you ask.

Concentration from a thousand square kilometers to a single, measly square kilometer takes care of the fill-all-the-empty-space issue. Less ground to cover means that the residents can appreciate the measly half-a-dozen games all the while more. Can’t make a few carts look scarce when the end of the street’s in view, right?

And, of course, with the lack of property value (and property at all), less people live here. Population’s barely hit a hundred. At least, last time you checked. 

Which means, chipping in makes all the difference. Strength in numbers, after all!

Damn. You’re starting to sound like your father. 

The festival’s today. It’s been in the forefront of your mind like a tick that won’t leave you the hell alone; sucking every last bit of life force from your soul. And, better yet, it’s not your fault.

You do anything that puts you outside the house? Something meager, something that should be simple, like taking out the trash? 

Your mother catches you halfway down your driveway. “Oh, dear! Would you drop these decorations off at the Church?”

You’re trying out some crappy dessert recipe you saw online, that you just so happened to write down before the Angel struck the town with the worst fury ever conceivable to the living eye? (internet outage)

Your father appears from what you can only assume to be a puff of smoke – because damn is he sneaky – looming over you like he’s seven feet tall. “Honey, that looks delicious! Should I talk to Carol? Ask if you could open your own booth this year?”

You’re watching TV. That’s it. And boom.

Parents corner you on both sides of the couch. A scrapbook in hand– your scrapbook. Well, it wasn’t entirely yours, but you take credit for it now. Because who else will?

“Awwhh,” your mother coos like she's taming a wild skunk, scared you’ll spray your defence juices (running to your room). “And there’s you trying to hit the target. You could barely lift up the hammer! Look how cute you were!”

Were. As if you aren’t adorable now. Thanks, mom.

You should’ve known. With how much your parents make you run their miniscule, slightly inconvenient errands, your senses should’ve alerted you for something big. It’s not like they found a way to bring up the event in every conversation for an innocent reason. Reminiscing? C’mon!

No one should reminisce in this town. Time’s arrow merely marches forward.

Only when you were woken up at the asscrack of dawn from your mother shaking you awake with a sense of urgency and nervousness you’ve never seen from her, did you really understand what all of it meant.

Oh no. She volunteered your lazy backside to set up the festival, didn’t she?

Your question was answered not shortly after it appeared.

“Get up, get up!” She seemed to have wrapped your arms and body into your blanket like some security burrito, fully immobilizing you from attack. “Today’s the festival! You’re helping out this year, no arguments.”

Shoveling something into your mouth as a poor excuse for breakfast, your mother led a groveling you to your front door. A box of pennant bunting banners sat near your shoes, nesting a plastic bag of deflated balloons.

You were outside before the mere evidence of the sun shone through the horizon. It was almost too dark to see the street. Or, maybe your eyes were closed. You could’ve been sleepwalking, for all you knew.

You would’ve put up more of a fight, but it was difficult. You were so tired. Still are.

And now you stand, box flipped upside down to act as a makeshift stool, hooking the flimsy string from wooden post to wooden post to tree to tree. Just the sight of them makes you a tad queasy. 

The festival hasn’t exactly been something you look forward to on a yearly basis. At some point, it might’ve been the highlight of your holidays. 

It all leads back to Dess. Not that it’s her fault, but it’s hard not to recall the events and label it as an obvious turning point. 

Everyone used the excuse. Whether it be from shock, depression– it was an easy reason to cancel the festival that year. Or, it wasn’t cancelled. You can’t remember. If it did happen, you didn’t go.

The Dreemurrs didn’t go, either. The Holidays? They practically host the damn thing. If they did do it, it was much smaller than years prior. 

You remember wanting to go. You remember thinking it wouldn’t be nearly as fun going alone. You might’ve begged someone. Noelle? Asriel? Kris? They all must’ve shut you down, one way or another. Grief works differently for everyone, after all.

You’re not too sure how you feel about it. About the festival, you mean.

Lost in your own head, you accidentally tug the string with too much gusto, causing them to unravel from their perfect place on their respective trees.

“Goddamnit,” you curse, tossing your useless end to the grass. Thankfully, the streets are rather barren of people. Half-empty boxes litter alongside adults too absorbed in making their stands look appetizing to care. 

As long as no one asks why you’re out here. You haven’t made an appearance in damn near a decade. Change is obvious, when it happens. They’ll all definitely notice if you bring too much attention to yourself.

Speaking of attention to oneself.

Someone’s voice booms through the quiet streets. In your humble opinion, they’re far too loud for a sun that low in the sky. And it’s not constant chatter, either. They’ll pause for a few seconds, absorbing the dialogue from a far more hushed, likely imaginary voice.

You feel your eyebrows tighten, wanting nothing more than to bury your head in the tuft of leaves. 

But you force yourself into indifference. You find yourself tuning out most voices nowadays. 

Collecting your previous failed attempt, you leap back onto your cube throne and double-knot the thread around a different branch. The obnoxious source of sound grows near, enhancing your already-unbearable migraine from lack of sleep. 

You kick your box to skid underneath the next tree. Your hands paw at the drooping string, almost as slouched as your hunchback, only catching hold when a pair of footsteps come into hearing vicinity. 

“Oh, what?” The feminine-yet-masculine voice calls from behind you, panged with familiarity. “Wait…”

Your eyes couldn’t roll back further if you tried. Your head might’ve tipped off your neck, but you’re hoping it wasn’t assholish enough for her to notice.

Of course, the only person who’s loud enough to make your morning more grueling (“only”? You could think of a dozen others) is halted at the base of your box. Maybe if you stand completely still, she’ll think you’re some unflattering statue the festival’s using as decor this year.

Susie… something. Last names aren’t important. She’s your classmate. If you count showing up fifty percent of the time as a valid classmate. She’s friends with–

Y’know, her friends aren’t important to note! Who is she friends with? You don’t know!

She kicks your box to get your attention, but it only startles you into crumbling the leaves between your fingers. You hear a huff, maybe a laugh? And then–

“Aren’t you the kid who got stuck on the school roof? After school, like, a week ago?”

Really? Is that what you’re remembered for? What happened to “leave your mark on the world”?

You quickly tie your second knot between the branches, throat filled with a spite you cannot control. “C’mon. I have more of a legacy than that.”

“Oh yeah?” She bites back. You can vividly imagine her shit-eating grin.

“Yeah,” you sigh, shuffling the box down the grass with your feet once more. You make a clear intent not to face her, even through your peripherals. You probably look like an idiot. “I was napping.”

“Your foot was hanging off the ledge.”

It’s not like you would’ve rolled off! You have pretty good muscle control in your sleep. And, besides– “I purposely did that– the ledge‘s good for wind circulation. Keeps you from getting heat stroke up there.”

Another knot done. It’s muscle memory to you now. Or you’re just rushing to get through it. Either’s okay with you.

“You sure?” She questions, accusation embedded in her speech. “Could hear how loud they were yelling from ICE-E’s. Seems like you were dead as a corpse.”

Corpse, shmorpse. “More like sleeping like one. And I wasn’t stuck. If I can get up, I can get down.”

“Isn’t that what cats think when they climb trees?”

“Yeah, maybe in old-timey cartoons,” the box rolls on its side, stuck on the root of the next tree. She must be following you closely. It’s like you’re not moving from her whatsoever– 

Realization dawns on you. You pucker. “I’m not a cat–”

There’s a loud crash, bang on the other side of the street. One quick peek shows one of the stands tumbled over another. And, despite your self-imposed rule, your peripheral fails you. You make out a purple blob following your line of sight, and something else…?

When Susie’s snout whips back to you, you’re instantly on the tree once again. “Damn, how’d you do it? Some secret rooftop door? The vents?” You hear her rustle, as if she’s nudging her elbow into something. “Climbing some vines?”

You find yourself answering with dead seriousness, tying off your end of torture. “Maybe a mix of that? And some loose bricks.” 

You’re a bit lost as you ramble, fishing around for the bag of inflatable nightmares on the dirt. You fiddle with one and – despite your slight annoyance – you decide to be a polite person and actually face the monster you’re talking to (mostly because you don’t have the excuse of bunting banners anymore).

“There’s some sweet spots to lodge in long handheld stuff,” once you’ve got a good handle on the mouth of the balloon, you make eye contact for the first time today. “Like knives. Their handles are good for… stepping… on…”

Your heart drops into your stomach. Yeah, you should’ve known.

Expecting it might’ve made the shock just oh so slightly easier to cover up. 

With bulging, wide eyes, you make an intense effort to stare into the purple monster’s soul. But it doesn’t matter; your peripheral vision has failed you for the second time.

Kris, whose stealth may rival your parents’, stands statue still adjacent to Susie’s ever moving form. A striped sweater, permanently burnt into your abused retinas. A glare so effortlessly neutral, so effortlessly calm, it strikes fear into those willing to take a peek (in some messed up, contradictory way).

You look so normal right now. You should sign up for the “most normal” competition. That’s not a thing. You should invent it. That’d show how normal you’re being. At this very moment. 

“Uh, you okay?” Susie’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t hide her confusion. Like how you don’t hide your normalness. 

You think you’re smiling, but it might be frozen in some awkward, forced lip-tilted-up mess. In your tightening grasp, the balloon’s orifice is assaulted by your thumb. (Ew. You’ve gotta put your mouth on that later.)

A rush of ballsy adrenaline shivers up your legs. You decide to spare them a teensy, weensy glance.

And your worst nightmares come true. They don’t react. Deadpan.

You instantly grimace. It’s ugly, too. Like your entire face’s drained of water, wrinkled like a prune. You swear you’re not usually this much of an open book.

They seem unsure if they should be here. In this free space of road. That you’ve claimed as your temporary stomping grounds. But alas, they’re obviously following the leader.

They’re almost waiting for something, too. As if you’ve got a million things to say and they need to hear all of it. The eye contact is driving you insane. Like, who can say so little with such a stare!

And besides, you have nothing to say! You’re horrible with… saying things. 

Susie’s oblivious, too. Your brain’s just focused enough to see Susie’s attention shift from you, to the human, and back to you. 

Does she not know? Who you are? Besides the whole roof thing– she doesn’t know who you really are? At least, to Kris?

Not that you’re anything. They aren’t anything to you.

Are you not important enough for Kris to say? Mention, even just a tad? Maybe some late night vent session about their respective deep, mysterious pasts? Just your name? Your description? Something?

Not that you care. Just curious. Everyone’s curious.

Are you a sensitive subject?

Not that it matters!

You sure as hell know who she is.

Or it’s just because she’s loud. Hard to miss. Whether that be a positive or not.

They hang around all the time. Attached to the hip, like–

Like nothing. Yeah, show off your healthy blooming friendship. Everyone wants to see it!

You’ve been so cranky with the idea of going outside– festival. With the festival. You touch grass. Promise. But you almost forgot that you, despite the lack of people to see, still need to see said people. It’s a festival. Duh.

Which means: front row seats to their intimate bond! 

Which does not eat at you when you think about it for more than a fleeting moment. What’s there to think about? You’re completely fine with it all.

It might’ve been actual years since you’ve made eye contact. You haven’t seen those ruby eyes in passing, by accident, nada. That’s how careful you’ve been. 

…does Susie really not know who you are?

Your face might’ve twitched. You’ve got a horrible poker face. 

And yet, you’re surprised when you face the angsty teen once again. She’s beyond engrossed, scribbling something onto her exposed arm with a permanent marker. Definitely saw you weren’t answering the question she asked multiple minutes ago.

You manage to get a glimpse. It’s a step-by-step list of instructions for a certain roof heist she seems to be planning. How on topic. 

You release a breath deep within the caverns of your chest. 

This isn’t worth your time.

“Yeah,” you suck in through your teeth, feigning disappointment. “So I gotta get another box.”

Your stupid box of bunting triangle whatever they’re called are still three quarters full. But you don’t let either of them peep a word of suspicion. You’re stiffly shuffling away. A doll with frozen limbs. 

Susie might’ve not noticed. You didn’t check. 

Kris’ eyes followed you smoothly. You tried to smile; friendly, easy, a mutual understanding. But you couldn’t get your lip to turn up. 

You’re still well within earshot when you start blowing up your balloon, beginning your trek to the Church to kill some time. 

Those same pairs of eyes are glued to the back of your skull. A bad itch you can’t reach. You’re only relieved when you turn the corner. 

Once your plastic bubble’s inflated to your standard, you tie it shut. Fishing a loose string from your pocket, you knot the ends together. 

You release it.

And it slowly drifts to the ground.

Fuck. You need the stupid helium tank for those. 

Double fuck. That would’ve been the perfect excuse.

This is gonna be an unbearable day, isn’t it?

~*•*~

The good thing about expecting torture is that you won’t be disappointed when you receive it. 

The festival. This is still about the festival. Just to clarify. 

You thought, as a shift into a more optimistic lifestyle, that you could be hopeful of what your volunteering duties actually entail. Who knows? Maybe you’d just be doing setup. And you could just go home after. Grueling morning for a totally worth it escape.

Yeah. You were stuck between that and knowing you’d be booked the whole day. 

Good thing you leaned towards the latter. 

Your dad is apparently a good friend of Sans. Mr. Sans? You haven’t heard of such a relationship between the two, but you don’t know lots of things. Like how people think coffee tastes good. 

He asked you to meet the skeleton at the ice cream stand. You’d have willingly volunteered around the police station if you knew it’d get you out of working a stand in the middle of the damn town. 

You gave him your standard greeting, and he took it just fine. You didn’t really have the incentive to ask what he needed help with, so you’ve just been hovering around while he slacks off an equal amount.

The regret starts to kick in when more and more monsters double-take. Surprised you’re around, as if you’re some enigma. Hell, you might’ve turned human in their eyes!

You didn’t think that many people cared to keep up to date with your life. Or they don’t, and that’s why it’s so shocking to see you now. They probably thought you were dead. 

Maybe if you were actually doing something, they’d feel more inclined to ignore the random person leaning against the convenience store. 

You tap the skeleton’s shoulder, careful to apply enough pressure to where he can feel it, but not enough that your fingers awkwardly slide under his clavicle. Is that possible?

He barely tilts his chin to you, displaying his lazy grin. You ask, despite already knowing the answer. “Is there anything you actually want me to do? Or am I just here to do nothing?”

You watch the lights in his eyes zip to your own, raising a nonexistent eyebrow. It freaks you out more than you’d like to admit. “didn’t know you wanted to do something.”

“Well, I don’t not want to do something.”

He turns back to his array of imaginary customers. “sounds like you’re gettin’ a pretty sweet deal, then.”

You swallow. You can’t take the staring anymore. Time to be a responsible citizen! “So I am here to do nothing?”

“nah,” he checks his wrist for a watch he doesn’t have. “i’m going on break. you gotta run the stand for a sec.”

Your jaw unhinges. You’re allowed breaks? “On break?”

He shrugs. “hey. workers union says we need more breaks. helps with morale.”

“We don’t have a workers union. You barely have a real job.”

“pretty sure janitor is an official job title.”

“I mean for the festival–” you stutter, waving your hands around like a psycho.” It’s, like, mostly volunteer work.”

His head tilts, ever so slightly. “volunteering means you’re willing to do stuff for free. you don’t seem very willing.”

“I am beyond willing!” You are not beyond willing, but he doesn’t need to know that! “And don’t you run, like, three stands? Doesn’t that mean I have to do all of them?”

But he brushes you off. “nope. those ones are covered.”

“By who?”

“a ton of other dudes.”

You deadpan. “A skele-ton?”

“uh, what?” He almost laughs, as if you made the most offensive statement of all time. “c’mon kid. that’s the easiest joke in the book,” and his shiteating grin widens. “i wasn’t bone yesterday.”

Goddamnit.

“Okay, whatever,” you try to shoo him away. “Go on your break. I’ll figure it out.”

He’s already halfway down the road before you finish your sentence. “you got it, boss.”

What a weirdo. 

You ignore the crank in your back, pulling up a chair that he (for some reason) refused to use. It sits somewhat snug against the ice cream stand, leaving enough space for you to criss-cross. 

Besides the few kiddos here and there, there’s not too many running up to the stand. But you’re not complaining. It’s practically perfect.

While the stares are subverted to the ice cream, you find people-watching to get boring quickly. Lack of people to watch. Lack of variety in selection. You’re picky with your self-imposed main characters. 

And so, with nothing else to do, you rest your forehead on the edge of the stand. Gravity pulls your eyes to the grass, to your feet. 

Your eyes drift closed before you can stop them. Not that you’d try to, anyway. 

It was years ago. Back when someone else ran the ice cream stand.

You remember it vividly; you, Kris, and Noelle getting ice cream on a day like this. Walking through the streets wasn’t nearly as dangerous as the general media made it out to be. You were familiar enough with the town that your parents didn’t feel the need to accompany you.

Asriel and December were off doing “teenager things”, as the latter deemed it. He always shoved her shoulder when she’d describe it like that, but he never denied the label.

There’s a new flavour, much to your big, beady eyes’ delight. It’s astounding to you; you’ve never seen more than the set selection of creams.

The lady’s very kind when she describes it to you. You don’t really understand some of her words, whether they be too big or too unfamiliar to you. All you heard was “candy” and you were sold.

The regret never kicked in, even after receiving the cone. An unnatural, pure red colour. Might have that stuff your mother puts in some of her pastries? Food colouring? It has little chunks of candy. Maybe cherry. They don’t look quite as solid as you thought they’d be.

Noelle gets something similar in concept; a rosy strawberry with little frozen chunks of said fruit. Kris gets butterscotch cinnamon pumpkin. You thought it sounded like a handful, but it even smells homey.

With the lack of a line, you three barely shift to the adjacent sidewalk, enjoying your ice cream in peaceful bliss.

After a few kitten licks, a child Noelle glances at your cone. “How is it?” 

“Sweet,” you comment; not necessarily in a negative connotation. “But good.”

You both go back and forth for a minute, describing your flavours (as if Noelle hadn’t done the same for hers last year. Or the year before that). After that, much of the in-between is blurry; Noelle gets a mild brain freeze, panics, and stuff starts leaking everywhere. You’re alone with Kris before you realize it.

“What’s yours taste like?” Like you don’t know the answer.

They don’t respond traditionally. Instead, they tighten their double-handed hold on their cone, lifting it to your face.

You don’t deny the offer. Obviously. You collect a dab on your tongue before repeating the same question.

“You just tried some,” they state blatantly.

You’re not put off by their confusion. “Yeah, but I wanna know what it tastes like to you.”

Their shoulders bounce for a moment. You realize, hidden by their palm, they’re smiling. 

It makes you smile, too. Child smiles are always contagious. 

“It tastes like…” they seem to think for a moment. “Pie.”

You recognize the similarities, specifically in the beige colour. “Pie? Like, mom’s pie?”

You never realized that you used to call two people by the same name. Mom. 

“Yeah.”

No further explanation needed.

You’ve stopped licking your ice cream. Instead, you watch their eyes scan your sweet treat. “What’re the bits?”

You scoff, as seriously as you can manage. “What? You weren’t listening to the lady?”

“Not really,” they admit.

“Well, it’s… uh…” you trail on, mind blank with any ideas. “I dunno.”

Your tongue shapes into a scoop, attempting a large lick to collect one of the chunks. It swishes around in your mouth. You’re careful not to bite into it before ensuring all the ice cream’s melted and swallowed. 

Your jaw unhinges, as wide as you can go; the small candy resting in the center of the muscle. “‘ere ‘ou go.”

They don’t waste a single moment, getting as close to your face as possible. Their eyes are glued to the treat in question, brain whirring for something to compare it to. You feel their nose brush your bottom lip.

“It’s like a gummy,” they decide to settle on.

“Weally?” You slur. Your tongue pushes the aforementioned gummy between your teeth, intending to cut it in half. For them to try. That was obviously the best solution your child brain could come up with.

Underestimating your strength (and their unmoving proximity), you chomp hard on the chunk. While you expected to bite right through it, the gummy proves itself to, in fact, not be just a gummy, as random spurts of juice explode onto your lips.

…and Kris’ entire face. 

They barely flinch, only squinting to avoid getting the sugary liquid in their eyes.

“Oops,” you say earnestly. You swallow the outer gummy shell and instantly reposition your face to inspect the liquid misting their own. Not that you had to move far. 

The larger splats have begun dripping down their soft skin. Who knew the small thing could have so much juice in it?

You involuntarily lick your lips. The taste is nice, you think absentmindedly. 

“Hold still,” you demand with complete seriousness.

They seem a bit lost when you cup the back of their head. You’re careful to not dislodge their horns (which, now acknowledging, you actually thought they had said appendages when you were younger).

And yeah, you were just a kid. And yeah, it was probably some form of a health violation.

But you, without a drop of hesitation, stick out your tongue to lick up the red droplets from their face. Your gross, sticky tongue. Lapping up their salty skin.

You can literally feel their face morph into a smile. The way their cheekbones lift; the way their eyes begin to crinkle. It’s a weird feeling under your tongue of all things, sure, but it’s become oddly ingrained into your memory. One of those things you can’t forget.

“Stop,” they giggle. And it’s such a lovely sound. You didn’t appreciate it enough back then. 

They shove your cheek with their little human hand, rendering your attack immobile. You’re rather defenseless as they seize your own cone, bite into the ice cream (yes, bite), and use their newly attained triple gummies to squirt sweet nectar all across your face. And neck. And shirt.

“Ewww,” you drawl despite your matching grin. You’re somehow drenched. Definitely sticky. Definitely gross.

And, without another word, they’ve begun lapping you up now.

From a bystander, you two’re just mutually, nastily licking. Like you’re trying to eat each other. And yeah, they’re definitely right. 

The cones in your hands aren’t forgotten, either. Half of yours is smudged on their jawline while half of theirs is painted across your cheek. 

Thank the Angel Noelle’s paying.

Speaking of–

“Eeeaahh!” The deer wallows, pointing an incriminating finger between the two of you. “What happened!? You’re both bleeding!”

And the look Kris gives you. Man, you couldn’t have held back your howl if you tried.

“W-what’s so funny?”

A groggy sound escapes your throat as your eyelids struggle to open.

It’s trippy as balls hearing Noelle’s child voice morph into her deeper, current one. She’s with Susie, and Kris, in an intensely deep conversation about octopus balls. Or something just as riveting as that. 

You’re not a spiteful person, but it’s perhaps a smidge, just a tad, eensy weensy bit aggravating to see the trio together. C’mon, Kris and Noelle? When the fuck did they rekindle? Maybe mutuals with Susie? Like hell Susie’s social enough to fix that trainwreck of a falling out–

And oh, just your luck! They’re in the mood for ice cream today, aren’t they? They couldn’t have come an hour earlier, when you weren’t running the stand? How’ve you pissed the Angel off this time?

Noelle, previously far too infatuated with Susie to notice, now realizes who she’s headed right towards. 

The alarm is instant. She halts like a deer in headlights (ha.); her eyes engulfed with a million different emotions, all leading back to let’s not go this way, please.

However, Susie ignores the deer’s obvious panic and laces her claws through Noelle’s equivalent to tug her along. All without breaking the doe’s line of sight from you.

Kris, at the very least, pretends to act natural. Walk side by side with Susie. They’re so lucky their bangs cover your view because damn if you could confidently stare them down? You would.

Things’ve changed since you last saw them. You’re not backing down. You’ve grown balls.

Noelle’s noticeably dragging, struggling to keep up her polite smile. You’ve had conversations with her, somewhat recently. More than Kris, but that bar’s in hell. With her, you’re civil at best, snarky at worst. Medium highs and higher lows. 

Thank the stars you’re too exhausted to say anything crazy, right? Unless that’s the perfect formula for an unfiltered mess of a dialogue.

“Hey, rooftop,” Susie unwinds her digits from Noelle’s, leaning a large forearm on your stand. What a nickname.

You copy her nonchalance, resting your chin in the palm of your hand. “Yo. You want ice cream?” 

Stupid question, but you almost feel inclined to make sure they’re not here to torment you.  

“Yeah… what’s the one with all the chunks in it?” She points to one of the colourful rectangles. You almost cringe from the C-word. “Are those marshmallows? Uh, nuts?”

Your heavy restraint stops you from making a deez nuts joke. “Rocky road?”

“Yeah. I’ll have one of those,” she glances over her shoulder. To Noelle. Who’s been staring at you when she thinks you’re distracted. “What’d you want, again?”

When all attention’s on the deer, she freezes up. You can’t tell if you should be disrespected or flattered that she thinks about you this much.

It’s when she says your name. All robotic and forced. That’s what startles you. “I will have mint chocolate chip, please!”

You blink, pausing Susie’s prep mid-scoop. Nice self control. “Don’t you hate that flavour?”

Her facade crumbles instantly. “Oh– god you’re right, wait, uh…”

It’s odd. When she turns into a babbling mess, you feel just a bit looser. Like things aren’t a bit weird. 

You exhale through your nose – the closest you’ve gotten to laughing all day. “It’s not like the flavours change every year.”

It’s an educated guess. It’s not like you’d have known. 

“Right, right, uhm…” She gains a bit of confidence; she’s waddled up to be at arm's length of the stand. She stands on her tippy… hooves… and tries to peek into the little compartments.

Her brain’s scrambled. You don’t really blame her. You decide to be a good samaritan. “How ‘bout strawberry?”

And that seems to hit an imaginary bell in her brain. Would you look at that? “Yes! That– I’ll have that.”

Hoping to speed up this slightly awkward experience, you turn to Kris. They appear no different than they did five minutes ago. This morning. 

“B. scotch?”

They shake their head. “Cherry bomb.”

“Really?” You blurt. And you instantly want to punch yourself in the face for it.

“Mhm.”

You’re so sure you remember agreeing the flavour was way too sweet. The ratio of gummies to ice cream was far in favour of the former. You don’t think you minded, though. 

You don’t even know if they liked it! It’s not like they asked for more. Not that you had much more to give. You’re certain it ended up on the pavement. 

Whatever, idiot! None of your business.

You don’t dare to peep another word, choosing to occupy yourself with scooping the sweet treat with precision only given to people like Dess. Damn could she bat. 

Once you finish with the first two, Susie gives you a look as you hand her Noelle’s cone. Probably wondering why your hands are shaking so bad. To your surprise, Noelle chirps out a thank you and then they’re walking away why’re they walking away–

You’ve never shoveled ice cream so fast in your life. But why? Kris won’t make conversation! What’re you so worried about? 

It’s just you and them and you and them and your balls apparently ran off to do shots with Sans and where the hell is he?–

“There ya go,” you say like some shitty customer service worker, practically shoving the treat in their mouth for them. You pretend you feel nothing as their fingers brush yours.

But they’re not leaving.

They’re lingering!

They do not linger. Well, not in the traditional sense. 

They don’t even lick their ice cream. 

They just… pick out a lone gummy from the top.

And hold it out in their hand to you. 

You swallow, preparing as if you have the guts to say anything. Maybe you seem offended, eyebrows furrowed as you glance from their hand to their eyes. You don’t like that you can see their eyes. You’re too close.

You try not to sound irritated. “What, don’t like the bits?”

They cock their head. “You like them, don’t you?”

Your face instantly softens. Fucking damnit. 

Because yeah. You do. And you don’t like how they remember that. 

You’re slow to take the piece; careful when your fingers move too close to their warm-blooded surface. Maybe you feel something when you accidentally touch. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter what.

You’re not surprised when they instantly leave. It’s not like they’re the type to look back.

Unlike yourself, who's staring at their head like a madman.

Once the trees block your vision, you give up. The counter’s cool against your flaming forehead. 

You stare at the gummy, pinched softly between your nails.

You don’t have the heart to eat it.

~*•*~

After Sans comes back, he relieves you of your duties. You’re still not sure why you had to be there an hour before his break, but whatever. More time killed. 

You’re sorta lingering around, not entirely sure what to do. It’s not like they gave you a manual on how to help out. So you’re just pretending to look busy so people leave you alone. Like fiddling with decorations. And… actually yeah that’s pretty much it.

The best part about this festival in particular is how much it emphasizes the importance of tight friendships and bonding opportunities. Two things, of which, you currently do not have. Lots of group games. Group activities. Group eating booths.

That last one might not be true. But you swear, shitty food tastes better when you’ve got a group to laugh at it with. 

And maybe it’s your low standards, or maybe you’re just feeling particularly lonely right now (after pocketing the gummy instead of eating it). But you decide, after accidentally making eye contact with a certain bluebird in the middle of the street, that… that…

You take a breath. Your ego shrinks. Because c’mon. You’re choosing to talk to Berdly. What’re you doing?

His head zips around every few seconds, as if he’s trying to look for someone. Conspicuously. Failing tremendously, might you add.

When he sees you’re not making a beeline for him just to turn at the last second, he looks like he wants to tell you off. You definitely don’t have the best relationship. And yet, it seems as though he refrains. 

“Ah,” he pronounces your name wrong. Damn. “Lost as always, hm?”

You scoff. Your heart’s not really in it. “Says you. You’re the one scanning the place like you’ve committed a crime. Watching out for the police?”

His beak flies open. “Of course not! I’m patiently awaiting my three bachelor/ettes!”

It doesn’t take you more than a moment to realize. “You mean Kris, Susie, and Noelle?”

You’d say he was impressed by the way his eyebrows fly off his head. “What an astute observation coming from… a below-to-mid average student such as yourself!”

“It’s not that difficult to assume.”

He’s practically talking to himself. “Ah, you share many characteristics with Kris! They’d be top of the class with me and Noel– with Noelle and I if they tried.”

You thought this dude was an asshat before. The hell changed?

“It doesn’t assist in your academic journey that you sleep through every lesson,” he continues. “Quite similar to–”

Don’t need to hear the end of that! “Sleep is private time. Stop watching me sleep.”

He gawks. “B… but you sleep in class! You sit right next to me? It’d take an absolute plebian not to notice!”

“How ‘bout you make like a plebian and stop noticing?”

Totally not worth the headache. You’re about to trash-and-ditch, as you’d like to call it, when–

He wraps his feather-coated chicken fingers around your hand. “Wait!”

He almost appears… earnest for a sec. “Wait,” he repeats.

You’re instantly terrified that Kris and Noelle said something to him. About you.

You saw them coming out from the computer lab a few days ago. Seems like they were awfully buddy-buddy. Like… with Berdly. Buddy-buddy. That’s insane.

But then…

“I need you to vote me for king.”

“What?” You rip your hand from his. “No. That whole voting thing’s for, like, kids.”

He’s automatically defensive. “No! It’s a testimony to demonstrate your superior bonds of friendship with your average peers!”

“Am I an average peer?”

“Um,” he pauses. “No. You’re above average. Now vote for me.”

“No.”

His lackluster coolguy persona drops. “You owe me! I allowed you ownership of my notes on Wednesday!”

“Ehm, no, I stole them. And–” Your tongue gets caught between your teeth, a bit unsure if you should be admitting this next part. “–they weren’t even yours. I know they were Noelle’s.”

“Erm, actually, they were replicas of the notes acquired by Mrs. Alphys that Noelle was fulfilling for Kris while they–”

“Really!?” You snap, shaking the bird by the shoulders. “How fucking close are they!? They sure didn’t care to reintroduce me into their rebudding friendship!”

He seems utterly confused at your outburst. It’s not like he was paying attention, either. Something else caught his eye are you fucking kidding me–

“Ah, there they are!” He watches from behind you.

No, nope, you’re done with this. No more bunting banners, no more ice cream, no more Berdly. No more Susie. No more Noelle. No more Kris.

You lightly shake him until his eyes are set on yours, panic strung through your fingers. “Okay, Berdly. I’ll vote for you as king and queen. Have a good day!”

And you really try to leave. You really do. But he tugs you back like a man– boy set on a mission.

“Uhm, actually!” He somehow seems more stressed than you. “I only need the king vote. I am a king. Not a queen.”

You very unsubtly whip your head to the trio. They’re gaining on you. “Yeah, okay! I’ll do whatever you want! Just let me go!”

That seems to strike a realization in him. “Erm, I also need those notes back.’

“You said they weren’t yours!”

“I mean the ones from Monday, not Wednesday. Also maybe Tuesday’s and last Friday’s– not this Friday but last Friday–”

“Yes, Berdly, I’ll give you every note I’ve ever had! In fact, you can take all of mine, too!”

“No, I don’t want your inferior– I mean, I don’t need your notes, I want mine–”

“Fine! Yes! All your notes! Given!”

He taps his beak. “Actually, you can keep some in exchange for an exquisite walk around the festival.”

The bird waggles his eyebrows. You’re about to go off on him, when you hear a pair snickering behind you.

It’s Susie and Noelle. They’re laughing at your pain.

Kris isn’t emoting nearly as much as them (or at all), but you swear you see a twitch at the edge of their lip every few seconds.

However, Berdly’s got other priorities; he steals the spotlight rather quickly. “Ah, if it isn’t my three potential partners.”

Whatever. As long as the attention’s off of you.

You’re not really listening to his speech. It’s long, drawn, dramatic. You’d prefer to just… rest your eyes. They’re all too occupied to notice, anyways.

There was a festival morning. Not nearly as grueling as this one. 

You’re at the Dreemurr’s, planted right at their front steps, not quite listening to Toriel’s own speech about having fun and staying safe alongside Kris and Noelle. You’re too busy watching Dess and Azzy.

They’re together at the end of the driveway, huddled like they can’t help but share the same bubble. You’re not quite sure what proximity like that means, but you know it means something different. Something else.

She’s showing him something on her phone, right before intertwining her fingers with his. 

It feels natural; the way your body’s inclined to act on impulse. You’re grazing Kris’ hand before slithering your digits between theirs. Nothing about their expression changes. But you feel their fingers rest between your knuckles. It’s just so right. 

“Can I go with Kris this year?” You peep, directing your question to Toriel. You feel their hand tighten.

She almost instantly swoons, ruffling your head like you’ve just asked the cutest question imaginable. “Of course! You three go together every year!”

You’re not sure what the feeling is, but you feel inclined to look away. “But like… I mean like… how Dess and Azzy go every year… together…”

Any emotion from her face vanishes in an instant. 

Instead, she’s calling out to the aforementioned two, who’re too busy giggling to prepare for her anger. “The HELL are you teaching these two?”

Asriel’s entire body morphs into fight or flight (definitely flight), scrambling for an explanation, even a question.

Thankfully, December comes in for the save. “Nothing inappropriate, ma’am!”

But she sounds far too cocky for it to reign anything but false.

Despite that, Toriel decides to take it. She flips some internal switch; smile wider than she can manage. “Okay! Have fun! Do not make bad decisions!”

The latter’s not directed to you. But that’s not what you’re focused on.

You’re still holding hands.

Back then, you wouldn’t know what a shiteating grin looked like. Dess’ own actually might’ve been the first you’ve ever seen. 

She calls for her little sister with intentions horribly impure, leaving you and the little human alone on their porch.

When the three are out of view, you’re shifting closer to their heat, whispering in their ear. “Okay. How about, this year, you climb on top of the ferris wheel thingy–” the gondola, “–and I’ll sit in it and I see how long I can shake the thing until you fall off.”

They already seem on board. “We’re gonna get banned again,” they smile. It’s rather contradicting with the assumed concern of their words. 

“Then we gotta do it fast.”

And you watch each other for a moment. Formulating more ideas through your telepathic minds. Your grin grows a bit too big for your small face.

It’s sad. You have the face for a big smile now.

You don’t hide how intently you’re staring at Kris. You don’t know when they started mirroring you, but they’re gazing right back. It’s hard to care. How many times has this happened today?

Berdly’s practically white noise. You only stop to glance when he shifts from Susie to Kris– from Susie to Kris.

Oh hell no. That better not mean what you think it means.

“Kris…” he coos. “Kris cross applesauce–”

Before Susie can interject, you’re yanking him by the back of his shirt. “No.”

Because screw that. Like hell you’re gonna let them get close with Berdly of all fucking people.

Like hell you’re gonna let them get close with anyone before whatever the fuck happened fixes itself.

And of course all eyes dart to you! Of course you look like a psycho for– you’re actually saving them from future years of torment! Why’s everyone staring at you like you’re crazy!?

Kris doesn’t look at you like you’re stupid. Their eyes widen ever so slightly. 

Your teeth clench, as if saying ‘don’t you dare’. 

Don’t you dare what? Who knows!

Too late to back down now!

…actually, what do you do now?

Susie’s the first to move, snaking an… octo-ball from her pocket. There’s little hairs and furs and lint sticking out of it.

She displays it to you like it’s a million dollars. “Want it?”

You’re too lost to say anything other than: “Okay.”

They all watch as she tosses it to you. You chomp on it slowly. The lint instantly gets stuck in your teeth. Or is that the hair?

Noelle’s almost more confused than you. “Didn’t you eat yours, Susie?”

“I did,” she admits, like it’s a felony. “Then Kris stole another one. And I stole it from them.”

“Kris? You wanted another one?”

Before they can interject, Susie’s shrugging her shoulders. 

“Of course they didn’t,” she waits for the second half to enter your mouth before continuing. “It was gonna end up with rooftop anyways.”

And you’re practically choking to death.

You’re not sure what’s more multicoloured: their rosy cheeks or your face from lack of oxygen.

~*•*~

Some kid stole the balloons from one of the trees. Of course it was one of your trees. That means you’re legally responsible. And it’s hardly an hour past noon. Who’s out here stealing before the festival hits its peak? Does it even have a peak?

You’d like to think the hooligans would only come out at dusk. Hooligans? Did you really just say hooligans?

Sure, you might have the same sleep schedule as someone in their eighties – sleep for sixteen hours and take little naps between – but you didn’t think you’d start talking like them until your, like, thirtieth birthday. There’s not much hope to go around.

Due to your amazing star-child track record, you felt awfully obligated to go get replacements. At the Church. It’s rather out of place of the festival’s whole vibe. 

While the sun crisps up the top of your head, your eyes don’t immediately dilate at the dark foyer. There’s a few tables to your left; the vague shape of bowls displayed on their surfaces. You think there’s someone further in front of you, maybe someone to your right?

It doesn’t really matter. Get in, get out. 

Not only are you partially blinded, you’re also mid-eye-rub, stepping blindly towards the storage room. There’s a sound, maybe a thump above you, and–

“Gyyah!” You shriek.

Someone’s dropped in front of you dangling on a string and you’re trying to get your brain up to speed but you’re too exhausted to think straight–

Your feet do all the decision-making, stumbling over one another, right into the unexpected guest behind you.

Fate tests you, and it tests you hard. 

The moment you smell that apple shampoo, the moment you feel their hands hover near your shoulders in an obvious attempt to help you right yourself, you instantly cower away, shuffling to one of the tables with the… blood juice. 

Alphys – the one hanging from the string, dressed as a vampire? – stutters your name in a confused panic. “I d-didn’t think I’d see you here, hehe…”

Well, her priorities are certainly in check.

“Yeah, I just…” you start, but don’t find yourself continuing.

It’s the trio (woah, really?), all previously distracted with Catti’s fortune-teller table. You’re assuming. Judging by the way Susie’s finger’s only a few moments from tapping the cat’s crystal ball.

Kris is oddly far from the pair, though. Closer to you, the middle of the foyer; their hands still slightly raised from your quick departure. 

“That–” your voice cracks. “That wasn’t… uh, I wasn’t trying to– I didn’t see you. There. My, uh, my bad.”

Why’re you trying to explain your very natural reaction to getting spooked?

It’s not like you scare easily. You’re really not on your A-game.

“Haha, don’t worry. It got me, too,” Noelle chirps from her safe distance, offering a rather understanding smile. “Memorized every scare here. Guess we both didn’t expect anything new this year, huh?”

‘Expect anything new this year’. Fucking hell.

She hasn’t even noticed you haven’t attended this stupid festival in the last, like, decade? Really?

Some friend she is.

Your fists… unclench.

Guess you can’t really call her that.

“Sorry,” you say to no one in particular, staring at your feet like you’re some timid moron.

You retreat past the floating Alphys, squeezing into the storage room and shutting the door with more aggression than you’d rather they hear. 

The trio doesn’t seem as thoughtful, though. You can hear their murmurs through the door. It’s a chore to try to tune them out.

The place is filled to the brim with boxes. It’s rather apparent that they didn’t have the time to keep it all organized before the big day. 

You scan through the first few, only rummaging into decor-themed boxes. First, second, third, and on your fourth, you find it. A half-empty plastic ziplock of balloons.

You didn’t kill nearly as much time as you wanted to. What if they’re still outside?

They’re not. You heard them spout their goodbyes.

Maybe you just want to kill time for yourself. It’s not like anyone’s looking for the balls of air, anyways.

You contemplate sitting on the floor, but decide against it. Bits of glitter and confetti’re already stuck to the bottom of your shoes. 

As if beckoning you, you glance to the piano bench. You feel it staring back.

Begrudgingly (and thoughtlessly), you take a seat. Memories that’ll spark, feelings that’ll emerge. You don’t feel like dealing with that. You don’t ever do.

And yet, you find yourself resting your arms on the keys, pressing just lightly enough to hear the jumble of notes play. You’re the only one who gets to listen.

Your head falls on your nest of arms. And you close your eyes.

You had much more space to shuffle on the bench, having been half the size. But it didn’t matter; you still sat shoulder to shoulder. You were both small, despite this being one of your later memories. 

You can’t really remember why you’re here. You think they’re practicing for their festival performance. You don’t think you asked. You just wanted to hear them play, to be honest.

Their fingers, nothing compared to the bulk of the keys, press with a practiced confidence. Something you rarely see from them.

Not that they don’t display ego at times, but you’re pretty sure they don’t intentionally do it.

You wait until after they finish to praise them. “Cool song,” you press the keys, completing a clunky c-scale. “What other ones do you know?”

Either you’re horrible at hiding your true intent, or they’re really good at reading you. “Know how to do ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’?”

Just the question alone gets you excited. “Nope.”

Their left hand disappears behind their body. When they gesture to their right hand, you hold your own up with purpose. 

Their fingers envelop your wrist, guiding you to a placement two octaves from their own. Your thumb rests on the C.

“You ready?” They return to their own position.

“Mhm.”

Their thumb presses the note twice. C note. Their eyes drift to your own, waiting for you to copy. You do.

The rest continues en suite. Your notes follow like an echo to their own.

Once you run through it together, they silently urge you to play it again, without them. You try.

A few notes off – an A instead of a G, an E instead of an F – but it sounds recognizable to the source material. 

Stubborn as ever, you play through it again. You pause a few times, but you don’t press any wrong notes. Feels good.

“Okay,” you pretend you’re not beaming with pride. “What’s next?”

“Next step up?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m ready.”

Somewhere near their feet, they bust out some insane looking sheet music. Notes you’ve never seen before, shapes you’ve never seen before. Just based on their struggle to keep a straight face, you scoff. But you don’t back down.

“Ehm, how ‘bout you play through once? And I’ll do the thing where I’ll learn by listening,” you offer, as if you have the right to negotiate.

They feed into your bullshit. You wouldn’t have called it that back then; you’d have called it a ‘joke’. “Playing by ear?”

“Yeah. I got it,” you ready yourself with your misplaced confidence.

You can tell they’re not taking you seriously.

They abruptly start playing, both hands heavily involved. You pretend to mimic their hand placement at your comfortable two octaves higher. It’s definitely not working. You have no idea what you’re doing. 

Your smile only grows when you notice their speed increase. Oh, yeah. You’re absolutely lost.

But then, their composed music starts to deform, and you realize they’ve just started (lightly) smashing the keys at random. 

You copy their spam of notes, piano deafening to the listening ear.

And yet, you hear them laugh. It’s louder than anything in the room. 

To you, at least. 

Maybe only to you.

It’s so unbelievably contagious. 

Or it’s only contagious to you.

You slow your clutter when you hear them play the lowest note on the piano.

You copy an equivalent, playing the highest.

But they keep playing it.

You’re confused. This isn’t how the memory goes.

The sound bleeds through your ears until you realize it’s not just in your mind.

You barely shift your head. You leave just a small enough peephole above your arms to see who’s trying to ruin your peaceful, much needed rest. 

You don’t have it in you to act surprised anymore. 

Kris stands at the edge of the piano, watching you wake up.

Much of your face is shielded, but you’re sure they can make out your furrowed eyebrow.

Their finger falls from the note, back to their side. “That’s not good for your back.”

You’re still woozy. “What?”

They give just the slightest of nods. “Slouching over like that.”

You’re instantly peeved. Oh, come on. They’re hunched over, knocked out in class, like, every day. “Says you, zombie.”

And you instantly want to take it back. Because you’re not close enough to make a joke like that anymore.

You pretend to take their advice, lifting into a half-assed sitting position. “Sorry.”

They don’t seem offended. They don’t seem anything.

You watch their eyes drift to your hands that naturally rest on the piano. Said hands instantly go to your lap.

But they’re not leaving.

“Where’s Susie and Noelle?” You ask. Out of courtesy, for the most part. You don’t really want to know.

Their gaze refuses to leave your fists. “Holding hands in the eyeball bowl.”

They either came back as a group, or Kris is straight up lying to you. Either way, you can’t help but laugh. “Didn’t they ban that specifically?”

They hum. You heard it from adults this morning. Weird subject to eaves drop on, but it’s all you could find that was semi-interesting.

“That’s not as surprising as it should be,” you continue. “Az and Dess did some nasty finger shit in there–”

And your mouth zips shut tight.

Is stating their names a violation of the unnamed policy? Lighting the already-crossed line on fire?

But they don’t falter. In fact, their lip tilts up, just enough. You know you’d be the only one to notice. Like the weirdo you are. “You sound like Catti.”

“The hell did Catti do now?”

“She hates Susie,” they shrug. “Something about corrupting Noelle.”

It’s not a great feeling. To not understand the dynamics that Kris talks so casually about. But you pretend to get it.

“Oh, Noelle,” you coo. “Such a pure soul. Far too pure for Catti, though. Or Susie,” from what you can gauge from watching her. “Or you.”

To your unhideable shock, they perch on the edge of the bench. Yeah, as far as they can be from you, but they sit nonetheless. “Or you.”

You’re surprised to even be a part of the equation.

They glance past you, to the floor. To the box next to your feet. Right.

“Dad ask for help?” They ask. They’re starting a lot of conversations. More than you’re used to.

You also can’t tell if they’re asking about the crate specifically, or about the entire day itself. “Didn’t want to, but yeah. Could be doing more important things right now.”

“Like sleeping?”

You sigh dreamily. “Yeah. Like sleeping.”

They seem to hesitate for a moment. It’s nice to know they’re just as unsure as you are. About any of it. About all of it.

They settle on: “Don’t let me stop you.”

You waver. But it’s Kris. You don’t know how to say no to Kris. You never did, you never do, and you never will.

You rest your head again, mimicking your attentiveness from when you first got to this hoarder’s paradise. And you close your eyes.

Sleep approaches quickly. Right before you let it take you, cocooning you in its wanted grace, you hear that same song.

The one for the festival. The one meant for an audience. 

But this time, it’s just for you.

~*•*~

You awake with the most grueling back pain. It travels from your tailbone right up to your neck. Guess you should’ve listened, after all.

There’s a tissue resting on the music rack. It blankets a red gummy. 

You dig for the one in your pocket, only to bring it up to your eyes. It’s sticky, covered with little fabric hairs. You’re sure there’s an unpleasant residue waiting for you where you kept it. 

You pop them both in your mouth. The juices coat your tongue like a warm hug. 

The festival’s practically over. You spent the last few hours in your own head. 

With empty streets and emptier thoughts, all you can think of is the ferris wheel.

Your trek there is short, efficient. You ignore one of the pole’s bald spots. Could’ve definitely used a balloon or two. 

As you stand at the base of the contraption, all you can think is: Damn. It’s a lot bigger than you remember. 

You break off a lone branch from one of the surrounding trees, keeping it with you throughout your mission. Behind the booth sits a few buttons and levers. It doesn’t take you long to press the right ones, ultimately pulling the latter to get it moving. 

Its spin is slow and aged. You wait for the next gondola to appear at your feet, hopping into its unlocked side door. 

When your ride hits the halfway mark, you hang out the open hatch, aiming your stick at the booth’s protected lever. Once you cross the three-quarter mark, you toss it violently. 

It whacks the lever with enough pressure to just lodge it over from on to off. You’ve got a stronger throw than you thought, ‘cause wow you didn’t think that’d work. 

After you’re certain you’ve hit your peak, you crawl back into your gondola, leaving the door open a crack because you know you’ll find some dumb way to get locked inside.

You’re above the trees, in view of the horizon. The sun swims in oceans of red, orange, and pink hues. It’s beautiful. 

You sit yourself on the uncomfortable metal benches, resting your head against the hard frame of the heart. 

Your eyes drift shut. This would be such a good time for another nap.

Maybe you’d dream about the times Kris would rock the seats. Or when they’d manage to jam the machine so you’d get stuck at the top for half an hour. You can hide from everyone up here. 

Maybe you want to think about those moments, whether involuntary or not. 

But as you phase in and out of consciousness, you can feel your sleep to be dreamless.

And it just… ruins it all.

You’ve seen Kris more in the past twenty four hours than you have in the past couple years. And now, when you’re too tired? That’s when you can’t spark up a single memory that your brain wants to dream about?

And not only that, but you feel like you’re being watched. You can knock yourself out in minutes, sure, but not when you’re paranoid. 

You turn your back to the sunset. Towards the trees.

There’s a tuft of brown hair hanging over the heart’s arch, framing those damn beautiful red eyes– 

You better shut your corny ass up.

And yeah, you scream. Much louder than you did in the church. It’s like your thoughts summoned them to your location. 

From what you can see, they don’t react. But there’s just the slightest raise (lower?) in their cheekbones. Your pulse quickens, for some reason.

They disappear, retreating back to the top. You don’t feel the metal groan from the relieved pressure of their departure. But then again, you didn’t hear them get on, either. So who knows?

There’s two distinct taps on the roof. A fingernail to the frame.

You exhale, long and measured. Your day’s already been fucked as is. Might as well make it worse.

And you sorta hate yourself for thinking that. You would’ve said the exact opposite years ago.

The idea of interacting with them feels like so much work. But… not them, specifically.

You think you like it when they go out of their way to see you.

Maybe.

But it’s been so long.

Has nothing changed? Has any of it changed?

You’re both so different.

How different could you really be?

You climb out the side door effortlessly, as you’ve done a million times before. Instead of hearing your conjoined parents holler for you two to come down, there’s nothing but trees waiting at your feet.

They watch you settle on the opposite arch. You refuse to look in their general direction.

“That’s not how you play.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What?”

They criss-cross their legs, leaning back on their palms. “Didn’t feel you rock it once.”

You don’t like how easy it is for them to bum you out. At least this time, it feels like you’re more mad at yourself than you are at them.

You pull your legs to your chest. “Where’s Susie and Noelle?”

Better question. Why do you keep asking?

“Off doing stuff.”

And c’mon. You can’t help but flush at the implication. “Not like that, right?”

Out of the corner of your vision, you can see their fingers bunch into a tight fist. “Not like that.”

You feel shitty for even asking. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You don’t even know why they’re here. You don’t know why you’re okay with them being here. It’s probably their voice. Maybe their presence. 

Doing nothing. Doing something. 

It doesn’t really matter to you. You feel indulgent. 

Before tomorrow comes and you’re both back to normal.

“How was your day?” You ask, hoping they don’t think you’re being disingenuous. 

They pause. You might’ve thrown them off. 

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Noelle and Susie seemed to have fun.” If you were anywhere close to making eye contact, they’d have broken it instantly. “They did most of the games.”

You find yourself staring at the side of their head. Greedily. “But did you have fun?”

“Sure.”

“‘Sure’?” They can totally feel your gaze. 

They drum their fingers on the frame. “Forgot how many duo games there are.”

“Damn,” you sigh, partially feigning sympathy. The other half? Couldn’t tell you. “Third wheel?”

“Somewhat.”

“I mean, I can't tell if I’d rather be left out of a trio or straight up have no one to go with at all! Haha… ha..”

Wow, nice joke. Really funny! You couldn’t have sounded more pathetic.

That’s when they turn their head to you. Curiosity? Confusion? Maybe just a hint of alarm?

You break it, glaring straight ahead. No need to look over anymore.

You kick your feet off the ledge, hoping to get a nice breeze on your calves. But your knees bend over the end, feet flush against the glass.

Your feet were never long enough to go over the edge before. It’s a weird feeling.

…

Fuck.

You push down the bile rising up your throat. “I think I hate this festival.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s just another reminder that this town’s smaller than a dime. Why’re we– they pretending nothing’s changed? We all know she’s gone. No one’s moved on. One less than ten isn’t the same as one less than a hundred.”

Woah, there. You’ve gotta slow down. 

“There aren’t ten people in town.”

But they’re not even treating you seriously. “Might as well be!”

“Have you moved on?” They accuse. Neutral as ever. 

Your voice gets caught in your throat. You recover quickly. “More than most!”

They give you the most earnest look you’ve ever seen. It doesn’t feel right. 

“Then why aren’t we friends?”

Oh, what an attack!

That you’re not!

Going to!

Respond to!

What could you say to that? There’s nothing you could say!

You shuffle away like they’re leaking poisonous gas and oh right! You’re on the heart’s slope!

You start sliding fast, legs taking a dive for the ground, arms thrashing like you’re a drowning baby, when–

Kris’ hands latch around both your biceps, carrying you with the sole will of their determination. And all you can think is damn, they’re stronger than you thought.

Which is not the right thoughts to be having right now!

You’re sure you look like a flailing idiot, but even they look far too relaxed for someone who’s slipping by the minute. 

And they continue as if this isn’t happening!

“Maybe everyone’s pretending nothing’s changed because they have moved on.”

You squeeze their biceps, only to skid a bit further. “Then, I don’t know, they’re lying to themselves!”

“Are they?”

“Yeah! W-well, have you moved on?”

They lose their grip for a second.

You’re actually gonna die. “Wait!– don’t answer that–”

And yet, their eyes. It’s like they really want to tell you. 

Their mouth remains sealed. But they give you a quick shake of the head.

And, for some reason, knowing that…

…gives you relief.

Wow. 

You’re not the only one stuck in the past.

You can’t believe you just admitted that to yourself. 

You feel their grip weaken even more.

That’s when you start really panicking.

“Well, maybe we aren’t friends because I thought you didn’t wanna be around me after it all went down!”

Their mouth’s thrown agape.

And you slip from their grasp like butter.

But adrenaline’s got your back, baby! You use whatever grip on their arm you can manage to tug yourself up, delaying your fall.

Great! Now all you need to do is–

Your fingers dig into their sweater.

Right next to their soul. 

And you’re dragging them off the gondola like a sacrifice. 

As you’re both falling, you watch their shock contort into panic. Yeah, you kinda butchered that one pretty bad.

All you can do now is close your eyes.

This is the end.

You’re gonna die after admitting your life’s biggest secret.

Something you hold so close, so dear.

To the person you’d rather have never known.

It was probably selfish to think it; that they specifically went out of their way to remove you from their life. Especially when you knew they were struggling.

They were all struggling, weren’t they?

You were, too.

Even if you didn’t know December too well.

You still felt it.

The emptiness.

The lack of closure.

And now, you–

“Uuf.”

Your backside slams against the dirt, lungs slightly winded. There’s a silent (still heavy) weight that falls on top of you like you’re some specially made pillow.

As you groan, lids shut from the pain zapping through your bones, you feel a shadow crowd over you.

You squint. It’s Kris, practically sprawled over your body, arms bracketing you. You can feel their breath on your lips. 

You’re close enough to watch the red engulf their face as they try to leap away, but–

“Wait!” You tug at their shoulders, positioning them right back over you. You just don’t want them to bolt.

The flames spread down their neck. You bite your tongue. “Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?” They echo, sounding slightly out of character.

Your eyes drift closed. Because you can feel the rounds of laughter rise up your chest.

You’re the only one laughing. You might be crying, too. It’s hard to tell.

You only catch their confusion before they force themself back into neutrality.

“Did you mean to push everyone away after it happened? Or were you just doing that because everyone else was, too?”

They don’t answer. You didn’t really expect them too.

“Bad question,” you croak, releasing your tight fists from their sweater.

After a second of debate, they get up. But they choose to sit next to your corpse-like body instead of retreating into the forest. You’re not sure how they’re not in excruciating pain right now, but you think you can take two for the team.

“Noelle hasn’t moved on,” they comment randomly.

“Duh,” you caw rather bluntly, throat crackling from mucus. “That was her sister.”

There’s a moment of silence before you reach for their leg. Just to rest your palm under their warmth. “Did you go willingly? To the festival, I mean.”

“I don’t willingly go anywhere.”

You cackle at that. “Yeah, but that’s because school sucks. And it’s not fun when people talk to you as if they know you.”

You don’t need them to say you’re right to show they agree.

They poke at your fingers like they’re alien sausages. “Mom makes me go.”

“Yeah, that checks out.”

The sun’s practically gone. You watch the empty, black sky like it has something to offer. 

They lay next to you. The entire lengths of your arms sit snug against each other.

You’re about to say something else, when their hand brushes your hip. You totally weren’t about to throw hands when they start digging through your pant pocket. Their fingers escape; between their index and middle lies a key. Definitely not your key.

Oh, yeah. You forgot to return that.

“Wanna go grab free ice cream?” You offer mindlessly, voice slightly hoarse. “Apparently, I still have the key to the cart’s top.”

They look at you like you’re a genius.

“Or we take the whole cart.”

You gasp. “Damn, you’re right. Even better.”

~~~ and then they make out the end

this whole fic takes place over a day and i dont think ive ever done a fic contained to 24 hours bruh im surprised i got enough out of it. also first time writing sans yooo

I love doing fics where reader is just going through the fucking ringer like bros struggling HARD in this one and its only them like get over it LOLOL