uninterested

Kris has learned a few new things today.

First of all, the dyed lines on the floor are horribly uneven, despite having been redone last year. Second off, Susie’s throws are strong enough to give multiple students something one step down from a concussion. And finally, it may or may not be a common occurrence for extraterrestrial gods to be good at dodgeball. 

It’s not exactly difficult to hover near the court’s rear, even as someone with less of a care than them. They’ve just been snatching up wayward foam balls and tossing them to Susie, who’s been unapologetically sniping people left and right. 

The numbers dwindle quickly, but apparently not fast enough for the standards of a certain attention-deficit ball hog. They feel their foot tap impatiently, outside residue of puddles and mud having kicked in a squeak or two. 

They barely register the shape zooming towards their stomach before their palms instinctually trap the ball, halting it in its path. Someone groans on the other side of the court, trekking over to the oh so full bench.

Then, they hear that echoing voice. It’s the one they hear over every other sound. The one they had previously wished they could claw out from inside their head. It’s falsely humble at best – egotistical at worst.

“Boom. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m totally joining my school’s team after this. Do you think reaction time skills in games translate to real life? Probably, right?”

…yeah, maybe they still wish they could. But they’ll admit that it’s much easier to get along with the all-seeing and all-knowing when it does stuff in their place that they’d rather not do. Like dodgeball.

Doesn’t make it any less weird.

They’ve been following the motions embedded into their veins; into every twitch of their muscles. Just so it doesn’t look like they’re unwillingly dragging themself along the ground. Thankfully, their soul’s decided it doesn’t want to be the center of attention today.

It makes it easier for them to zone out. They’ve learned that being a puppet is somewhat okay when the puppetmaster doesn’t oppose everything they do.

Their head nearly snaps off their neck, just barely dodging a sharp ball headed straight for their face. Ouch.

“Sorry! I, like, just saw it at the last–” The voice dissipates, returning with an exhilarated gasp. “Ooh, wait. Perfect opportunity right here. You see it?”

It gravitates their eyes to Temmie. She’s protectively hunched over her makeshift nest – formulated from a collection of different sized foam balls – shielding her eggs from danger. One’s appeared to have fallen over, to which she’s begun righting back up; her back to the court.

I see it.

“Oh yeah. You want this one, or should I?”

It’s not like they’ve wanted to throw anything for the past half hour. But they, for some reason, have come to appreciate the repetitive offers anyway. 

Go for it.

They feel a grin form on their lips; one that doesn’t belong to them. 

In what they hardly comprehend as a second or two, their arm winds back – ball clenched hard between their fingers – with the motive to win. 

They hear the foam rip through the air, colliding with Temmie’s shoulder so impossibly hard that she’s sent flying over her nest, face-first into the glazed hardwood. They watch as eyes upon eyes whip to where it came from. They ignore them, like they always do. 

You almost missed.

Their eyes roll involuntarily. “I was trying not to knock her… stuff.”

A bit showoffish for an easy target.

“I was, uh… making a diversion for your buddy.”

Uh huh.

“Totally my intent.”

As if on cue, Susie knocks out both Catti and Jockington, taking advantage of the momentary shock. On Jockington, mainly. But he was so tightly winded around her that she had no chance to avoid Susie’s attack. 

“Damn,” a longing sigh leaves their lips. “I’ll never get over how stupidly strong she is.”

A stray ball rolls up to their foot. They pick it up, preparing it for ammo.

“I wonder if she could stop a hydraulic press. Like, if her hands were like Rupert’s drop.”

Rupert’s drop?

They sidestep, avoiding another vaguely red shape.

“Do you not know what that is? Oh, we are so watching some good ol’ hydraulic press compilations when we get home.”

You can watch your compilations. I’m going to bed the moment I step through those doors.

“No, Kris. We need to do it together–”

And the voice goes dead silent.

There’s another ball that just narrowly zooms past their face. They could feel the wind splash across their cheeks. That would’ve been a definite hit – if it weren’t for the poor aim – considering the lack of forced suggested movement within them. 

They’re almost concerned for their soul. Almost.

You still in there?–

The voice returns tenfold. They stop themself from wincing. “Crap, okay my tater tots are ready– brb you’ll be okay without me, right?”

I… what?

“Okay, good– just hang tight, I’ll be, like, five minutes–”

And it’s gone. They can’t feel its presence.

Then, to their left, Berdly gets whacked in the stomach with a ball flying nearly as fast as the souls’. 

Susie’s already tearing up, palm shielding her face as she poorly hides her amusement.  “Pfft–”

And another voice floods their ears. One far more angelic than the soul’s will ever be.

“Sorry!”

It’s you.

With another ball tucked firmly under your arm, you use your free hand to cup your mouth, a sympathetic-yet-entertained smile spread throughout your lips. “I wasn’t really aiming for you; you just kinda got in my way–”

“Pshh!” The bird scoffs. “You were using far too much force for a children’s game! I demand a recount!”

“A recount? I–” You halt. They visibly watch the joy of your idea seep into your mind. “I was using just enough power to take down the strongest person on your team. I think I was justified.”

He’s obviously taken aback; only anchored back to his normal demeanor through his ego. His wing splays across his chest, preparing a speech. “Well, I suppose I can make an exception when you’ve so valiantly spent all your brain power attempting to take me down!–”

Susie whips her ball at his leg, trying to avoid the distraction. “You’re out, dude. Go sit down.”

But she almost falls victim to the bait.

You’re already shooting your ball halfway across the court. Susie stumbles, causing you to miss her arm by a hair. She stares at you like you’re insane. 

And you’re outwardly laughing. Not in a conceited way; more of an adrenaline-filled, disbelief sorta way. 

They can’t really say they’ve listened to more than a hundred voices in their life. The town’s small, and the people feel even smaller. Everyone always comes across as unbelievably happy, or unaware, or bored. Not that there’s anything really wrong with that.

They never thought it was an issue. Until they “met” you.

You felt different. Real.

They already knew of you. Hell, they’re pretty sure they’ve talked to you on multiple passing occasions. You looked up to Azzy a lot. It’s something they took note of, but never really acknowledged.

It was a random Sunday night. You’d spent a majority of the day with Azzy in their kitchen, studying like the nerds you two are. He liked helping you with your homework. 

They thought you’d have left already. It’s not like you’ve ever stayed past ten.

It was one in the morning. 

They had long prepared to sneak downstairs, finish off the rest of the pie that their mom had baked for your visit, but you were still there. Hunched over the table, surrounded by textbooks and your glaring laptop, pencil scribbling in your notebook like a madman.

You didn’t look up.

“Az?” You mumbled, voice laced with the longing of sleep. “Thought you went t’ bed.”

They debated not saying anything. Leaving you to talk to yourself in the dark. But they didn’t. Mostly for the courtesy of their brother.

“It’s me.”

You didn’t seem surprised. Still, your head struggles to turn. “Oh. Sorry. Should I go?”

You should’ve been gone, sleeping soundly in your own bed. They weren’t really sure what you’re still doing here.

You phrased it as if you’re offending them. They offered you whatever reassurance they could muster. “No.”

“God, I…” you trailed off, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. “...lost track of time. He said I… can– could hang around… until I finished. Call ‘im down if he… er, I needed help….’

Seems like you two were a lot closer than they thought.

Besides that, they didn’t think much of it – beelining towards the half-eaten pie tin. They’d much rather have a lack of audience, but you didn’t seem conscious enough to acknowledge them anyways.

And they heard a loud thump. 

You’ve faceplanted onto the table. Your back rose and fell with the grace of someone deep in the trance of slumber. They froze for a moment, debating what the hell they should do next. 

While they knew how horrible back pains can get when hunched over a desk table for too long (re: every nap they’ve ever taken at school), they also knew it’s none of their damn business.

They heard you let out a whimper of dissatisfaction. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t awake, either.

…

You’re Asriel’s friend. And they trust him. 

They hesitantly approached your setup, peeking over your shoulder from a safe distance to read whatever you were working on.

You’ve been stuck on the same problem for who knows how long. Your blotchy paper screams to be replaced; pencil stains and eraser bits scattered across the surface.

They’re not exactly much of a tutor themself, nor would they consider themself to be any level of smart, but they could already identify what mistake you kept repeating. Evident from the faded, identical numbers that’ve chosen permanent residence on your page. 

Without thinking (because they’re rather tired, too), they snatched a wayward pen from your pencil case, ripping off a blank sticky note while skimming your textbook for the question info. 

After a minute or so, they scrawled on an equation – one similar to yours – and taped it to the corner of your notebook.

They tapped your shoulder. You lifted your head. “Try this one,” they offered. 

Your eyes followed their own as you skimmed their handwriting. Your gaze lit up in recognition. “Crap, you’re so right. I forgot to– fuck.”

They felt their stomach churn from the now one-sided awkward silence (one-sided because you didn’t seem to feel the awkwardness of it), and they immediately decided that they’ll have pie tomorrow. Y’know, instead of hovering over your shoulder like a weirdo.

They’ve already turned to leave when your hand encircled their own. Not their wrist. Their hand. Their fingers.

Their palms lit up from the contact.

You gave them a dazed, warm smile. “Thanks, Kris.”

They didn’t really know how to respond to that.

Their stare was trained on the couch. “Go to sleep.”

“Huh?” Your grip slackened.

“The couch,” they quickly corrected themself. “You can take it. If you want.”

Not that they have any sort of authority in this house to decide something like that, but they’re sure their mom wouldn’t mind. You seem to be one of Azzy’s friends that their parents actually like.

You laughed. It’s soft; warm, like your smile. “Thank you for the invitation. I’d be honoured.”

Your voice ripples through them. As if you’ve embedded yourself deep into their veins. 

You’ve woken them up much more than a coffee ever could. And yet, at the same time, they want to doze off, curling up into that sweet warmth.

“Guess you’re sorta a hypocrite, too, then?”

They’re almost taken aback. They didn’t let it show.

“Guess so.”

You started packing up your books under the guise of ‘doing it tomorrow’, to which they couldn’t help but stand there like a staring idiot. 

But you didn’t seem to mind. 

Once you were nearly done, you held out something small pinched between your fingers, offering it to them. They cupped their hands expectantly.

And a blue paper crane fell to their palms. 

“Also,” you shut your laptop. “Tell your mom she makes amazing pies. I could totally eat an entire tin unprompted.”

…

Yeah, you’re… something.

“I know,” they found themself saying.

You gave them a look. “You know?”

Yeah, that did not come off how they intended.

“I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve eaten an entire tin?” You giggled again, giving them an almost enamoured look. “You’re literally my spirit animal.”

You went to bed not shortly after. They couldn’t sleep under the idea that you’re resting in the same house as them. Which sucked, considering they’ve never given you a second thought… ever.

Since then, they’ve heard you laugh a million times. And they’ll never get sick of hearing it.

You’ve never had a full conversation since. And to say they long for it would be a heavy understatement. In fact, it’s only gotten worse.

They don’t even know why you’ve caught their attention. For years. Counting, at that–

“I know. Total breach of your norms. You’re suppose to be the calm, mysterious character–”

Its voice snaps them back into the now. They debate trying to tune it out, but they’re immediately focused on Susie’s oddly subtle hand gesture.

They pass her their ball without a second thought.

Susie winds her hand back like she’s about to bat up a home run, shooting it straight for Snowy’s forehead.

He lets out an ‘UUF’ as the ball bounces off of him, curving like a bridge's arc. Susie cheers prematurely. She doesn’t catch a glance at your pretty competitive smile. 

You begin to position yourself under the bend, catching her ball effortlessly. 

“Nice try, Suz!” You playfully mock, waving the ball in her direction.

“What?” She whips her head to you, to the audience, and finally, to Kris. “That counts?”

They shrug. They’re not an expert. 

“It does,” the soul answers with their voice.

The fact that it knows adds merit to their gods-are-good-at-dodgeball theory.

“Damn,” she pouts, trekking to the bench. “You better win this, Kris.”

And that’s when they realize they’re the last one standing on their team.

Goddamnit. 

Just watching your attention zone solely onto them makes them freeze in place. There’s a rush of adrenaline that emits from their soul. Knowing exactly what’s about to happen, they try to shut it down.

I’m letting myself get hit.

“No way am I gonna let that happen. We’re going to win! Screw your little ‘angel’!”

Their eyes widen in realization.

You didn’t even leave, did you?

“Mmh, yeah I did.” Cockiness pulses through their fingertips as it reaches for a new ball. “But the tots needed an extra minute, and I couldn’t just interrupt your little recollection of your meet-cute. Literally. My screen was bombarded with a flashback cutscene.”

Whatever that means.

They’re harshly yanked to dodge your fast ball. They hear it collide with the back wall with a loud smack.

“Damn. That one’s not holding back.”

The corner of their lip drifts upwards. You never do.

The soul effortlessly aims for Snowy’s feet. But at the last second, they jerk their arm to mess with the line up. 

Sadly, it still hits the snow bird’s stomach, launching through the air in a similar fashion as before. Deja vu rushes past them.

They can feel the soul’s frustration. “Hey! Who’s side’re you on, traitor?!”

They wish they could give it a look. Do I have a choice?

“I–” it hesitates. “Eh, I guess not.”

You’ve lined yourself up to catch the ball once again, but the soul doesn’t appear nervous. Instead, it directs them to snatch up another foam weapon. They barely realize they’re lining up another shot, sniping their air ball before it lands in your hands.

Snowy’s actually out, this time.

You and Kris both share a stare of absolute shock. Although they hide it better, you recover faster.

“Showoff,” you challenge as your eyes narrow, preparing another ball for attack.

“Ooh, you’re gonna like this one,” they hear from within them. “A certain someone’s impressed with our trickshots.”

They feel their cheeks flush.

Those aren’t your thoughts to read.

“I can’t help it. They’re just so readable. And besides, I know you like hearing it, too.”

I don’t.

The court turns into a drawn-out back-and-forth of shooting and dodging. They’re practically dragged across the court, uncaring of appearing like a dead ragdoll. 

It isn’t until you visibly start slowing down that the soul decides to strategize. At least, that’s what they think it’s doing.

The determination in your eyes dwindles as their arm launches the fastest ball all period. 

Your reaction time has slowed extremely. You obviously panic – unsure if you’re able to move in time – and you end up lashing your own ball at theirs.

While you successfully hit their ball to the ground, yours is now airborne, floating in their direction like a ticket to victory.

And, of course, the soul hardly struggles to catch it.

They watch your face crack for a moment, into one of disappointment. You’re about to meet their gaze, when Susie lets out a, “YEAAAAHHHHH!!!”. It’s so loud that the noise bounces off the walls. 

While their team (following Susie, of course) comes to congratulate and celebrate the win, they’re not too interested in the fanfare. You’re the one they can’t stop watching.

The way your chest rises and falls with each of your large breaths. The way you seem to calm your nerves and accept the loss. The way you offer a giddy thumbs up to your still benched, but proud, team. 

“You’re right. Let’s go over there!”

Their mouth falls open. No.

Thankfully, their team’s chatting amongst themselves. Makes it easier to not notice the way their feet awkwardly drift across the floor in an attempt to stop moving at any cost.

As soon as they’ve breached the circle of monsters, you instantly spot their figure. Fuck.

“I’m helping!”

You’re helping me look like a psychopath.

“You’re so pessimistic! Just watch us.”

They awkwardly skid to a halt in front of you. You’ve not once broken eye contact; an amused yet curious look in your face. 

“Good game,” they hear themself say. “You didn’t have a chance against me, but–”

They bite their lip. Hard.

Mirth nearly escapes them. Not their mirth. 

They’re about to strangle their goddamn soul so hard it pops.

But your smile only grows bigger, displaying your pearly whites. “I know. With moves like those, I was destined to fail.”

You inch forward, closing the distance ever so slightly. 

“And to get me out with my own move?” You tilt your head. “I’m starting to think you’re copying me, Dreemurr.”

They can’t help but break your staring contest. “Don’t say the C-word too loud. It’s Berdly’s trigger word.”

“Yeah. Right behind ‘stupid’ and ‘moron’.”

“And B+.”

You outright laugh at that one. They swallow it up on instinct, committing every twitch of your face to memory. They can’t remember the last time they’ve been so close to you.

“Well,” you breathe, the remnants of your joy still evident in your tone. “Good game, Kris.”

They love the way you say their name.

“Oh my god,” the voice squeaks. “Okay– okay, now hold out your hand for a friendly handshake.”

They definitely do not want to do that. But their hand goes up anyways.

You take it casually. Because it’s a casual gesture. Very friendly, as the soul had described.

Your hand is bigger than they remember, but it’s still warm, soft, just as it was that one night–

“Now get down on one knee and ask to get married–”

They have to lock their knees to stop them from bending. But they’re more focused on not squeezing your hand out of pure anger.

“How ‘bout a hug?” It suggests in compensation, sounding rather manic. “That’s casual, right? It’s perfect! Just–”

They robotically release your fingers. “I should go,” they strain themself to say.

“Probably,” you say as your competitive smile returns. “Looks like Alphys is ready to set up round two.”

Yeah, right. Like I’m going through another round of that.

“Oh, we’re going through another round of that!”

They do a 180 – ignoring the way your confused expression leaves an odd pang in their chest – ready to rip their soul out for the next week.

“That’s not very nice.”

You’re a pain in my ass.

“You can’t say that to your best friend, Kris.”

Not my best friend.

They try to ignore it, hovering near the benches until further notice.

“Right, of course. I’m about to get you your new best friend.”

A pause.

“I’m winking. You can’t see it.”

…

“I’m talking about your crush.”

Not my crush.

“Your future lover?”

What the hell is wrong with you?

“Everything, Kris. Everything.”

~*•*~

It’s difficult to understand. What makes you so enticing in their mind?

Sure, you’re objectively pretty. It doesn’t really matter to them; their perception of normal and abnormal is so unbelievably skewed because of their constant imposter syndrome. 

They know you’re hardworking, strong, determined. But besides those (rather vague) descriptors, they know nothing about you.

You laugh a lot. You’re always radiating warmth, despite maybe being cold-blooded.

“Y’know, you’d actually learn more about your angel if you, I don’t know, actually had a conversation more than once a year.”

Be quiet.

“Hey, hey! I’m just saying. I can move your mouth for you, if you’d like.”

They feel that all too familiar self-satisfaction rise from their soul.

Not talking to you.

“Well, I can’t really tell when you’re trying to talk to me.”

I never try.

“Kris… you’re going to make me cry.”

Its smile forces its way onto their face. They rub their lips back into a neutral position, hoping no one’s lifted their attention from Alphys to see the insanity.

You’re unbearable.

They can’t remember the first time they heard its voice. Sometime in the cage, the noise echoed against the walls. Seeped into their brain. Said something stupid, like ‘oh shit, you can hear me now? Wait, this is great! Wait, wait–’

“Okay. I didn’t sound that braindead.”

Through a rather heated back and forth, they learned it’s some interdimensional being from another world, tapping into their soul to interact with their universe.

Yeah, it sounded laughable. It sounds laughable. 

But what’s the harm in believing it? What do they have to lose?

It’s not like they think of it any better than they did before.

“Krissyyy.”

It lives in their soul. It can read their thoughts. It can read anyone’s thoughts. It proved that pretty quickly. 

“Why didn’t you laugh when I told you my name was ‘your majesty’?”

You’re not funny.

“I am funny.”

No.

“Laugh at my joke, Kris.”

No.

“I’m balling my eyes out, Kris.”

Great.

“Okay, I lied. My name is ‘your best friend’.”

Their lip twitches of their own accord.

Hello, ‘your best friend’.

“Fuck, I messed it up. Do ‘my best friend’–”

Despite its naturally aggravating nature, the night was spent talking. Over everything.

It was quick to claim that its intentions were never bad, despite the whole imposing on another body thing.

It felt bad, supposedly. Well, bad wasn’t the word it wanted to use. But it didn’t know what else to use. 

It sounded sympathetic. But they’ve learned to not trust tones straight off the bat.

It said it tries to fill in spots that it thought they’d want filled. But, obviously, it didn’t know them. It still doesn’t.

It begged for a baseline. Standards for it to fill. It wanted to help so badly. It wanted to be there, like someone would their closest friend. Someone they really care about. Which was weird, considering they knew little to nothing about this creature.

It's been a year since then.

Don’t get it wrong; it breaks those ‘standards’ all the time. Not the truly horrible ones, but any sort of boundaries have way been forgotten. They’ve given up on fixing it.

But to this day, they’ve never heard it sound as desperately sad as it did that night. Every time they think about any of it, it goes silent.

And maybe they’re naive to believe that time fortifies truth. But they found themself believing the soul’s intentions weren’t totally horrible, after all. 

“...aww.”

All of that somehow led to you. Led to their little interest in you.

“Little is an understatement–”

Little. It’s little.

“Little lot? Or lot of little?–”

LITTLE.

Now, even if they do so little as glance your way, it’s practically screaming in their ear, begging them to go talk to you. 

It calls you their ‘angel’. After ignoring the nickname for months on end, it finally revealed – pretending it was reluctantly explaining – that it’s because the angel is, exact quote from the soul itself, “the center of the DELTARUNE universe”.

Implying you are the center of their universe.

Which is just crazy corny.

“It’s CUTE, you loser. I’m the expert here.”

Are you?

“Of course. I could sweep anyone off their feet!”

You’re horrible under pressure.

“At least I can hold up a conversation!”

You say nothing normal.

“And you’re any better?– oh wait. Forgot you’re a literal flirting god.”

Their neck flames up. They rub their eyes.

Don’t say it like that.

“Go flirt with your angel.”

No.

“So there is some level of admittance that you have an angel? And your angel is–”

Like that. Who ever talks like that?

“I’m trying to sound smart. Maybe then you’ll actually listen to me; realize my ideas are literal gold.”

Their head’s pulsing with an oncoming headache.

“Okay. They’re not that bad.”

They find themself nuzzling their cheek into their arms.

Stop talking. Sleep time.

It sounds panicked. “No– no, wait– Alphys’ announcing some stupid–”

Their eyes drift shut, deciding that whatever the soul’s talking about can be future Kris’ problem.

~*•*~

“Kris! Oh my god– fade out of black any slower–”

They’re half-conscious when they feel the soul tugging them in every direction. They have to grip the edge of their desk to stop themself from flinging to the floor.

“Everyone’s in pairs, doofus.”

Kris gives a half-assed glance around the classroom. Berdly and Noelle are the only ones actually talking about school, fixating on two sheets in front of them. Everyone else – even Catti and Jockington – is doing literally nothing; keeping to themselves.

They instinctually begin to lay their head back into their arms, when–

“No. No more sleeping. Don’t you want to know what the hell’s happening?”

They huff. Not really.

“What if she announced some dumb project worth half your grade?”

Time to wing it.

“Kris,” it scolds, as if it’s anything akin to a mother to them. “Also…”

Their hand lifts on its own accord, pawing at the back of their head, until their fingers brush against some clump of paper nestled in their hair.

Bringing it to their eyes, they very clearly acknowledge it as a poorly-made paper airplane made of someone’s quiz. They recognize the handwriting.

“Who’s is it?”

They smooth out the folds on their desk, flipping the page to reveal a message scrawn on the back.

Ive been trying to nudge you for the past ten minutes

You sleep like a bear

Since you ditched me for your damn nap

Im gonna get a “drink” from the “waterfountain”

See you tommorow

Damn. Susie’s gone.

They can physically feel the soul debating what to do next.

“Y’know what?” And they feel the strings around their limbs loosen ever so slightly. “Maybe you’re right. Susie’s the only one who’d make this entertaining enough to sit through. Not my grade, anyway.”

Oh.

You’re letting me sleep?

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna go get some tortilla chips. No dip. A box of gushers. And maybe, like, six tangerines.”

And they feel it vanish. How kind. 

Their eyes close before they hit the desk, attempting to get back into the nap mood. It takes a minute, maybe two, maybe ten, for them to realize this isn’t working.

Especially with the loud shriek of a chair inching closer and closer to their area.

It’s hard to gauge where it’s coming from. They can admit they’ve gotten used to having a second pair of eyes on the back of their head, with a voice telling them what it sees. 

The chair grows louder, and louder, until it stops. Right before their desk. 

They’re as still as prey in predator’s sight.

“Kris,” someone whispers. They have to bite their tongue to stop themself from flinching.

It’s your voice. They’re sure your lips brush the shell of their ear.

They stiffen like a statue. They might look dead to the untrained eye.

“Kris,” you drawl, tucking a stray hair behind their ear goddamnit–

You huff, poking their arm. When they refuse to stir, you push the fluff of their sweater to reveal their unmoving eye to the blaring overhead lights. 

They can feel your breath on their cheek, about to whisper another song of their name, when they open their eyes as fast as they can.

You shuffle back with an instant “oh my god–” before your smile of realization forms.

But then, you shock them more than they could’ve ever shocked you.

You gradually shift back to their side, resting an elbow next to theirs. Their eyes watch you with pristine accuracy.

And your mouth returns to their ear. 

“You’ve got the creep factor down, that’s for sure.”

They’re not sure if anyone would ever consider that a compliment. In fact, they’re sure they’ve heard the exact sentence with a definitive negative connotation, but…

Hearing you say it?

It makes them want to open up a haunted house. Just to be the main attraction.

Which sounds horrible, in hindsight. The center of attention? Nasty. But the idea came from them, not the soul.

Which makes it even worse.

You sit up, returning to a position in which you’re a foot away, rather than an inch. You speak as if you didn’t casually make their heart skip a beat. “Are you done with the quiz thing?”

Their brain hardly processes what you say – they have to run your sweet voice through their head multiple times. At their very best, they manage a squeak. “Quiz?”

“Practice quiz?” You raise an eyebrow, obviously amused. “Though, you might’ve been sleeping through it.”

That’s when they tilt their head just a tad to reveal an ink-filled piece of paper resting in the top corner of their desk.

You both eye it. It’s not exactly hiding the fact that it’s blank.

“Not done? That’s fine.” They hear the struggle not to laugh in your voice. They so badly want to tell you to let it out.

Not that they really mind your company – not at all – but they’re more so confused at the gesture; the curiosity. 

They don’t let their mind wander at the possibilities; good or bad.

“You just gonna go back to bed?”

They’re a bit taken aback at the idea. Yeah, they were going to, but… they can’t just let the chance go, right?

“No. Why?”

“Well,” you start, already sounding bored. “The whole quiz thing was to practice marking. Giving pointers to each other on formatting and whatever.”

Your smile turns sheepish. The look makes them sit back in their chair. Just to fully absorb it. Probably creepy.

But, eventually, you crack. “Wanna mark my quiz?”

They don’t even get time to think about the prospect when their voice lunges from their throat, far louder than it needed to be, with an unthinkably clear answer: “Yes!”

Their eyes nearly pop out their eyesockets. They clench their teeth like they’re biting pure gold.

They’re not too concerned with all the other eyes on them. Mostly just yours.

But you don’t seem weirded out. You look oddly happy.

“Glad to hear you’re so eager to help, Dreemurr.”

~*•*~

They can feel you intensely watching over their shoulder as they start skimming your quiz. You lend them a pen, very sneakily attempting to brush your fingers with theirs, to which the soul pointed out keenly.

“You can checkmark anything that’s good,” you eagerly direct. When they barely spare you a side glance, you add quietly, “and circle anything that’s wrong.”

To anyone’s surprise but theirs, they end up checkmarking the entire page.

For each one they give you, they can feel you visibly brighten. You sit up straighter, your teeth peak through your smile, stuff like that.

“Y’know, stuff that only in-love losers would notice,” their soul reminds them.

Ignoring that, the idea of making you happy controls them more than they’d like. They end up adding checkmarks to places that are totally unnecessary – like when you give therefore statements to questions that definitely don’t need it – just to see you light up.

Meanwhile, the parasite in their soul’s been yapping in their ear, crying about starting a conversation and say x say y say z.

They keep trying to tune it out, but it just gets louder in protest.

Sometimes, it manages to slip something through. Even though they’re biting their tongue so hard they taste copper.

“Great formatting here,” it forces out their lips. “Where’d you learn to do it like that?”

Despite your obvious confusion at their talkative manner, you answer anyway. “C’mon,” you tease. “You know where.”

“Wanna remind me?–”

They hack out a cough, effectively stopping that trainwreck.

“Your nerdy brother, of course.” You attempt to sound spiteful and joking, but it comes out hollow.

At the end, your quiz is full of checkmarks; not one circle or X in sight. It’s not like you’ve been blind during the marking process, but when they slide it towards you – about a centimeter in your direction. If anything, they just go through the motion of tilting it in your direction – you act like it’s your first time seeing it.

They watch you attempt to push down any sign of a smile on your face, but you seem too entranced with the page to make a full effort.

“No complaints from me,” they quip, almost wanting to take the chance to fuel your now-enflated ego.

Or maybe you’re just proud of yourself.

“Yeah–” their voice leaves them. “–and you have really pretty handwriting.”

You break from your daze to laugh, cheeks warming from the sudden compliment.

“Thanks, Kris,” you stare long and hard into their eyes, still consumed with giggles.

God.

What a great way to mark the beginning of such bad times to come.

~*•*~

Maybe they haven’t been grateful in life. Maybe they’ve done something to anger the angel. Maybe the soul’s never been trying before now. 

But damn is it trying now. 

They don’t think they’ve felt so utterly helpless and utterly pissed at the soul’s continuous attempts to woo you. It’s been forcing them to go up to you, sometimes mid-lesson, to ask for pencils, erasers, random shit. Doesn’t matter.

It’s gotten to the point where they’ve collected more than half of your pencil case on their desk. Sure, you don’t seem to mind, and your smile only grows bigger and bigger every time they ask, but the second-hand (first-hand? It’s technically still them) embarrassment that they’ve accumulated has made the risk outweigh the reward.

Their soul’ll tug them to talk to you whenever it sees you. Important: when it sees you.

They’ll be listening to Susie yap about getting called on for the xth time (for talking with Noelle mid-period), and with no warning, they’ll be dragged down the hall, through the crowd that no normal person would ever be able to see through, right to you.

It’ll say the same things everyday. Everytime.

“Crazy seeing you here!”

“How was class?”

“Got lots of homework? I could totally help out with that.”

“What would you do if I shaved my head?”

You raise an eyebrow. Everytime.

But, oddly enough, you’ve started getting more and more comfortable with the routine. You’ve even started casually snaking your arm around theirs, pretending the angle isn’t horribly uncomfortable for you.

They know it is because their soul keeps telling them how you think about the position and the strain in your arm. Even though they’re relatively good at reading people, they couldn’t have caught that just by looking at you. 

Sometimes it asks you things they’d never dream of asking you.

“We should study together. With Berdly.”

Their teeth clench. When the hell would I ever willingly do that?

“Har har,” you tug them down the hall (to which they accept by choice). “Very funny.”

They feel the soul pout within them. “I was being serious, y’know.”

Yeah. That’s the worst part.

It’s weird the way you’ve adapted to them. Even without their soul reading your very private thoughts, they can just tell when you notice the change in their voice; in their demeanor. Of course, you have no idea of the terrors that lie within them.

“Okay. Rude.”

But you’re always offering your polite smile whenever it says something stupid to you. Sometimes you’ll laugh out of pure surprise, but you’ll mostly follow along with whatever it decides the bit is going to be.

When you’re talking to Kris? It’s a completely different smile. 

It’s deeper; the creases in your face run stronger. Your words feel more genuine, as if trying to enjoy every second with what you know is them. 

“Wow. You just wanted to flaunt that over my head.”

Maybe a little.

There’s been moments they’ve been forced into that’ve felt like they’ve been ripped straight out of some Disney special.

Maybe it’s because they spent the night listening to that damn soul talk about you – not of their own volition – and they didn’t get a lick of sleep, but it felt extra hard to even twitch their own muscles to life.

It forced them to sneak up behind you at your locker. They felt their hands being placed on your shoulders as they leaned in. “Guess who.”

Your eyes instantly move to your magnetic mirror on the locker door. You both instantly lock gazes. 

You struggle to keep in your laugh. “I think you’re supposed to cover my eyes.”

“Well, I don’t want you to–”

They can just sense the rest of the sentence: “I don’t want you to think I’m anyone else. You’re supposed to laugh for me and me alone.”

Which is a crazy thing that they’re definitely not about to say.

They have to physically slap a hand over their mouth, mumbling the rest of their words against their skin.

And, to add onto your weirdly perfect adaptation skills, you don’t find their odd behaviours as alarming as you probably should. Which mostly include biting their tongue/lip, covering their mouth, sneezing and/or coughing. All of which are done mid-sentence to avoid the disaster that is their soul’s train of thought.

So, you only find it weirdly amusing. 

Once the words run dry in their mouth, you pull their hand from their lips, just to hold their fingers against yours. Not really interlocking; just rubbing the pads of your index along the length of each finger. “I gotta go to the washroom. Touch up ‘n stuff. Wanna come?”

Before it can inevitably scream in agreement, they slap their other hand over their mouth. 

Instead of saying anything, they decide to just nod. Simple enough.

And you seem to glow. Their stomach churns.

Your hand slides into theirs like the missing puzzle piece they’ve lacked their entire life. 

Not one of those stray ones that fall under the couch, lost to the vacuum. It’s almost as if you weren’t supposed to end up in the box to begin with.

Yet here you are; clicking with their edges like you were always meant to be.

~*•*~

Eventually, they do weasel their way into a hangout. It wasn’t anything they begged for, necessarily. But it just happened to work out–

“It’s a study date!”

A hangout.

No thanks to their goddamn soul. It might as well have been begging for your attention; they had to spin its incomprehensible gibberish into something worthwhile. Which just so happened to be a study sesh. 

Of course, you’ve been to their house before. You’ve hung out with their brother more times than they’re probably aware of. But instead of hearing a knock on the front door, they find you crawling through their window like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

They don’t even remotely think of the connotation.

You wordlessly greet them; your bag tossed beside their bed, ready to be forgotten. They watch your eyes survey the room in alarming familiarity.

“Nice to know this place hasn’t changed.”

They remain seated on their bed, watching you glow at the sight of their empty side of the room. “Not really one for renovations.”

“You don’t want to bulldoze the wall down? Maybe add a slide down the side?”

You brush your fingers along their bedside table, locking onto something they can’t see.

“Oh my god,” you squeal, snaking your fingers behind their barren lamp to– “You know how to make paper cranes too?”

Their face ignites, staring at their lap in subtle shame. They don’t even have the voice to lie to you.

“That’s…” you drawl, definitely catching on. “Crazy…”

“Wait, wait, what’s happening?”

There’s a quick pause. They’re trying their absolute best not to think about anything, knowing it’ll use the facts against them.

It wails. “Wait! That’s the same crane?!”

Well, it definitely read your mind. 

They’re so absolutely screwed.

“It’s yours,” it twists their tongue to its bidding. “I kept it all this time.”

You chuckle. Whether it’s out of nervousness, relief, embarrassment, or some nasty mix of the three, you recover quickly.

You join them on the bed, laying down so your legs dangle off the edge. They follow en suite. 

“Y’know that problem you helped me with? Way back when, I mean.”

They hum in acknowledgement. 

“Alphys ended up putting it on the test. Pretty much the exact same question, with different numbers.”

They know. They heard you talking about it with Asriel. They remember how adamant yet shy you were to admit they helped you.

“I totally would’ve failed the question if you didn’t give me the right equation. And I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. So, y’know. Thanks.”

They feel your eyes on them. They swallow painfully.

“You would’ve figured it out eventually.”

You huff in disbelief. “No way. I was on that for hours. Refused to leave ‘til I got it, though.”

For some reason, they expect their soul to cut in with some stupid quip. But all they feel is nothing.

…

Even after they acknowledge its silence, it usually pipes up. And yet, it doesn’t.

Weird.

You lift yourself up, crisscrossing your legs on the rim of their bed. They follow your lead. 

You pause, almost hesitating. 

They know you’re ignoring their stare on purpose.

“Y’know, I was actually gonna ask Az for help,” you admit, as if it’s the most scandalous thing in the world. “But I lost track of time. And it was like, way past midnight. So I didn’t bother.”

They don’t know what to say to that.

“How’s he been?”

You sound awfully nervous.

“He’s doing alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your fingers clench their blanket like a lifeline.

This is a horrible way to take this. Let’s not go down this rabbit hole.

“Why not? It’s working, isn’t it?”

What’s working?

“You’re both starting to open up! Isn’t that a good thing?”

It sounds awfully detached.

And just at the thought of that, they can feel it grow horribly defensive.

“C’mon. This is, like, one of the strongest topics you guys have in common.”

My brother?

“Yes! Don’t you see that?”

They can’t help but get annoyed. Yeah, I’m good.

…

And their chest swells with anger. It’s not theirs, that’s for sure.

“Were you two close?”

But the voice isn’t coming from their head. 

It came from their mouth.

You mindlessly answer. “You could, uh, say that.”

“I miss him, too.”

You don’t even know him.

Your mouth falls into a frown, pink dusting your cheekbones. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you?”

It’s a creepy thing to say, considering it’s probably true. It’s why your eyes go wide. But you refuse to look at them.

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

Their mouth just won’t stop moving, won’t it?

You refuse to say anything more. They can feel it grow desperate.

“Asriel’s coming back soon.”

He’s not, you moron.

“We could all hang out together.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Isn’t it exam season?–”

It fishes their phone from their pocket. “I could call him right now and we could all plan something!–”

They squeeze their phone. They might shatter the screen.

“I’ll be right back,” they manage with a calm, uninterested tone, hopping off the bed like they’ve got a plan. They don’t even know where they’re going.

To their soul’s new grave, maybe.

“I mean,” you call out after them. “If he can’t come, we can still hang out. Y’know, just us. If you don’t mind.”

You sound more hopeful. Maybe it’s because you recognize their real voice in the sea of the psycho’s.

~*•*~

“I’m sorry! I just saw the chance, and I wanted to take it, and– it worked out, didn’t it? You quite literally got the approval for ‘next time’! A checkmark! A good to go! A–”

They flick the sink’s handle to max pressure.

“Wait– wait. You aren’t actually about to do this on your own, are you? I’m not trying to mess anything up! Why’re you treating me like I’ve ruined your life?”

They take a deep breath in.

“Kris! C’mon– I already said I’m sorry!”

And they rip it out on one fell swoop.

Into the bathroom cabinet it goes.

They don’t need it.

…

They truly don’t need it.

Yeah, they feel like literal shit without it – it’s their lifeline, after all – but they can already sense how different you feel in its absence.

You seem far more comfortable without it. And they’re sure you can tell how much more at ease they are.

You both stick to your word and actually do homework. Well, you do homework. They sorta just stare at their notebook and doodle random things on your textbook. They’ve seen you take pictures of the drawings with a laugh hiding at the back of your throat.

Your shoulders brush. You lean into them. Every time they shift, you return to their arm instinctually.

They can’t help but bathe in the moment.

…

And nearly black out.

“Holy shit, you okay?” You steady them to sit up straight.

They barely realize they’ve hunched so far over their lap that they almost tumbled face-first off the bed.

“Yeah.” They try to sound reassuring. It comes out slurred.

They don’t need it.

I don’t need you.

~*•*~

Things have been great.

They haven’t been able to properly enjoy your presence because they’re too busy not appearing dead to the average monster eye.

In obvious terms, they don’t let their soul talk to you anymore. 

Every time you hang out, they pull it out. Doesn’t matter if it’s at your house, their house, neither. They aren’t dealing with its stupidity.

And since they pull it out when they sleep, there’s been a large increase in times they have the soul in versus times the soul is out. The toll it’s taken on their body has become physically clear. The mental strain was obvious a long time ago.

The first few days, it spent apologizing. It was dutifully ignored.

Eventually it gave up. 

Somewhat.

At school, they can’t help but let it be in your presence. It doesn’t speak for them. But they can feel it watching.

“Your angel wants to talk to you. Won’t say anything first.”

It likes giving them hints. They don’t know why.

They know it listens.

They’ve gotten used to it.

They wonder what you’d say if you knew.

~*•*~

Maybe they’re tired of being a zombie. Moreso than usual, anyways.

You’re coming over. 

They go back and forth on it. At least a million times. They can’t even understand half the words you say because their body won’t stop shutting down.

Does that make it worth it? For the spite?

They leave it in. They don’t give it an explanation. Not that they’d ever need to; it’s skimming through their thoughts like a good summer read.

…

Still nothing.

Good. If they hear it talk, just once, they’ll rip it out again. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter where. They will.

It’s been a few hours. It’s almost midnight. You’re both spread on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

What may have been comprehensible chatter has now morphed into one of those late night talks where anyone says whatever’s on their mind. Well, you do. They’re safe enough to remain filtered. 

But they’re more tense than usual. They can feel their soul thinking.

They thought they’d feel refreshed with their literal life force in them. Maybe not.

…

“Do you want to go to college?”

Your voice is mumbly; quiet. It’s like theirs on a good day.

They’re not used to hearing themself in you.

“Probably,” they answer automatically. The default response.

You pause, as if wanting to lead up on the topic. Their soul’s anticipation grows.

“Are you not gonna ask me?” You laugh, sounding more like you’re amused than disappointed. “Actually, that sounded kinda douche-ish. Don’t ask me.”

Despite that, they humor you. “I already know your answer.”

“Do you?”

They nod. You don’t really see the action, eyes still glued above you.

“Fifty bucks if you get it wrong.”

“Mhm. I’ll add my yacht to the deal, too.”

You shove their shoulder, smile present in your voice. “I’m serious.”

“I am, too.”

“Okay. Plug in your answer, Dreemurr.”

They pretend to think. “Can I switch it if I’m wrong?”

“There’s only two choices: yes or no. That just guarantees your win.”

“Your point?”

You groan into your hands. They let their smile ease across their face.

“Fine. No stakes. Just say it.”

“I think it’s obvious that you want to go.”

They hear you sigh. “Am I that readable?”

“Maybe.”

You’re enveloped in silence once again. You’re the one to break it. Again.

“I don’t know. The idea of college is just kinda crazy to me,” you start. “Knowing that barely anyone from this town gets accepted, let alone moves away. Or some just don’t bother with the idea. Stick around for the sake of sticking around. Continuing family business, and whatnot.”

They feel dread well its way up their throat. It’s not theirs.

“When I’m not doing homework, or studying, or doing whatever with school, I’ll binge online threads about other people’s experiences moving away. I just see how normalized college is in other areas of the world. And all I can think is… wow. That’s so weird.

“Yeah. Just seeing people like Asriel do it is amazing to me. Even when others probably wouldn’t bat an eye. Priorities, I guess.”

…

That’s why they like you so much.

You work hard and strive to be the best, but you also care about things that no one would even think about. You’re just like Asriel. 

But you’re also just like them.

Admiration for someone you’ll never be like.

It’s… alarming. To say the least.

“I feel like I’ve made my whole life about getting there,” you confess. “But what if you go through all the effort of being perfect, just to realize college isn’t for you? What do you do then? Give up? Is that an option?

…

“Maybe there aren’t only two choices.”

…

And when you fall silent…

They realize how unbelievably screwed they are.

They have no idea how to comfort someone like this. 

You’re being vulnerable.

And they haven’t a single clue as to what you need to hear.

Or if you even need to hear anything.

What if you’re expecting nothing?

What if you’re expecting everything?

They’re already ready to give up.

But–

But they feel their soul pang with hopefulness. 

…

They don’t have time to go back and forth on it.

Please don’t screw this up.

…

Their tongue moves on its own.

“I get it.”

You sound almost shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah. Perfectionist stuff. It’s all about the end product rather than the process of getting there. You can’t tell if you love it or just the idea of it. And people who tell you ‘everyone goes through what you’re going through!’ aren’t helping. Not in the slightest. Just because everyone struggles doesn’t mean your struggles get any easier.”

Their nerves loosen. 

“It’s hard. To differentiate those feelings. Whether you’re getting pleasure or happiness. Whether you want it or you think you want it. And it sucks. But life doesn’t care. Everyone keeps moving, whether you’re ready for it or not.”

They hear your breathing steady.

“Y’know what I do? I just ignore the bigger picture. The future. Stability is a necessity filled with struggle and work, but you’ll only feel worse if you hyper focus on it. And those little things? The small joys in life that make you truly happy? Those are what life’s supposed to be filled with.

“I know it’s easier said than done. Everything is. But when you try to live life like that? Days get easier. Weeks go by slower. And you’ll look back; grateful that you chose to go easy on yourself.”

It’s flooded with realization.

“And maybe struggle is okay. Stress is okay. Even if something doesn’t feel right… trust is important too, right?”

…

They hear you sniffle. Neither of you turn to face each other.

The voice rings quietly. Only to them.

“I’m sorry, Kris.”

…

They’ll never say it, or think it, but…

Yeah. I know. 

They feel their soul flow with warmth.

You’re wiping your eyes clean. They watch the movement out of the corner of their vision. “I– thanks, I… that was…”

Your hand twitches next to theirs.

“Thanks.”

Their veins fill with pride. It’s their souls’.

“Damn, you picked a good one.”

“I know.”

You turn to them, eyebrows furrowed in deep confusion. “What?”

Crap.

You said that out loud.

Its voice rings in their mind. “You said that out loud!”

…

We both said that out loud.

“Fuck.”

~~~

SOME PARTS ARE RUSHED I KNOW IM SORRY im losing my mind send help. also snuck in night in the woods ref if u catch it i love u marry me

i dont spell out nearly as many things in this as i usually do so if u were confused throughout the whole thing i get it LMAO

also before u say anything, yes reader/asriels relationship is very weird and hinting to something that some of u may not like lolol. If u catch what im saying, it was def one sided and more of an infatuation but there were some complicated feelings mixed in there. IF U DIDNT CATCH IT THEN IGNORE IT LOL

ANOTHER VERY OFF TOPIC QUESTION do u guys like when i keep it in universe? Or do u guys want me to try smt like alt au stuff and/or deviation and different setting stuff. A lot of my asks rn are in deltarune universe territory but idk if thats bc ive only really written stuff like that so no one’s asked for anything different lol

I’ve read every book. I’ve burned every book. I’ve won every game. I’ve lost every game. I’ve frozen Berdly enough times to open a popsicle store for psychotic giants… or idk maybe someone would wear him as a necklace charm. I know I would. 

But I think it’s time I hang up the towel. I’ve been writing fanfics on this blog for almost a decade now, and I’ve decided it’s time to end the trend. Put the horse to bed. Put the gaster to bed. I’ve created about a thousand fics; I think I deserve to retire. 

I’ll post one more fic. I am a veteran, after all; fifty straight years of fanfics are cemented in this blog, and I think you guys deserve a send off. This weekend. Like fireworks idk don’t ask me I’m so tired rn and hungry I might go get some food it’s like almost 2am when I pre typed this

Sunday. Maybe. Probably. Idk somewhere around there LMAOO

But just know. This weekend. It’s coming. And you can’t stop it. 

If u name the vessel “slippery” then Kris won’t stop slipping the entire game

It’s disappointing, really. 

With such an interesting neighbourhood in your midst – filled to the brim with quaint, humble homes and interconnected local businesses looking to make friends, not customers – you expected something more.

A town, planted central in the deep plumage of a forest you’ve never heard of before, still thriving off its isolation and belief in the priority of strengthening their own community. The outside world means nothing when they’ve got all they need right here.

You watch as monster after monster passes you by, some shooting your family’s small limo an odd look. Not hostile, nonetheless. You honestly might miss the malice.

They all seem mediocre, almost boring. They greet each other with familiarity that only comes from forced socialization. Others turn and smile at your vehicle, as if knowing who’s inside.

Your mother got the windows tinted years ago because they kept finding out the limo was yours. A lot more people cared about you than you realized. She expects you to fly under the radar this time.

You itch your neck under the collar of your hoodie, feeling your mother’s piercing gaze on the back of your head.

“Honey,” she sings, barely grabbing your attention. “Please fix your hair.”

Giving her a deadpan look, you sarcastically comb your fingers through said messy locks.

She crosses her arms, blouse wrinkling at her elbows. “Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean.”

“Why don’t I just go bald for this one?”

She glances at your father, tongue clicking in obvious dismay. He takes the hint, groaning your name in a scolding manner.

You can’t help but scoff. “You’re the one who–”

But your flame dies faster than it lights. You throw your hands up in a ‘what do you want me to do?’ way, bringing your attention back to the other monsters outside.

You see the last of your fellow students funnel into your new school, all of which are different shapes, sizes, and colours. None of them truly catch your attention.

When Ethan opens your door, you don’t hesitate to scoot near the exit. A hand on your wrist stops you.

“Just a second,” your mother calls out to him. He shuts the door instantly, closing off your only exit from your currently unbearable parents.

“Calculus is sounding more fun by the second,” you jab.

Her hand squeezes in an attempt to comfort you. “I want you to try to talk to your new classmates.”

“Uh, yeah… I’ll think about it.”

They seem disappointed that you’re more monotone than you should be about the whole situation. 

Your father appears a tad bit optimistic. “I think you’ll be okay. It may feel different at first, but you’re going to be surrounded by people just like you.”

“How progressive.”

“What your father means to say is that there’s nothing standing in the way of your success.”

“If you’re still horribly worried, you should’ve just homeschooled me.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow. “Then what would be the point of moving?”

Exactly. At least then you could’ve kept some semblance of normalcy in your life.

Deciding you’re done with the conversation, you knock twice on the window, glad your driver hasn’t run off from the unusually tense vibes.

You gaze at the lifeless brown brick of the school, waiting for your parents to lead the way. They take their time leaving the limo.

“Just give it a shot,” she smiles, warm as pie.

But you already know you’re going to hate it.

She squeezes your shoulder, heading inside. You see her shift to be an inch taller, matching her husband in her definition of ‘the perfect height ratio’. You’re the last one through the doors, sparing one last look of desperation to Ethan, wishing for a higher authority that could command him to drive away with you in the back seat.

You feel yourself zone out through the entire process. While your parents fill out paperwork with the principal, you’re left to give automated responses to every question he asks you. To make a good impression, or something. 

Your body itches. There’s a lingering thought in your mind; one that you haven’t come to terms with yet. Not when you moved in, not when you were admitted. It makes you scared.

You’ll never feel complete again. 

In a town like this? There’s no room to learn, explore, change. You’ll be stuck with the same people for the rest of your life. Well, until you escape the wretched claws of your parents. 

You feel a part of yourself begin to die. The part of you that urges you to learn and understand. You can’t let it. Even with a constant to the variety, the variety isn’t similar enough to what you know. 

The corridors are as empty as your heart. Your mother and father follow around the principle like lost puppies, practically sucking him off to get his approval. You know what they’re doing.

They already wiped most of the evidence off your transcript and records; they’re not trying to save face. No, no. They’re providing you a safety net, for when you inevitably do screw up. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Why’re you even getting a tour? The school’s about three times smaller than your last one. You’re sure you can figure it out yourself.

You don’t need to be babied. You’re–

You’re…

A bit confused. 

Just at the end of the hall stands two figures. You’re sure you’re the only one who notices them.

It’s well past any sort of morning bell. Whoever they are, they’re late.

There’s a taller woman; a goat, of some sort. She’s hunched over, wrapping her arms around someone else.

Do your eyes deceive you? Are you hallucinating?

Whoever they are, they’re released from her strangle hold. 

And you’ve–

You–

You.

…

Oh.

Oh.

Who’re you?

Soft, lush cocoa strands shielding their eyes. A striped sweater, not quite hugging their skin. Honey, delicate skin. Long, elegant fingers poking through the sleeves. Five each, to be exact. 

There’s no confusion to be held. 

They’re human. Well, they look human. 

How… interesting.

Are they human? There’s no way. It’s impossible; something out of a dream.

You rearrange the inner workings of your nostril, increasing your scent receptors tenfold. You take a discrete, deep breath in. You feel your eyes ignite with life.

They certainly smell human. 

Another larger breath and your lids shut from the ripples of ease across your body. You feel like you’re snorting cocaine. 

When you open, you’re staring right at them. And they’re staring at you. A drop of disinterest, lasered in at you. You see it; their pupils, red as blood.

You feel your stomach melt. Your heart bangs against your ribcage.

You–

You hunch over and gag. Hard.

Your father, noticing your struggle, flees from the very engaging conversation to rub your back. “You alright?”

Pressing a palm to your abdomen, you reform the currently melted organs in your body. 

Shooing your hand in his general direction, you cough. “Yeah. ‘m fine.”

When your eyes dart for the human-like figure again, they’re gone. That couldn’t have been a hallucination. It felt too real.

Despite that, you hope your father didn’t notice anything. Not you, not the… human. That’d be a disaster in itself.

A human.

In a supposed all-monster town.

You’re ecstatic.

…

Your mother’s gonna be pissed.

~*•*~

After a rather uneventful day of signing papers and answering unwarranted questions, you went home that night, mind on one thing and one thing alone. And you actually threw up the moment you stepped foot on your driveway.

Your parents chalked it up to stress. You know otherwise.

You think you’ve been in disbelief. Your brain flips frantically from there was no human to there is a human to they weren’t human to you need to learn a better poker face. 

You skip every other step, sprinting up the stairs towards your private, untouched room. You try not to slam the door behind you, but you can’t really tell if you did. Your ears have been ringing periodically. 

Your mirror calls to you.

Jamming your office chair underneath the door handle’s the only option you have. Your mom stopped letting the renovators implement built-in locks to your door handles after you got caught sneaking someone in that you weren’t exactly allowed to see. So, this’ll do.

You tread to your floor-length mirror and you just… watch yourself.

And your mind starts to wander.

The face you tend to call your own begins to morph into one you pretend you recognize. Your hair, smoothing to become fluffier; shoulder-length. Piercing, entrancing red eyes.

Their– your skin, bleeding into the sleek, imperfect surface you remember humans feeling like. Covered with their sweater and pants. What you could make of it, anyways.

When parts of your memory begin to blur, you don’t have the heart to make any true educated guesses. You don’t want to disrespect the body you’ve been put into. It’s why, when your thumb gently grazes across your cheek, up to your temple, your hair reveals the pale white, unfinished ear that you couldn’t get a good look at.

But it’s alright. You haven’t been this mesmerized with yourself since you morphed the very first time.

You’re not sure what makes this time any different. 

But god, are you enjoying your reflection.

Maybe it’s because it’s been months, courtesy of your parents. You’ve been in a state of limbo for so long, you almost forgot what humans themselves look like. That’d be horrible.

You pinch a clump of hair between your fingers, captivated by the way it twists and turns under your command. One would argue it’s no different than your own, to which you’d immensely argue against.

The pad of your finger touches the white of your eye. It’s moist. When you press, adding just a drop of pressure, you feel it squeak in protest. 

You stick out your tongue, pleased to say you remember what the inside of a human’s mouth looks like. It’s not necessarily an educated guess; moreso a bleak assumption. It doesn’t vary much from person to person, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering what this human’s mouth looks like.

Your hand feels more than invited to scrape against your tongue, feeling as grainy and sandpaper-ish as you thought it would. You taste the oils on your palm. You taste the grime and salt of your skin. 

It’s pleasing. 

You force the oils and salts to build up again, only to lick the flavour right off like some sort of sickly lollipop.

You bite your lip involuntarily. Fuck, you missed this.

And you immediately feel and watch your face heat up at the sight. You almost feel like you need to get reaccustomed to the look of someone else following your internal commands.

…

You slip your index finger between your lips. Your teeth chomp, just enough for it to hurt.

You gaze at your wet finger, examining the bite mark with keen interest. 

You wonder how long it’ll last.

…

And suddenly, you feel your old self peek through the mountains of useless lessons you’ve gone through.

The length of your thumb hardens, growing tiny, sharp blades linearly from your knuckle to your nail. You clench your other hand into a fist, eyes searching urgently for any large, thick vein.

You don’t hesitate. One quick breath in, and you’re slicing the blood vessel. You’ve stopped blinking. The cut doesn’t react for a moment. You squeeze the skin.

You watch the line of irritated red begin to pour out blood.

Your blood.

It’s white.

Pearly. Iridescent. White.

How… boring.

…

You knew this would happen.

God, what’re you doing?

Ripples of shame coarse through your body. You retract the blades from your thumb, brushing the flooded cut to seal your skin back together.

Your skin.

Your fingers itch for your collar, tugging just as you did in the limo. Your skin fades from buttercup to cream to lifeless white. All you see is white. Your white. 

Of course you don’t know what they look like without a sweater– that’s creepy as fuck, right? You don’t even know them.

It feels right– what you have right now. It feels human. But does this count as cheating? You’re trying to be unassuming. What if their skin feels smoother? What if their hair has a different texture? What if they taste different?

You need to get this one right.

Begrudgingly, you feel your body ease back into your usual self, sans a few features you’ve decided to take from them. Like their eye shape. Their fingers. Their lips.

Your mother won’t notice. She won’t call you out.

When your parents footsteps whisper through the door, you listen carefully for the exact moment their own bedroom door shuts for the night. 

The night is a blur. You fidget and roll. You can’t tell when you’re asleep and when you’re awake.

At some point, you rise from your blankets. It’s still dark out, not even near the time to get ready. And you return to your mirror despite a small, persistent part of you nagging you to go to sleep. 

“Humans and monsters aren’t that different,” you breathe to yourself. “They’re both normal. Average. Uninteresting. Obsession only leads to insanity.”

But even those old, rehearsed lines don’t hold the same impact. Placebo effect, you realize. You don’t believe the words you’re saying. They’ve just become words to you.

When you shift into the human’s skin, you don’t care to pretend you’re any different. It could be seconds, minutes, hours that you spend kneeling before your addicting reflection. 

Your mother thinks you’ve changed. At your very core, you know you haven’t.

Eventually, you force your brain to grow exhausted – not that you weren’t already. To your surprise, you sleep dreamlessly. 

When you leave for school, your mother doesn’t care to offer you a heartfelt goodbye. She glances up from her phone, maybe staring for longer than you’d have hoped, but she doesn’t say anything. Thankfully.

Despite you not wanting her to notice, it still feels a bit frustrating. She’s pointed out little changes you’ve made to your appearance in the past, mainly out of neutrality, but…

Actually, you don’t care. 

You’ve got someone else to notice– er, look for. You wouldn’t be opposed to them noticing you, either. You’d like that. Maybe you could be friends.

Normal, casual friends. You can do that. You have grown, maybe just a little bit.

But as you scan the halls – and believe, you scanned them hard – you couldn’t find your mysterious human. You spent so long looking that you ended up being a few minutes late for homeroom.

The town’s still tinier than what you’re used to, so there aren’t too many ongoing classes at the same time. And yet, you’re still without confirmation of their existence. 

You refuse to believe you were daydreaming. Hallucinating is the more intense, mentally-ill option.

Second period follows the same trend. You spend no time listening to your new teachers – who spend a sentence or two trying to introduce you, considering you’ve dropped into the school year a month too late – feeling more disappointed by the minute.

Are you really that tunnel visioned? You can’t survive school like everybody else? They all seem nice, sure, but is that really what you want?

Nice?

Nice friends? Nice school? Nice life?

What a drag.

You enter your third period, sulky mood now easing into your facial expressions, preparing to zone out for another ninety minutes.

Most of the class is here. The desks are split into pairs of two because it’s a chemistry class, you think. Your schedule’s a blur.

They all talk amongst themselves. You catch the tail end of a few conversations; labs and tests and upcoming assessments and and and and

and and and and 

and the human’s here. They’re here!

The human. The human. 

Their head lays peacefully on their desk. Even in such a knocked-out state, you can still see their halo hover above them. They’re angelic. You have to stop your soul from leaping out your chest, just to be buried in the nook between their arms.

You’d be able to feel their breath. Hear their pulse, even. Taste their drool–

“Ah!” A voice sighs to your right. It’s a woman, drenched in blue, calm flames. Her formal blouse and dressy pants stay intact, somehow. She calls your name with hesitancy. “The new student, right?”

No one turns to you, still occupied with each other. You find yourself wishing she’d have made a scene. Maybe your human would look up. At you. In curiosity? Confusion? Disgust? You’d take anything.

“The seats are in alphabetical order,” she scans through her class list. “But I can just assign you to an empty seat.”

The human’s partner is wracked with gills. A fish, perhaps. She’s not even close to admiring the being beside her with the attention they deserve. No. Instead, she’s scrolling on her phone, chin resting on her webbed fingers.

You wonder how socially acceptable it is to shove her from her desk; steal her spot. Cave her head in.

Your teacher points you to a spot near the middle; second row, diagonally behind your human. She also gives you your partner’s name, to which you almost want to deadpan and tell her you have no idea who anyone is.

She’s a deer; antlers about the size of her hands, small buck teeth, and the look of someone who’s far too invested in school to be normal.

She sees you coming from a mile away, pretending to not notice you approaching by staring at her blank notebook. She must know you’re a new student; she doesn’t question you sitting next to her.

A few slightly awkward minutes later, and the teacher starts introducing today’s lesson. Not that you’re really paying attention.

The human pretends to care, lifting their head just slightly. They’re alive. They have a steady, beating heart. You wish you could press your ear to their chest, hand stroking their stomach to feel the rise and fall. 

You try to engrain an image in your head. You’re not nearly as close as you would ideally be, but it’s much closer than your last encounter. And your head’s clearer. Last time, you froze up like a deer in headlights. Speaking of deer.

Every time her arm accidentally brushes yours, she freezes and stiffens up. You almost want to tell her you don’t care so she’d stop, because she’s now more of a distraction than someone you can easily tune out.

…

Do you think their skin tastes like your mockup? You doubt it. It probably tastes much better. Slightly saltier. More moist. Smoother. Maybe they have their own unique taste–

She bumps your elbow this time. God. You make the mistake of locking eyes with her. 

You might’ve given her a hostile look because she immediately shies away. You exhale, long and thoughtful. Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t make enemies on the first day. But you don’t really feel like wasting your time with her. Or anyone, for that matter.

Or…

Maybe you could kill two birds with one stone. Get that confirmation you’ve been very subtly dying for.

When the teacher leaves you to solo one of her examples, you tap your partner’s desk. Surprisingly, she seems more curious than scared. 

“Weird question,” you jab a thumb to the one you’ve been eyeing for half an hour. “That’s a human, right?”

Your composure wavers at her confirming smile. She’s finally come to the conclusion that you’re not dangerous. “Oh, yeah. That’s Kris Dreemurr.”

Kris. What a beautiful name. Rolls right off the tongue.

As your throat dries, the girl continues. “I know there’s some people who aren’t really… used to it, but they’re more friendly than they look.”

Your smile grows dopey as you continue to stare. “Eh. My last place was about 50/50.”

“Really?” She nearly gawks. “Guess it’s pretty normal to you, then.”

“Something like that. Can’t believe your ratio’s so…”

She follows your line of sight. “Ratio? Oh– there’s not really a ratio. They’re sorta… the only one.”

You feel your nails dig into your palms. “Only?” You crack. She nods.

Oh, Angel. The gods love you.

That does explain the whole monster-only neighbourhood thing. They just miscounted. Or, perhaps they dropped this human here just for you. 

You spend the rest of class watching every twitch in their body. They pull a pencil out of nowhere and start drawing on their desk. They itch the back of their head a few times, riddled with slight bedhead. Oh, you want to eat them alive.

After the bell rings, you find yourself stalling to leave class behind them (they take a fat second to get up). To your dismay, they become lost in the ocean of people. You’re not that socially inept to shove your way through the crowd to walk behind them. 

When they take a left, you take a left. When they stop at a locker, you stop at a locker. You pretend you have any idea who’s locker this is, fiddling with the lock despite not knowing the code.

They unlock their locker, carelessly tossing their definitely unused notebook somewhere in the higher shelf. You’re subtle with your ogling. 

Someone approaches them from behind, roughly slapping their back in a friendly manner. You feel your teeth clench.

Despite harshly jolting forward from the action, your human– Kris recovers quickly and… smiles. They’re smiling. Fuck, they have such a pretty smile.

They’re talking, you realize. To the purple… dinosaur. Lizard? Who cares. You can see the inside of their mouth from here. Their tongue; small in movements, peeking from between their teeth god you wonder if their teeth are smooth you love the feeling of human canines in your skin–

They swallow and you watch the movement of their throat like it’d kill you to look away.

Your stomach churns. You press a hand to your abdomen. Yeah, you need to get a handle on emotions. Or you’ll end up a literal puddle on the floor. 

The next two weeks follow similar patterns. You’ve learned their schedule to heart (and still ironically need to search room numbers for your own), basing your routes on theirs. Some days you follow from a distance, others you purposely pass them. Just to breathe in their scent. 

You brushed their arm one time. Your arm then proceeded to melt off your body. There hasn’t been a single day you weren’t late to fourth period. 

Sometimes you follow them home. You morph into students who you’ve seen walk the opposite direction, just to ensure you don’t clash. That’d be hard to explain.

You keep telling yourself to stop being so creepy, but the other half of you argues back. You just want to understand their situation. It’s to be an informed member of the town!

You find out they’re adopted. The woman who dropped them off that day also happens to be a teacher at the school. 

Sometimes you watch them sleep– it’s because you’re curious. Nothing more. You wondered if they snored. Whether they breathed through their nose or their mouth. What they did at night.

Those days, you’d shift into a black, featureless figure. Sometimes they’d fidget more than usual. You always wondered if it was because they noticed you. Thought you were something that’d make them want to shut their eyes harder. 

It didn’t matter what they thought. You’re not sure if it’s because of the months of deprivation or maybe there’s just something about them, but you’ve developed subconscious standards. You don’t think you’d have the heart to do anything but watch them. 

It’s funny. You never used to hesitate. All it took was a moment alone. You’d see red before you registered it.

Now, you’ve learned what to expect from humans. They all had some sort of overlap in tendencies. Mainly what you’d consider normal. Some were odd, maybe even disgusting, but it could all be explained in the realm of teenagers.

It was a random Tuesday night. You’ve never been more confused. Intrigued.

They hang out with the purple girl a lot. You’ve learned that. And you weren’t necessarily watching them the whole time, but you did perch in the trees as a bird, checking in on them skip stones in the lake. 

That’s not the important part. It got late quickly. When they both parted ways, you watched the human take a detour. You don’t know why you followed them. You don’t really care about their wellbeing as much as you do their nature. 

Deep into the forest, they stumble across a dead fox. Ripped apart by the nape.

You understand humans more than the average monster. Most of them would flee, nervous from the prospect of disease, rabies, whatever. 

But they… don’t.

They kneel beside the carcass, unhesitating. Their finger dips into the dark, old blood oozing from its neck. You wish so badly to see their face. To read their thoughts.

Because they touch it like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen.

You make out their eyes; blown a bit too wide. Their breath is louder, shaky.

You don’t understand.

Even now, as you gaze into the mirror – attempting to recreate the expression now burned into your memory – you don’t really see them. Kris. 

Maybe it’s because they feel like more than just a human vessel, now. You’ve never met a human that would do what they just did.

And that excites you to a dangerous degree.

~*•*~

They don’t feel safe. Not that they ever really did to begin with. Before, it was a feeling they could easily ignore; chalk it up to a few extra eyes on them every once in a while. Now, it’s like there’s a constant pair always looming behind their back.

They try to recall if they’ve pissed someone off recently. That’s usually the case with things like this. But it doesn’t matter; they can’t remember shit. And now they’ve got a stalker.

They just barely catch the sound of something around them. A rustle of the bushes; the crunch of leaves. But they never see it. Them.

They stay out longer for the sake of their plan. It’s colder than usual. Later; just past midnight. They hope the factors make their stalker sloppier.

Pivoting through the trees, they tread to a spot they know is harder to navigate through. The trunks are closer together; the bushes grow higher.

And they’re right. Their stalker is louder– less careful than usual. There’s footsteps that follow closely behind.

The moment they take a sharp turn after a thick trunk, they know they’ve got it.

They press their back to the bark, clutching their knife from their hidden pocket. The steps slow in confusion, hesitancy. The moment they see a sliver of movement beyond the trunk, they jab – hovering their blade between the eyes of their stalker.

You immediately jolt, pupils darting from them, to their knife, back to them. You slowly lift your hands in surrender.

They’re not sure what they expected, but you’re a pitch-black blob with eyes. You’re impossible to read visibly. You look slimy. And you’re… melting.  

They wait for you to confess something. Confess what? They don’t know–

You strike their wielding hand with a goopy fist, knife clattering to the dirt.

They don’t let you take the advantage. Their palm juts for your neck, wrapping around the muscle as a threat. That’s when you crumble. Literally. 

The rest of your… outer layer sheds – wet, mucky slime dripping onto their arm, onto the dirt. Your fingers clutch their wrist weakly, amassing the fluid to stain their sweater. They watch as your face is revealed to them, and–

You’re definitely their age, but… you’re not ringing a bell. You’re a little familiar. Might be the one from second period; the one in the back corner. Or the one in third period, who sits next to Noelle. The new one.

They don’t like how human you look.

“Crap,” you utter, an awkward smile plastered on your face as you claw at their grip. “Oh, wow. You’re strong.”

You sound mocking, almost too happy. They remain impassive, squeezing slightly. Their fingernails dig into your skin, and they have to stop themself from shuttering. Keep it together.

You suck in a muffled gasp, wincing. “Wait wait!”

They loosen. You seem relieved. When you make no motion to start talking, they tighten their grip. Harder, this time.

“Urgh–” you hick, smile vanishing; your fingers weaken. “St– c-c’mon.”

They decide to give you a chance. When they release a miniscule amount, you let in a large, desperate breath. 

“Talk.”

“I-I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” you stutter, eyes glittering with intense attentiveness. “I just… wanna talk.”

Talk…? You must be the one from third. You’re curious. Maybe you’ve never seen a human before. 

They don’t grace you with an answer. You don’t seem phased.

“Can I be honest?” 

Your eyes fall lidded as you slur half your speech. You look drunk. 

“I think you’re really pretty.”

…

This has to be a joke. A dare to ask the new kid. But you don’t seem like you’re lying. And they’ve gotten pretty damn good at reading people.

They debate dropping you to the ground, fetching their knife and going home. Maybe hope you learned something from this; learn to leave them alone. And that’s what they plan on doing. 

But as soon as they allow their digits to relax, they feel yours strengthen tenfold. And they panic. 

They’re not sure how hard they squeeze, but it’s enough for your head to loll backwards, exposing the length of your neck. 

Their eyes automatically trail towards the tips of their fingers, their nails more than piercing your skin.

They feel warm liquid ooze from the stabs they’ve made. Your blood… it’s– your white, glossy blood wraps around their fingers like vines. It drips between their knuckles– they can feel it glueing their palm to your skin. It’s tugging at their fingertips, tempting them to inflict more.

So they do.

Their nails dig deeper. They can feel your flesh underneath their fingernails. They watch as more and more blood cascades down their hands– down your neck. Your pretty, thick white blood curls towards their eyes, enticing them to lean into its embrace. Who’re they to deny it?

They inch closer and closer and closer until their nose is nearly buried in the splattered mess of white heaven. It doesn’t smell metallic. It smells almost sweet. They’re oh so tempted to dart their tongue out–

A horrid groan escapes your throat. Shit.

They’re immediately pulled back to the present, trying to hide the way their mind rushes for any sort of excuse, even a comprehension of what the hell’s going on.

They back off, just enough to see… a thin trail of your perf– your blood oozing from your lip.

Their eyes widen. You bit your lip so hard it bled.

God. That’s…

Their hand is shaking as they unlatch their fingers from your neck, watching with intent as you seem to snap back from whatever daze you’ve been in. Less because they’re trying to read you, more because they’re trying to ignore the way your blood feels under their fingernails.

“I–” you start, voice hoarse. You wipe the trail from your mouth, face flushing from what they can only acknowledge as embarrassment.

They see you reach for your neck, for the wound they’ve dug into you, hand now drenched in the ripples of blood across your skin. You pull it back to examine. One look at your hand, one look at them.

They can tell you’re holding back your tongue. You want to say something. Maybe ridicule them, call them crazy. But they know you won’t. Because they’d echo it right back to you.

They don’t care what you think. And they’re sure you don’t care what they think, either.

So they give you another chance to speak up. But you don’t take it.

And so they leave. They snatch their forgotten knife on the way out.

Your footsteps are nowhere to be heard. That’s good. 

Teaches you not to… stalk.

…

They stick a finger in their mouth. Their saliva moistens the drying blood.

…

Fuck. It is sweet.

~*•*~

They’ve buried you to the deep recesses of their brain. You mean nothing to them. You’re like a virus; ever-nagging at their subconscious while they woefully try to ignore you. 

But you’re everywhere. Every corner they turn, every room they enter, every dream they have. It’s like you’ve taped the sides of your mouth to remain stagnant in an imposing neutral expression. Almost as if you’re copying them.

Although, you’re awfully clumsy when they acknowledge your existence. They spare you a quick glance? You’re walking face-first into a wall. 

There’s something wrong with you.

They’ve also realized that their claw marks have vanished from your–

Not that they wanted to see them. They were just slightly nervous that you’d parade them around to spitefully get them expelled. Hell knows some’ve been waiting for it.

Your neck is perfectly healed; skin cleared like nothing ever happened. 

You must be a shapeshifter. Your body changed in front of their very eyes. And they felt how deep their nails plunged into your thin, brittle surface. There’s no way you’d be left without crisp, fresh scarring.

God. They shiver, plopping their head to land pitifully on their desk. 

They ignore the way your eyes laser into their back.

It’s been a few days. Now, mindlessly zoning out through the day has become much more difficult when they’re hyperaware of their surroundings. They understand now that their feeling of being watched in third period was and is because of you.

A sigh escapes their throat as they try to sleep off the odd feeling in their gut.

Then, they hear a chair harshly screech. They wouldn’t have given the sound any attention if it wasn’t immediately followed by your voice.

“Crap,” you curse. They glance back to see you pushed out of your desk, holding your head back, exposing your neck the same way you did a few nights ago–

They immediately shove the thought through the concrete.

“Oh,” the teacher quirks her head in curiosity. “Are you okay?”

You rise carefully, fingers hovering around your face. “Yeah. Just got a–”

Nose bleed. There’s blood on your hand. Your angelic, sugary blood.

They gulp. It’s painful.

“Ooh, yeah. Washroom,” she nods, gesturing to the door. “Could someone help direct?–”

They barely register the teacher’s unfinished words before their legs jut them upwards automatically. The regret floods in at the turn of a dozen eyes on them.

Welp. Too late to turn back now.

“I can,” they deadpan. Multiple eyebrows furrow at the volunteer. But you? They watch your face plummet into a mix of fear and intrigue. Masochism. 

She obviously doesn’t expect this, but recovers quickly. “Thanks, Kris. That’d be great.”

Despite having your head tilted upwards (effectively blinding yourself), you expertly weave between desks to race to the door. They’re not sure if you’re trying to get away from them or get with them sooner.

They thought you’d be a yapping machine the moment you both exit the classroom. Maybe bring up that night. But you’re not. You’re quiet. They don’t push it. They escort you in silence.

Or so they thought. You’re about halfway to the bathroom, halls flooded with emptiness, when they hear your voice; a one-off comment.

“Humans are so weird,” you click your tongue, slyly watching them for their reaction. “I can taste the blood in my throat.”

Jesus fuck. 

All they can imagine is you spitting up blood, letting the ivory snow coat your lips like gloss. Maybe if you open your mouth wide enough, they’ll be able to see the white waterfalls cascade down your esophagus.

Whatever reaction you wanted, you apparently got. Your face, which should be devoid of colour, is blooming with roses.

You both somehow make it to the washroom; they hold the door open for you (as if that’s the weirdest thing looming between you two). They rip off some toilet paper from an empty stall, instinctively listening for sounds from any other potential bathroom users.

You seem to be alone.

You’ve perched in front of one of two mirrors; the fingers previously occupied with preventing flow are now pushing your nostril up to reveal the damages. Their fist immediately strangles the paper.

“Oh, that’s bad,” you remark.

They watch their body in the mirror – that they feel as though they have no control over – slowly approach your back like a predator. They stop just shy of you, peeking over your shoulder. They hear you let out a shaky breath.

There’s blood all around your nostril, painting it like an outline screaming at them to get a closer look. It’s drenched a good chunk of your fingers.

Their mind grows hazy. All rationality fogs over.

And–

“I’ve never seen white blood before,” they mumble drunkenly. They have to stop themself from collapsing onto you.

Your eyes lock with their own. Your smile feels wicked. “Cool, right?”

You snatch the toilet paper they absentmindedly hold out to you, returning to your reflection. You’re slow, delicate when you wipe the blotches and stains on your skin. They barely realize you’ve swiped a droplet onto your thumb, jutting it in front of their face. 

It’s a perfect dollop, almost like a pearl. They stare at it, entranced. They wish you’d stick your thumb between their lips.

Out of their peripheral, they see your eyebrow raise. “Oh, c’mon. Nose blood is the same as any blood.”

You think they’re looking at it with disgust. At least, you’re pretending to think that.

They’re sure you both know of the looming ideas between you two. Neither of you choose to admit it. That’s the issue.

“It’s not that. It’s just…” they trail off.

They don’t comment on the fact that they already know what your blood looks like. Y’know, from when they choked you out.

They clench their teeth. You pick up on it immediately; it's like you’re a mind reader. Your grin shrivels into a nervous mess. But your eyes widen in realization.

More blood shoots from your nasal, to which you shove the paper deep into the cavity. “Oops.”

As you pinch the bridge of your nose, they can’t help but wonder. “Can’t you close the wound?”

You seem a bit surprised at the suggestion. “Oh, hhhyeah. I did. The first six times.”

Six times?

“Everytime I sealed it, it wouldn’t remove the blood already in my nostril. So I’d just seal it under my skin. And I guess it kept building up until it popped.”

“Guess you don’t know human anatomy too well.”

They’re not sure why they’re challenging you. To be honest, they’d much rather spend their days not talking about humans or human body parts. But they haven’t been thinking much lately.

You give them a dangerous stare. “Wanna bet?”

“Can’t form a proper nose.”

“Oh, I can make a more accurate nose than yours.”

“Pretty sure mine doesn’t bleed this much.”

“I wasn’t using a human nose. I changed the inner workings to be more, uh… cat-like. Helps to get a more intense smell.”

Their head lowers, ever so slightly. “What’re you trying to smell?”

As if on cue, you take a deep breath in. Your face contorts into a mix between guilt and bliss.

You don’t answer them. Instead, you remove any semblance of emotion from your expression.

“Did you come with me to finish the job?”

Their eyes widen. What?

You continue, expertly reading their twitches that no one’s ever picked up on before. “Well, you obviously know that was me that night. Because you know I can… y’know. And it really did seem like you wanted to kill me–”

Their shoulders tense. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

What a horribly told lie to the world's best human-reader.

Despite that, you play along. “You… haven’t?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

Why do you want them to admit it?

“No.”

Your blood peaks out between the crevices of the paper. Your blood blends in almost flawlessly. “T-then what was with the whole…?”

You make a choking motion to your own neck. You seem dumbfounded, almost casual.

They take a step back, unsure of where the conversation’s going. “No.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question.” You turn, forcing confrontation.

“I–”

And you snap.

“Don’t lie to me, Kris,” you approach them, jabbing a finger to their chest. “Every fidget of your fingers, every quaver in your facade. I see all of it. No harm in confessing something we both know’s true.”

They almost debate letting you go off on your childish tangent, but the bathroom door opens. It’s someone they hardly recognize, but someone nonetheless. They watch, albeit slightly egotistically, as your mouth clams shut.

Once the monster disappears into a random stall, you pivot around them to fetch another piece of toilet paper. You run it under the automatic tap, returning to the mirror as if nothing happened.

Your face is clean again. They can admit they’re a bit disappointed at the sight.

You remove the paper sticking comically out of your nose, wiping any extra crust away. Their eyes instantly zone onto the blood-soaked– your blood-soaked tissue. Their skin feels itchy.

And the worst part? You’re already watching them, giving them a knowing look. You twirl it around like a baton.

Maybe they’re possessed. They’re a centimeter behind you in the next millisecond.

“Not sure what’s the truth to you,” they whisper, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You were the one stalking me.”

You visibly shutter. And it’s addicting to see.

And your nose fountains out more blood.

You catch it quickly. They weren’t able to see much of it. You press two fingers to your bridge to steal it again. 

Pink floods your face as you whip around, launching into defense. “I wasn’t st–”

They hold a finger over your mouth, shutting you up. They nod their head to the unwanted third person still in their stall.

But you’re not watching them. 

…

You’re watching the finger over your mouth.

Your eyes dart to theirs. They don’t remove it.

They feel your breathing grow heavier. They feel a drop of blood escape your tissue. It grazes their skin. It’s their turn to shutter.

The toilet flushes and you’re immediately sent into panic mode, snatching their hand from your mouth. The stall opens and you’re both left to stand there awkwardly.

After the monster washes their hands, they give you both a weird look on the way out. They can tell you’re too occupied to notice it, considering you’ve begun feeling up their hand.

…but they don’t stop you.

Your fingers brush against their calloused palm. Your touch grows in pressure as you linger up their hand, slowly ushering their sweater sleeve to reveal their wrist. You begin massaging their veins when–

“Kris? Are you two in there?”

Noelle’s voice echoes through the washroom. You visibly deflate at the sound.

“Yeah,” they respond.

“Our teacher got a bit worried and asked if I could come get you guys– since you’ve been gone for a while.”

Neither of you respond. She’s probably right, anyway. You roll your eyes, releasing your hold and heading towards the exit. They follow not far behind.

Right shy of the door, they wrap their fingers around your wrist. They’ve learned not to question it.

You face them, zoning in on the touch. They can feel your pulse quicken. But they don’t really acknowledge it. Their eyes fall onto the speckles of your gleaming blood that you’ve missed.

They blame you for the way they pause. They blame you when their head spirals with things they shouldn’t do.

And, with their gaze trained on you…

Their thumb hovers. Right before your lips.

And, for the first time, they think they’ve accidentally stumped you.

…

But all it takes is a second.

Your pupils dilate when you realize what they want.

Breaking your stare, you shyly stick out your tongue. It caresses their thumb with delicacy; with purpose.

They’re quick to wipe the bits off your nose with their moist finger. Disappointingly, they can’t feel your blood due to the saliva wrapped around their skin. They pretend not to think about it as much as they are.

You flinch at the touch. But you eventually lean into it. You’re almost loopy from the way you sway. When you lock eyes with them once again–

You’ve got actual hearts as pupils. Not exactly subtle.

God. You’re really something.

~*•*~

You’re at a horrific standstill. And you love it.

None of your humans have ever been… into you. Not like this, anyways. You’ve always been the one to initiate contact. Even when you could literally be anything for them, they’ve only ever liked you for your personality. Your interest. The attention you give them.

They’ve never liked you for your blood before.

Yeah, you find it kinda gross and frankly a little concerning, but who’re you to judge? You find yourself not particularly caring, especially when you “accidentally” give yourself paper cuts and they’ll turn just enough to watch you out of the corner of their eye as you press on the wound in an “attempt” to seal it shut.

It oozes a milky white. And you watch their fingers tighten around their bicep.

It’s addicting. You want to squeeze them til they pop.

The best part? They’re feeding you right back. 

On your preplanned routes, you find them brushing your arm more than usual. Sometimes, they’ll reach out a finger to caress your own. It’s subtle, considering they rarely grace you with eye contact.

But when they do? Oh, you could melt.

You’ve become ballsier; instead of pretending your locker’s five down from them, you’ll shift to three down. Then two down. And you’re practically just standing beside their locker like a loser.

When they’re not there, you’ll peek into the holes. It’s more than often empty. You don’t care; you’re there to breathe in the metal stench mixed with their apple sweetness. Sometimes you’ll brush your fingers against the handle to gather their oils onto your skin.

One time, you got a bit distracted with their scent to realize they’ve appeared right behind you.

“Uh, who’s this?” Their friend – Susie, you’ve learned her name is – had asked them off to your right. You were quite offended that she’d pointed to you like you were some pet.

You felt their warm, firm hands on your shoulders. “Someone.”

And your knees almost gave out as they shifted you to the side.

She shot them a look of no duh. “Yeah, I can tell that much. But… like–”

You never found out how the conversation ended. You were too busy running off like a coward. And thinking about their soft touch on your bones. And their breath against your neck.

You keep lying to your mother. She asks again and again if you’ve made any worthwhile friends. Sure, you’ve made class friends here and there, but you’ve been more than busy, uncaring of your social life.

She hasn’t noticed. You’re hiding it better than you usually do.

Because this one’s different. And there’s no way in hell you’ll screw it up like you did the others.

Today’s some random charity thing you weren’t even remotely aware of. After being called down to the gym for an impromptu school dance, you find yourself hovering around said school friends, nursing your flat soda as your mind wanders elsewhere.

The gym’s about a third the size of your old one, riddled with cheap tassel ribbons and balloons. There’s a dozen tables you’re sure they moved from the cafe. Despite the small space, it’s relatively crowded with awkward teens and parents.

You really should pay attention to announcements.

You’re having side conversations with people you’d barely consider acquaintances, eyes predictably searching for a certain someone.

One of the teachers – Kris’ mom, to be exact – climbs up to the stage, welcoming everyone to the event. She starts talking about donations and generosity and you don’t really care. But the vast majority of people stare at her as if they’re actually interested in what she’s saying. You don’t get it.

Whatever. You scan the sea of monsters, eventually finding your human. The butterflies in your stomach don’t get any more manageable.

Their friend’s off talking to your lab partner in chem, leaving them to hover to the side. They seem to be mindlessly staring into space, too.

What a pair you two make. You’re practically soulmates!

You wait until they realize you’re watching them. It happens pretty quickly.

You can’t break eye contact. Not physically, not mentally.

It’s like a waiting game. You want them to gesture you over. To come to them. Susie’s not allowed to treat you like a pet, but you’re not exactly opposed to Kris doing so.

But they don’t break.

You like the challenge. It shows you still have some self restraint.

A minute passes. They raise an eyebrow at you.

…

You take it all back. You hate the standstill. You hate all of it. 

You want to suck on their neck like a gusher. Lap up all their savoury human fluids. Dissect their guts. Rearrange them. Study them to memory.

“I’m going to the washroom,” you half-heartedly tap one of your buddy’s shoulder. She gives you an uh huh in response, not taking her eyes off the stage. 

And you make a beeline for them.

They watch you, probably thinking you’re bluffing. Or going to chicken out. God, you’d never.

You head straight up to them, seize their bicep, and search for the nearest private area.

And there it is; the gym’s supply closet. Good enough.

You drag them behind you like a ragdoll, weaving through crowds who look at you like you’re odd. Strange. You’ve never truly cared of what others thought of you, anyways.

You all but toss them inside, gently shutting the metal door behind you. You use an old hockey stick to jam the door, sliding it between the handles.

The dark room’s filled with stacked extra tables and baskets of half-deflated balls, rackets, and sticks. There’s also an old, janky door locked to your left. Not exactly the most romantic place, but you’re not really aiming for corny love at the moment.

Surprisingly, they’re not as freaked out as you thought they’d be. They’re more so confused. Blank, as per usual.

“You win,” you sigh, pretending you’re nearly as disappointed as you should be.

They blink. “What?”

“You’re not stupid. Y’know. Days ago, in the bathroom…”

You wait. And you admit it.

“I just wanted to hear you say you’ve thought about me.”

You watch their throat bob. You feel yourself salivating.

“I know.”

Their eyes zone onto their feet, as if shy to admit it. 

Fuck, you’ve really hit the jackpot with this one.

You take it as a silent confession. ‘Of course I didn’t want to kill you. I do think about you.’

You almost want to tell them you think about them a lot, too. But it’s so… sappy and stereotypical. It’s just not how you function.

So you decide to give them something you know they’d want more.

“You still have that knife of yours?”

Their eyes widen. Their mouth clams shut. How cute.

“C’mon, Kris,” you hold out a hand, palm up. “I won’t bite.”

Something seems to click in place at the sight of your very slashable wrist.

They approach you like you’re a rabid dog, reaching behind them for the blade you’ve been wishing for. Their fingers wrap around your forearm like a present. You feel gifted, that’s for sure.

They gain a bit of confidence, rubbing their thumb into your skin. Your body tingles wherever they touch, as if leaving a permanent mark.

Then, they press the sharp edge against your skin. They glance at you for a look of reassurance.

Oh, come on. You’d never back down from something like this. Not when you can practically hear the way their heart’s beating out of their chest. Humans give themselves away all the time.

A quick nod is all it takes.

And your flesh screams at the dig of the blade, inching deeper and deeper into the confines of your wrist. Your pearly blood squirts against the knife, against their fingers, against your clothes, the floor–

And they keep pushing and it keeps gushing and you’re sure they’ve hit an artery.

You suck in a painful breath through your teeth, preparing to groan out a wait haha was this a bad idea–

But the look on their face? Fuck, the look on their face.

Their pupils are dilated to hell and back. Mouth agape, huffing loud, shallow breaths. Lip almost curled into a smile that you so desperately want to see.

It immediately distracts you from the stinging pain in your arm. You wish you could save the sight to memory. It’d be the only thing you’d ever look at.

Their thumb inches to the incision, massaging your skin with the blood oozing down your bicep.

And they press their thumb into the cut. 

The pain increases to an unfathomable amount. They knead the raw, tender flesh they’ve exposed, squeezing the popped veins to squirt out more blood. They watch it– watch you like you’re the most perfect thing they’ve ever seen. 

And god, do you feel it.

They’re shoving you to your back before you realize it.

You feel some of your blood soak into your pants as they straddle your waist. Your uninjured hand instantly moves to squeeze their thigh, happy to get any sort of contact.

Everything’s gone from zero to a hundred. Not that you mind. Not one bit.

They’re watching you intensely, reading your rather open, vulnerable reactions. You’re sure you’re practically drooling.

You feel your eyes go half-lidded as they bring your wrist to their face. Their chest visibly inflates and deflates, and you can’t believe they’re the one breathing in your scent. 

And… god, god god god god–

They press their mouth to your skin, slithering their tongue into your gaping cut.

You let out a sound you’ve never heard yourself make; somewhere between a breathless groan and a whimper of pure, excruciating pain.

Humans and their immune systems– fuck, it hurts unbareably. 

It’s abruptly interrupted when their warm tongue digs deeper into your muscles as your nerves scream in protest. More and more blood oozes from your wrist, splattering onto their lips.

…you can’t tell if what’s happening right now is better or worse than admitting how kissable they look.

And– and your brain loses all rational thoughts. Because you’re too focused on the way their mouth closes over your wound and sucks the blood out of you and just their lips against your skin’s enough to make you fall in love.

And you’ve decided you want their skin under your teeth.

You awkwardly twist your leg under them to flip them on their back, casually trading positions but it’s not casual and you’re losing your mind.

You somewhat take note of how they’re not fighting back. And how psychotic the blood splatters on their face make them seem. And how horribly drunk on your blood they appear. 

You thought the forest was bad? Christ, this human’s got issues.

…

Yeah, you probably look just as deranged.

You retrieve their knife, forgotten on the cold tiles painted with your blood, not once hesitating when pressing it right on their collarbone.

You don’t slash at first. You only find it hard to resist when they tilt their head to expose the length of their neck and… c’mon. You can’t hold back from that.

You’ve never cut someone without the intention to dissect before, and you’d rather not truly hurt this human (considering they can’t do so much as heal themselves efficiently), so you settle for a small, slightly-deeper-than-a-paper-cut cut.

Despite that, it still oozes a ruby red that your eyes can’t help but get entranced with. Before it mixes with your blood dripping down their neck, you collect their blood on your finger.

You’re not sure how long you spend straddling their waist, tapping their blood between your fingers, rubbing it into your skin, smelling it…

“Mmmokay,” you nod in agreement. “I sorta get your weird appeal.”

But they’re not listening. Their eyes dart to random spots on your cheeks, to your nose, to your neck. You’re sure you’ve got some of your blood splotched all over.

Totally worth it. You love that dumb look on their face.

You duck back down to their collarbone, giving the wound a few kitten licks. Once you hear them suck in a breath, you snap their skin between your teeth. You swallow, suck, absorb every ounce of their taste that you can.

You’d eat them alive if they’d let you. 

You feel their fingers lace through your scalp and holy shit you feel your soul pulse. 

“Y-you said you wouldn’t bite,” they utter out.

“Yeah,” your voice wavers, trying to maintain composure as you leave little butterfly kisses up their neck. You have no self control. “I’m a liar.”

And you nearly jump out of your skin when you hear the door handle wrangle.

God fucking damnit. Are you kidding?

“Is there someone in there?” A muffled voice questions from the other side. “You’re not allowed in there during assemblies.”

You don’t bother gracing the man with a response. Now that your mood’s been soured to oblivion, you might accidentally strangle him if you hear another word. Kris seems to be on the same page.

You crawl off them, now becoming hyperaware of all the sticky blood and sweat that’s in every crevice of your body. They get up before you, offering you a hand.

You’re about to morph all the fluids off your skin, but–

There’s a hand gripping your tricep. It stops you from tumbling to the floor. “Are you okay?”

“I– eh…” you hold a palm to your forehead, trying to ease away the growing headache forming in your temples. 

“You lost a lot of…” they trail off.

Right. Of course that’s what’s happening.

You push your heart to pump double the amount of blood without killing you, while you work on sealing your wrist to stop dripping like a faulty faucet.

You both stare blankly at the horrible crime scene beneath your feet and immediately get to work.

Kris gestures to the locked door, claiming it leads to a mostly-unused gym office, to which you can hopefully retrieve cleaning supplies to at least remove some evidence. You pick the lock with a makeshift finger-paperclip and are pleased to see they’re correct. There’s a few heavy-duty sprays and wipes that you find and bring back.

The next few minutes are spent in the quiet limbo of cleaning and scrubbing. But, oddly enough, you don’t find yourself doubting any moment of it. No ‘god are they regretting it’ or ‘what if they got what they wanted and don’t care about me anymore’ or ‘what the hell happens next?’.

Because you catch them stashing a chalky-white, soaked tissue right into the confines of their pocket.

~*•*~

Days and days pass of similar events. To define ‘similar’ is rather… difficult to do. 

You both wordlessly try to satisfy each other– which sounds very transactional, but you’re actually having fun. 

Sometimes you’ll purposely prick your finger on a thorny bush, presenting it to them like it’s a diamond. They treat it like one, that’s for sure. Other days, you’ll let them nibble on you like a rabbit. They’re oddly attentive; ensuring they don’t break too much skin. It’s alarming how much you think about the fact. 

They let you touch them in return. Innocent, light caresses of their skin. Their hair. They’ve let you map out their mouth before. In a surgical, educational way. You enjoy it much more than you thought you would. 

Especially when you can see your blood staining their teeth.

But it gets weird sometimes. Not bad-weird. Just… interesting-weird. 

They’ve stabbed you before. You’d be long dead if you couldn’t close up your arteries at will. They’ll just watch the blood flow out of you, too. You thought it was an anger thing; maybe they’re half-using you as an outlet of sorts. 

…and you always scold yourself for thinking about them like that.

You’ve never thought about your humans beyond their physical lives, their barebone interests, their thoughts, their opinions. You’ve never wanted to be truly invested in their lives to a psychological level. You never really… care about them.

Because you’ve never thought about any of them like that. You’ve never thought about anyone like that. Monster or human.

But Kris?

Oh, Kris.

Is it bad? That you’re actually growing to enjoy their company? That you want to learn about them the way ‘normal’ people learn about people they like?

You want to ask them questions about their childhood. About what it felt like growing up in this small, cramped town with no one but yourself to understand. 

You question their fascination with blood. You don’t understand why yours is so special to them. Not that you’re complaining.

You don’t wonder the way you used to; when you’d much rather be able to rummage through one’s memories to get the quick-and-easy answers you desire. Now, you almost wish you could have a quick do-over.

In the deep recesses of your brain, you tell yourself not to get used to it. You’re getting shitty grades again – which, from experience, proves you’re distracted beyond belief. Your mother’ll realize it sooner or later. 

You wince at a sharp pain in your shoulder, mind returning to the now.

“Sorry,” you hear from behind you. “Too deep?”

“You hit my bone, dude.”

No response. Well, besides a silent snicker of amusement. 

It makes your stomach flutter. And you immediately have to suffocate anything that might’ve formed in your intestines. 

“Wasn’t aiming for it,” they protest, licking a stripe of blood that trickles down your back. A very warranted smile forms on your face.

“I know your anatomy better than you do.”

They pause. Long and drawed out. “Don’t doubt it.”

You’re tempted to glance behind your shoulder out of curiosity, but then remember something very relevant.

“Taste better than usual?”

You feel the heat radiating off of them. “...sweeter.”

“Yeah. I added literal sugar to my blood,” you say as if it’s a thing worth bragging about. “I think that’s an actual condition, but y’know. It’s easy to manage.”

A hand falls onto your uncut shoulder as they lick another streak. Slower, this time.

“It’s nice.”

You quickly fall into the comfortable silence you’ve grown used to. Although you’re more than invested in enjoying the feeling, a far too comedic thought appears in your head.

“Do you know what a vampire is?”

You peek over your shoulder just in time to watch them stiffen, a flush apparent high on their cheekbones.

“I’m not a vampire.”

“It’s not a drastic conclusion to come to.”

They raise an eyebrow. “Ever seen me with wings?”

“I guess not,” you swipe a bit of your blood onto your thumb, playfully dabbing it on the bridge of their nose. “But you are allergic to the sun.”

They pause, entranced by the feeling on their skin. 

“There’s just something about yours,” they stare right through you. “It’s… different.”

Your mind clouds over. You love the idea of them liking something about you and you alone.

As you turn on their bed, you lace your fingers through their own, pretending it’s any degree of casual. You have to literally will the heat in your palms to dissipate. 

They closely watch the way your thumbs stroke their palms, tracing the unique lines as if trying to commit them to memory. Well…

“What’s with you and humans?”

Wow, that’s upfront.

“I think they’re cool.”

They give you a look.

You roll your eyes. “Well, monsters are all so different. Maybe that uniqueness would theoretically make them more interesting, but… I don’t know.”

“Humans are boring.”

“Well, yeah. Humans are all practically the same. With little tweaks. I like pointing out the differences, I guess. ‘S like a game of Where’s Waldo?”

As you drown in another pit of simple silence, you feel the edges of your lips curl upwards. You let out a defeated scoff. 

“I think you’ve ruined humans for me.”

Their eyebrows raise. “Why’s that?”

And you take it as the biggest challenge of your life.

“I’ve already found all the Waldo’s, Kris. I’ve seen everything. I already know all there is to know about humans,” you bring their hands to your chest. “But you? You’re so different, it’s like a whole new game.”

They don’t seem to take it as the boasting compliment you make it out to be. “Yeah. This town’ll do that to you.”

“No, but like… okay. I guess you wouldn’t really know this, but–” Your shoulders drop in thought. “Humans who grow up around other humans are very standoffish. At least, from what I can tell. I think they might have internal speciesism. Yeah, it’s kinda weird, but it’s cool to just… see how egotistical some of them can get.”

You learned rather quickly that they don’t like talking about humans. And, for some reason, you’ve made a great effort to avoid the topic altogether. 

Because you care about how they feel.

But, oddly enough, they’re watching you with a curiosity you’ve never seen from them before. So you continue, open as ever.

“Growing up, I would sorta morph into the humans I found fascinating. Bet you could guess how they’d react to it.” 

Their expression hardly changes, but you have a feeling they know what you mean. 

“Well, a majority of the time, I’d just get weird looks. Maybe ignored. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. But the thing is… some would, uh, humor me. So I wouldn’t shift into them as much. Why do so when I have the real thing in front of me, right?

“I mostly came to the conclusion that they just liked the attention I gave them. But they’d never let me get too close– go too far. And– and it’s not like I wanted to hurt them, fuck, but they always got so stuck up by the end of it, and–”

You sigh, eying their face for any twitches or giveaways. Surprisingly, you can’t read anything.

“My mother found out. We moved around. It happened a few times. And she sent me to see someone. Kept it all under wraps. And after months passed, maybe she just– thought I was over it. And maybe I was. But– but you.”

You inch ever so close to them. You can feel your breath reflect off their cheeks. Their pretty red eyes stay glued to yours.

“We– we’re two peas in a pod! I’ve never met a human who’s actually liked me before. You… but you– you’d never push me away, right? You’d never do that to me, right?”

…

And their lips part.

“Why would I?”

You feel a stress dissipate in you, as if the angel just morphed your soul to be fit for them and them alone.

Your fingers leave their own, reaching to curl around their neck. Your thumbs idly stroke their jawline.

“God, you’re perfect.”

Despite the slight tint to their ears, they break eye contact. “I’m not much for attention.”

You feel yourself let out a giggle. “And that’s why you’re so much better than the rest of them. Even if you’re gross as fuck.”

And as they attempt to hide their smile, you feel your yearn for normalcy be fulfilled tenfold.

~*•*~

You jam your door shut, as you’ve done a million times before. Drawer in front of the frame, too. Your fingers dial their number instinctually. Not saving it to a contact bought you more time. 

But not enough.

They pick up on the first ring.

“Hey–”

“My parents know.”

Silence.

“She’s already brought the movers. Called you before she finds out I have a burner phone for my burner.”

More silence. A minute passes, maybe a few, but you don’t have the guts to hang up.

“Hello?”

Your housekeepers call for you, to which you obviously don’t respond. Something about suitcases and clothes and whatever. They knock and knock and you just don’t care. The door’s handle jiggles, but the mass stops anyone from entering.

You check the screen. Still on the call. The hell?

“Kris?–”

And your bedroom window’s being swung open before you register it. 

You gawk at the sight of the green and yellow sweater currently slipping into your room. “How the hell’d you sneak past the movers?–”

“You’re leaving?”

You’re at a standstill.

“Technically, yeah.”

You watch disappointment seep into their eyes. But they don’t move. Oh, fuck it.

You’re the one to swiftly approach them, wrapping your arms around their midsection. They don’t hug you back, but you feel their chin rest on your shoulder. You peck their neck, trying to engrain a last memory in this painfully rushed goodbye.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Got locked in the house for a solid hour while my mother made a hundred calls trying to find out who you were.”

They sigh. “Not a fan?”

You give them a sad smile. “Not necessarily.”

Although you’d rather stay like this forever, you release them and head to your janky little floorboard compartment. You made sure to keep it under your bed this time. Apparently it was too obvious to your mother for the first few attempts.

“But. It was going to happen eventually. So,” you bend awkwardly under your frame, snatching the familiar plastic bag of pearly white liquid. “I got you this.”

They give you the most monotone look of excitement you’ve ever seen. Raised brows, wide eyes, slight smile. You engrain that to memory, too.

They reach into their pocket, fishing out a similar plastic bag. Except theirs has a little tooth in it.

“Took me a second to get here. I had to get it for you.”

You nearly crumble. You’ve never smiled so giddily before.

They seem shy to admit it. “Mom kept my first few baby teeth.”

“It’s perfect,” you coo.

You trade bags like some stupid show and tell, feeling a sense of calm rush through you. Anyone would probably think you should be losing your mind. 

Right now, as you say goodbye to the only human you’ve ever truly cared about. 

A day later, as the movers stuff your things into the truck with no care in the world. 

A week later, when you’re daydreaming out the limo window, not sulking nearly as much as you did the first thirty times this happened.

Even your parents look at you like you’ve gone insane.

But it’s okay.

Because it doesn’t matter.

You’ll see them again. You’ll make sure of it.

~~~

and the winner is…… the two-sided yandere trope !!!!!!! god i love this trope w all my heart its severely underrated

so ive been working on this on and off for the past like week and a half uhhhhhhh maybe u can tell by the second half, but i had to cut down a buttload of scenes bc it was getting WAY TOO LONG

i think it still flows nicely tho (and most of the scenes i cut were just more degenerate nonsense so…)

YEAHHHH I UHHH HOPE U ENJOYED. for some reason i went into it thinking nahh this isnt fetishization its just quirky blood human stuff but... yeah... thats just a straight up lie IDK HOW IT DIGRESSED INTO THIS IM SORRY.

The classroom’s small. When Alphys told you to spread out, it was made immediately apparent that there isn’t much space to spread out into.

Even after shuffling all the desks around like some shitty Tetris game, all the groups are touching, in one way or another. You just so happened to end up where you’d rather not be.

You’re not an overthinker. If anything, you excel at turning your brain completely off. And because you’d rather not think about yesterday to any extent, you do exactly that.

While your group continues to jot down any ideas on the crumpled chart paper, you fold your arms on the desk, creating the perfect (eh) pillow for your sleep-deprived head. It almost reminds you of a certain–

Nope.

Your eyes embrace the darkness as you pass out.

It could’ve been days. It was one of those naps that feel like you’ve been there for ages; the type that, if you were in bed, you’d have your pants rolled up your leg, sweat drenching every crevice of your body, and dried drool trailing down your chin.

Then, you hear a name. You wake up instantly. 

It’s Susie, sounding like she’s waiting at the door. She’s calling to the human.

Your head darts up, made instantly aware of the very empty classroom you find yourself in. Well, besides the chair behind you. Because yeah, why not make your day unbearable?

You don’t mean to, but you pause to watch them lift their head. Important: You don’t mean to.

You don’t want to talk to them. Or Susie. You’re too tired to look at their… stupid faces.

You’re usually better at this.

You lift yourself up, chair squeaking behind you. But you can’t push it back far enough; you’ve hit something.

Of course. They’ve gotten up, too. You couldn’t have timed that any better. You’ve got twin telepathy, apparently!

You’re more interested in leaving than being around the little thief for longer than you need to. You shove your chair awkwardly to the side. Its legs intertwine with their chair, forcing it to drag along. And you both take a step to the door, halting when you’re practically chest-to-chest.

Your teeth clench automatically. “Move it.”

And they do.

…

What?

Their eyes, maybe just a tad wider than they usually are, stay trained on you as they take a step back, squishing themself against the edge of the desks.

No fight, no weird look, not even any back talk. 

Ironically enough, you seem stuck in place.

That’s all it took? For you to seem some creepy sign that they maybe might kinda still think about you? That’s what it took for them to take you seriously?

Or maybe they don’t want you using it against them. It would make for good blackmail. That is, if you were actually okay with everyone knowing you’ve got the town outcast obsessed with you.

Gross. Nasty. 

They probably think about you a lot. You don’t want to be the center of their world. How much would you have to think about someone to put their initials on your everyday wielding knife?

Mmm. Actually, maybe the average person doesn’t have an everyday wielding knife.

You wonder what they’ve thought about you. Every time you snarl at them; do they think it’s– cute, or something? They better not. You’re not about to be the butt of their stupid joke.

You’d rather be gutted than be thought of as some unserious chum tryna pick fights.

Or maybe they just liked you as a kid. Yeah, yeah. They’d always smile for you the most. They’d laugh at your jokes more than the others’. They followed you around the most. You, you, you.

They clung to you when everyone started leaving like the cowards they all are–

…

Ahem.

They’re so stunted they can’t suppress whatever burning emotions they had for you. That’s it. And even now – when you wouldn’t so much as hesitate to tell them to off themself – they’d still somehow come crawling back. At their safe distance.

They love you. They’re obsessed. That knife’s all the evidence you need to prove it. They’re practically begging to be your friend again. They miss you so much–

…

You hear your name uttered from their lips.

You didn’t realize how little space is between you. The foot of distance they left you has been shortened right back to nothing. 

Did… you do that?

You’re unbelievably close to their face. Your noses are brushing. You feel your lips part.

But you’ve never heard them use your name as a defence.

…

Unless…

They don’t think you’re a threat. 

Their face looks like it’s always been. But it’s the small things that you take note of. For one, they’re not breathing. Their pupils are dilated to hell. You see them swallow.

God. You can’t believe you haven’t noticed any of it until now.

Your eyes become lidded. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

But it just… doesn’t feel right.

…

You wonder if they’ve ever thought about getting you flowers.

Your cheeks grow warm.

Nope! That’s enough of you, moron.

You back away, taking long strides to the door. You ignore Susie’s bewildered expression. She knows nothing. 

You don’t look back.

~*•*~

It’s another late evening after school. It started unexpectedly pouring in the middle of practice, and you’ve spent the past half hour or so holding your jersey under the blow dryer in the bathroom.

Yeah, it’s a bit useless, considering you’re not sure if you’re getting a ride home, or if you’re just gonna have to toughen it out in the rain.

You slip it back on, exiting the undercleaned washroom, ignoring the plunge of darkness that the school’s been put under. At least your shirt’s cozy and warm. It feels like a nice hug.

You skim your notifications, disappointed by the last of texts from your parents. Looks like you’re walking. 

You search for your umbrella, pleased to see it’s still in your bag after not using it for a year straight. Slipping in an earbud, you play a random song on your playlist and push yourself against the front door.

The relaxing patter of rain against the concrete couldn’t have prevented the way your heart dropped at the sight of Kris, leaning on the pillar still shielded by the overhang.

You let out a laugh, falling right into the automated response you’ve developed over the past few years. They don’t have to look back to know it’s you.

“You look more pathetic than usual,” you comment nonchalantly, perching against the other pillar. “Mommy couldn’t pick you up?”

Nothing. 

And you’re back to this. The silence. Goddamnit.

Wait. You’re not disappointed by that. 

You’re scrounging for things to say. Your heart rate picks up.

“S-she got more important things to do, huh?”

Crap! Calm down. You’re freaking out.

“What about Asgore?” You snap your finger. “Right. He cleans up for Noelle now, right?”

They continue to stare straight ahead.

“Yeah. Those snobs got lots to clean up. Don’t blame him for being so busy.”

You feel like you’re just talking to yourself. You feel insane.

“Bet Azzy would forget, too.”

Your overly forced smile begins to fade.

“You’re just very… forgettable…”

…

You sigh. A long, grueling one. It’s not forced – that’s the worst part.

You’re losing steam. You don’t even know why. You’re not even inherently tired.

“God,” you whisper, sliding down the pillar until you hit the ground.

You should just leave. Cut your losses now, walk home in the flood, get your shoes soaked. At least then, you could run a hot shower. Reflect on the day, regret every word you’ve ever spoken… y’know, the usual shower thoughts.

But you don’t. You sit, barely a foot away from the windless rain. 

A mumble; you barely hear them. You almost wish you didn’t. 

“How’s your hand?”

It’s like they’re pretending they said nothing. All that moved was their mouth. Why would you grace someone with conversation when they won’t even look at you?

Your undamaged fingers subconsciously drift to the bandages around your other palm. Yeah, you had a really bad infection-scare when you got home, but you’ve seen worse. Your thumb rubs against the hidden scar. You press once, just to see if it’ll hurt.

Of course it hurts. Why wouldn’t it?

“Barely left a mark,” you glower.

You’re both encased in silence.

You feel like you’re watching ‘some peace for hard nights... (minecraft music, soft rain & water)’ from the way the rain eases your soul. 

You feel yourself crumble. Break.

You really are an idiot.

…

You let out a pathetic laugh. “My mom got so pissed. Thought I got into another fight.”

They turn to you. You can barely make out an eye. A red, ruby eye.

“Didn’t you?”

They’re smiling. It’s oh so small. But it’s there.

Your throat clams up. You don’t know why.

Your umbrella, abandoned on the ground, returns to your hand. You squeeze it like a stress ball. 

There’s a very loud voice in you. It’s telling you to go the fuck home.

And so, you listen to it.

At least, you try to.

Just like how you try to open the umbrella. But your hand won’t budge. 

…

Yeah. This’ll be one of those things you think about in the shower.

They’ve been watching your internal (very obviously external) struggle, only getting a tad defensive when you approach them. They open their mouth to say something, but you quickly thrust your umbrella into their hands.

They look at you like you’ve just shot someone.

“Take it,” you stare anywhere but them. You cannot, for the life of you, handle the eye contact. “Don’t give it back. Human cooties. Or something.”

And you’re running into the pouring rain, almost instantly regretting your decision.

…

Damn.

You’re really off your A game.

~*•*~

Yeah, that was a bad idea.

The water seemed to nearly destroy your dollar store quality jersey – courtesy of the school – exposing all the little strings and threads that rip off at the seams. 

You’ve gotten through another day of surviving, not living. You’re standing at your locker once again, picking at said strings in an attempt to rip them off.

But they refuse; you can’t get a good grip on the stupid things. And when you do, you’re suffocating your fingers in the chokehold that is the tiny twine. Sometimes, your fingers slip from the force, stabbing into your sliced palm.

And you’re going to be late for practice again. You’re too hyper fixated on this to notice. It’s almost embarrassing how hard you’re trying.

You feel like you’ve gotten an okay hold on one of the larger strings sticking from your shoulder.

Hoookay. It’s like you’re about to rip off a bandaid.

You tug, ignoring the pierce of pain in your finger, and…!

It snaps! 

But your hand goes flying behind you from your momentum–

And you nearly punch someone in the face. 

You just barely pivot your trajectory. Worried you’re about to get suspended (and maybe beaten up, depending on the person), you instantly turn. “Shit, sorry–”

But lo and behold, it just so happens to be the human. Should’ve let your fist keep flying.

You blink. Is there a way to take back an apology? 

Why’re they even here? Their locker’s on the other side of the school. Which you only know because of how loud Susie is at eight in the morning. It echoes, to say the least.

Can they stop staring at you?

“What?” You defensively accuse, not wanting to ruin the rest of your day.

One of their hands drifts to their back pocket, or somewhere around there. And, oh, they’re– wait wait wait you’re not ready for this.

Ready for what?

They’re fetching their beloved knife!

With your name on it, of course. 

Hopefully they stab you with it!

Why’re they doing this? Are they trying to ruin your image? Embarrass you?

Their hand reappears from behind them. Yeah, they’re holding it!

You see the scribble! Your initials.

Grab it! Slit your throat with it!

No, slit their throat with it.

Not before you ditch it in the lake! Remove the evidence.

What evidence? This isn’t evidence of anything!

Yes it is, you moron!

You don’t give a shit about them! What a horrendous accusation! You don’t–

Not you, them!

They’re tapping you with the tip of the spine.

…

Like… they’re offering it to you.

Perfect. Kill them and then yourself!

You…

Your hand shakily hovers towards the handle. They tilt the knife, just enough for you to get an okay grip. Your fingers practically curl around their own. You see them break their gaze in the corner of your vision.

Okay. Now you’re holding their knife. You don’t know what to do with it.

C’mon. It’s the perfect opportunity to outwardly acknowledge the familiar two letters. Or even go out of your way to ridicule them to their face. Reject them on the spot.

Yeah. Say something straightforward.

“I don’t want to be friends again.” 

You should say that.

“Leave me alone.”

Why aren’t you saying it? You know you want to.

…

Do you?

They’re observing you with such interest, as if their gesture was even remotely readable. “The strings?”

“Oh,” you say, dumbfounded. 

How long have they been… watching you?

You’re getting less and less observant by the day.

You pretend they’re not still examining your every move, plucking another thread between two fingers. You use your newly acquired knife to cut the string off with ease.

Huh.

Your hand gravitates to another loose twine. Then another. Yeah, it’s probably bad to be cutting off so many threads (you’re sure your jersey’s just going to fall apart at this point), but it’s too satisfying to stop.

You’re definitely more than late for practice – who knows how long you’ve been standing here – but you find yourself not minding as much as you should.

There’s a string that’s been tickling your neck. You left it for last because you have no idea how to angle your hand precisely enough to not slice yourself open (despite wanting to earlier). 

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And… you pretend the human standing in front of you is anybody else. 

Or maybe… just a different version. A past version.

You tug on the string. “Mind getting it for me?”

They don’t say anything. Instead, they wordlessly reach for their knife, slicing the annoying thing off with quick precision. They make an extreme effort not to touch you, especially after they pull away.

You pretend you’re confused at their distance. You pretend you’re confused at the slight tint of their cheeks. You pretend you don’t want to see the knife again.

Maybe you’re hallucinating the letters. Change of mind; you need to see it again. Just to make sure. Of what? You’re not certain.

It makes you question, to say the least. But you shouldn’t be questioning anything. Nothing’s different. You’re normal. This isn’t odd, weird, unusual, strange–

You push down every current thought in your head. You’re losing your mind, aren’t you?

~*•*~

The answer is yes. You are.

You’ve been feeling itchy recently. Not the physical kind – it almost feels like you’re missing something. You feel very off. And you’ve been pent up for the past few days. For no apparent reason whatsoever.

Noelle always makes you feel better. Helps you let off some steam. 

Right after church service is when you decide to strike. You’re definitely not the type to attend regularly, but it’s not like you could just show up to Noelle’s. Here’s the only place you could reliably find her.

Sounds stalkerish, maybe. But you might end up killing someone without talking to her, haha!

You see Noelle and Toriel talking up by the piano. You take note of Susie occupied with the punch bowls, not wanting her to come over here and start a scene. And yeah maybe Kris is there too but that’s not important. 

Your smile grows as you walk down the isle, making a beeline towards your favourite deer. 

“Great singing, Noelle,” you call to her back. You can visibly see her stiffening at your voice. 

Her eyes, flooded with the same fear Susie briefly described, lock with your own. She mumbles your name as a greeting.

To your dismay, Toriel echoes it with joy. “It has been so long since I last saw you! How have you been?”

“Fantastic,” you clench. “Would love to catch up, but I was actually hoping if Noelle could help me out. Think I dropped one of my rings underneath the bench, but I can’t find it.”

“Oh, of course!” Toriel grins, offering Noelle’s mere presence as if it were a service. “Noelle, dear, we’ll talk about your concerns at the next practice.”

“Mhm,” she nods, following with hesitance as you beckon her like a pet.

Once you get a safe distance away, you open your mouth. “Concerns? What’s with that?”

She murmurs something along the lines of, “Oh, it’s nothing important, haha…”

“Is it the waver in your singing? Maybe the flat notes?” You halt at your row, not once motioning to enter it. It’s not like you actually lost anything.

She shies away from you, lip pouting with a rosy hue of embarrassment spreading across her face.

A giggle escapes your throat. “Seems–”

Your eye wanders to the punch bowls. You try to revert your gaze, but to no avail. 

You can’t look away because Kris is already watching you.

…

Your thoughts wander to the knife.

Snap out of it.

You cough. “Seems like your–”

C’mon. 

Seems like your singing gets worse alongside your father’s health.

That’s what you want to say.

But you don’t.

Before your brain and your conscience can argue, you feel a hard, aggressive hand on your shoulder. It shoves you aside, making you nearly trip over your own feet.

“Leave her alone.” 

Susie truly bears her fangs. Looks like she took your “advice”.

You still don’t have the heart to take her seriously. She’s rambling on about how you’re psycho, or something. You’re not really paying attention.

You’re too busy watching Kris. Their poker face.

Usually, their monotone expression is a genuine reflection of their mood. But now? You can tell they’re putting up a front.

Maybe they want to laugh at Susie’s insults. Maybe they want to smile at your (lack of) offended comebacks. Maybe they want to smile at you.

That’d be stupid. You’d never smile at them.

Your eyes dart to where their knife should be.

It’s why you’re not smiling at them right now. Push it down, asshat.

Their hand, previously resting in their pocket, emerges from its hiding spot. You watch it with more intention than you should.

It slips behind them. It reappears with what you’ve been looking for.

Their thumb brushes along your initials like a curtain revealing the final act.

They’re indulging you.

You ignore how that probably means you’re as readable as you feel.

Your head’s spinning.

It doesn’t matter what Susie’s saying. You’re shoving between the duo before she can spit out another word. 

“Whatever.” You feel your face flush.

You feel absolutely mocked as both Susie and Noelle let out a quick huh?

You flee to the foyer, disregarding your obvious issues with the scent of the candles. You breathe out a laugh, pretending to blow out Susie’s candle. 

Your eyes trail from your candle, to Noelle’s candle, to Kris’ candle, to Azzy– Asriel’s– 

…

That’s funny.

You wonder what he’d think of you now.

The doors slam open, thankfully breaking your thought process. For some reason, your first instinct is to hide behind the display, disappearing from sight.

It’s the trio. They’re talking about walking home together. Like you care.

…

So you end up following them home. You have no clue why. There isn’t a reason! You just do. For… fun.

Susie’s the first to split off, albeit unsurprising. You’re not sure where she lives, but there’s no chance in hell she’s neighbours with the childhood-neighbours-turned-friends.

Although, Kris and Noelle don’t part ways at their juncture. Instead, they follow her through the gate.

You feel a pang of jealousy that you so desperately bury. You can’t believe they still hang out without you.

No. You deserve to be mad. Why couldn’t they have stuck together like this when you were still around?

The gate closes behind them (Carol and her goddamn paranoia), leaving you with no other option but than to hop the fence.

No other option? You could just, uh, go home?

You’ve been using your head a whole lot lately. Not exactly in a good way. You’ve been having a lot of stupid thoughts. Like this one. Perfect example.

You know what they’re there for. 

You poke through the trees, getting comfortable underneath the kitchen’s window sill. You know she doesn’t have cameras. Or, you hope she hasn’t gotten them installed in the past year. Which is a very real possibility.

But, the prospect of any cameras vanishes from your head when you hear those faint notes.

…

You’re so impulsive. Maybe you are emotionally stunted.

Less stunted, actually. More pathetic.

This is so pathetic.

You’ve lived the past, like, five years without them. Without any of them.

That really is all it took. Just… knowing they still think about you.

You don’t need them.

…

No one really needs anything.

You just– want it.

Want to be happy again.

Want for everything to go back to normal.

You hear the window open. You’re sent into heart failure.

You scuttle away, twisting your neck to see Kris’ figure pretty much looming over you.

Heart racing, you squeak. “I’ll gouge your eyes out if you tell anyone…!”

But they say nothing. How surprising.

As if you were nothing but a mere ghost, they leave the window ajar, returning to what you can only assume to be the piano.

Your fingers dig into the dirt.

You can’t bring yourself to leave.

At some point, you peek over the window’s ledge, watching them play. You recognize the exact moment they notice you, which is almost immediately. They hide their face, shying away.

You calm your breathing, letting yourself lie back onto the grass. The little weeds tickle your neck.

Man. They really do like you. For some reason.

Yeah, you kept telling the obvious facts to yourself, but a part of you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right.

You lay there for an hour. You count the seconds in your head. 

Kris left a while ago. When you hear the front door open, you don't look over to see if they notice you. They don’t approach you either, to which you’re grateful for.

You’re not sure why you’re still here.

You spend the time thinking. About everything. About nothing.

But you do hear someone’s breath hitch. It’s obviously Noelle.

She’s on her driveway, looking down the side of her house, glancing between the sparse trees to spot you. It’s like she knew you were here.

You can’t bring yourself to spit an insult. Whether it be from burnout, from relaxation, from confusion. You’ve learned not to question it.

…

You push yourself up.

“Hey.”

And she visibly deflates with relief.

She offers a timid smile.

“...Hi.”

You find yourself offering one back.

~*•*~

You broke into Kris’ house that night.

Wait. That sounds bad.

You saw Kris’ knife in an empty pie tin and couldn’t help yourself. Their kitchen window’s one of the more finicky ones, anyways.

As soon as you get your grubby hands on it, you find yourself gravitating to the lake once again. You’re not sure how they noticed, but you felt their presence following you about halfway into the walk.

You sit, just preceding the sand. 

Your pinky traces the initials as a feeling of crippling nothingness washes over you.

“I can hear you, y’know.”

The only response you get is one of crunchy gravel, and their presence by your side. You hide the knife instinctually.

“I think that’s mine.”

You give them a look, revealing the blade with a caress of the letters. “This says otherwise.”

They’re unmoving. Silent.

“I would’ve let you listen.”

How random. “Bold of you to assume I give a shit about piano.”

Considering they said nothing about it, you revealed your cards pretty quick.

“Noelle said she saw you.”

“You saw me, you brainless half-wit.”

“She saw you after I left.”

You choke on your spit, scrounging for an excuse. “I lost track of time.”

“She thought you were crying.”

“She needs to get her eyes checked, then,” you fold your arms.

Crying. Why would you be crying? You have nothing to cry about. Do they think you were crying? How embarrassing of an assumption.

…

You feel yourself getting protective.

“I wasn’t crying. I was… thinking.”

They’re quick to change the subject. “You were nicer to her yesterday.”

“Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to roughen her up next time.”

They almost laugh. You’re not sure if what you said was a joke or not. “Susie would stop you.”

“Yeah. Exactly why I backed off. Didn’t feel like getting my head pummeled inside out.” 

You’re at the perfect angle to make out their smile. It’s moreso mocking than anything.

“Is that why you didn’t react when she called you a spineless wannabe?”

Your mouth falls open. “She called me a what?”

They stare at you like you’re delusional. “You weren’t paying attention.”

You panic. “Psh– yeah, I–”

Damn. They got you there.

They know you were so unbelievably distracted by them of all people that you weren’t paying attention to the ongoing threats made about your life.

“Fuck off,” you scowl.

There’s a pause. It’s so long it’s almost awkward.

“Mom wondered where you went. Wanted to catch up.”

“Well, tell her she–”

You cut yourself off. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t think of anything, or because you’re actively trying not to.

Both are disappointing options.

“Said she’d make you apple pie.”

“What, you think you can just bribe me? I don’t want her pie.”

You glance at the knife. It still smells like baked pastry and cinnamon.

You’re not even hungry.

They pull out their phone, as if they’re trying to actively ignore you. You don’t care. 

But a few taps later, they’re offering it to you. You gaze at them like they're crazy. When they don’t back off, you take it with hesitance.

It's a voicemail. You press play, against your better judgement.

You feel your eyes sting at the voice alone.

“Hey, Kris! Can’t believe you didn’t pick up– I know you’re probably busy with your best friend Susie, but don’t go around replacing me already, yeah?”

The hell? You give Kris a look, to which they roll their eyes.

“Hope everyone’s been doing good. Tell mom I say hello, even though she tries calling me every waking hour. Go hang out with dad for me, too. Make sure he doesn’t overwater his flowers–”

He starts listing a plethora of people, to which you don’t give two shits about. Oh, say hello to x for me! Let y know I say hey! It just goes on and on. 

You’re losing your patience. “The hell’s the point of this?–”

They place a finger on their mouth in a shh motion. 

You listen. Just because you have that feeling of knowing how this is going to end.

“–and I still owe him ten bucks. Right– also…” He pauses, for an abnormally long time. “How’s the, uh, little devil doing? I know she’s not exactly little anymore, but… y’know. It’s been a while since I’ve asked about her.”

…

Little devil.

How nostalgic is that?

“I know you don’t really talk anymore, but could you just– I don’t know, keep an eye on her for me? She didn’t seem very… okay before I left. Did I ever tell you what happened?”

Your throat dries. Oh no.

“It was the week before the move-in day. She wasn’t really talking to me at the time, but I tried anyway. She… well, lashed out–”

You do not want to relive this. No way in hell!

Your finger zooms for the hangup button, but Kris snatches the phone before you can press it.

“Give it!” You scream.

They shove you back, keeping you away with one hand.

“Stop!”

Your fist tangles with their sweater as you kneel over them. 

You point the tip of the knife to their throat.

“Turn it off,” you threaten.

They give you an unreadable look.

And they blast the volume to max.

You growl, ready to cut their insides up, but the voice–

“–after I mentioned Dess, she really snapped. She told me she hated me, hated you, hated all of us. I’ve never felt more guilty in my life–”

Your cheeks burn. “Turn it off!”

“–but after a few minutes, she lost some steam. I just held my arms open, and she stared at me like I was an idiot. But then, she… broke, I guess. Tumbled right into me.”

You grit your teeth. You might shatter them.

“I’ve never seen her cry like that before. She told me it wasn’t fair. That we were all still grieving. She hid it under a bunch of ‘you guys are emotional, selfish dirtbags’, but I think she just wanted everything to stay the same, how it always was–”

God, no no no no no.

“She let some of it slip. Buried under the harsh stuff. Said she missed me, Dess, Noelle… said she really missed you. Her words, not mine–”

You push the knife into their skin. You see a sliver of blood drip down their tensed neck.

This isn’t a threat anymore. It’s a promise.

“I’ll break your phone if you don’t–!”

“But she was right,” you hear a laugh on the other side. “Don’t tell her I said that! I just… yeah. I should’ve been there for you guys. I shouldn't have let us all grieve separately. We should’ve done it together. Maybe then, she wouldn’t be so… y’know. Emotionally stunted?”

…

You feel your hands go slack. The knife drops.

You let yourself fall to your ass. 

“Maybe just tell her I’m sorry. And maybe go bring her to the diner. She always liked it there.”

…

You do like it there.

He huffs into the mic. “Okay, sheesh, this is getting long. I’ll let you go. Oh– and don’t forget to order a hundred pizzas for delivery. Make sure it’s Pizzapants taking the order. And give him a fake address. Or schedule for pickup and just never go in. Okay, bye.”

…

You laugh. 

It’s pathetically sad. 

“God, he’s such a dunce.”

“He left two more,” they add. “Follow-ups to the delivery idea.”

…

You’ve never felt more open. Screw Azzy and that horrible voicemail.

You frown. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know.”

“Don’t lie. You think I’m stupid.”

No response.

“You think I’m selfish for wanting everyone to stay together for my own sake. Well, I–”

Your voice breaks. Stop it.

…

“I didn’t… know what was going on,” you mumble. “Hell, she wasn’t my sister. Bet that family suffered ten times more than I did.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Bet you suffered more than I did. Fuck, man– I felt nothing for the first year. When you were all… I just…”

They’re unmoving. You wish you could say the same.

“I was selfish. I am selfish. I’m not stupid enough to deny it.”

You grab the knife. You’re a fiddler at heart. You let out a breath you’ve been holding.

Your entire soul’s just been exposed. 

Might as well dig deeper when the light’s not visible anymore. 

“Could you tell Azzy? That I’m sorry, too?”

Another pause. “Yeah.”

You shut your eyes, angry that you’ve let yourself go to such an extent. Your walls are as fragile as glass.

“...And tell him to tell you I’m sorry, too.”

“Sounds redundant.”

You narrow your eyes. “God, I hate you.”

“Still?”

…

God fucking dammit. 

“I don’t hate you.”

…

They’re reaching into one of their pockets. You can’t make out what’s in their hand until they reveal it to you. “Trade you.”

You instantly perk up. Your charger!

“You should have it back, anyways.” You shove the blade into their hand, snatching your charger before they have a second say. “You probably talk to it like a weirdo.”

You glance up to meet their extreme poker face, and you realize it might’ve sounded like an insult. Not that it wasn’t, but–

“In a good way,” you add. “Sorta.”

“Doesn’t sound good. Sounds stalkerish.”

“Yeah. Don’t think you’re above the label.”

“Mhm. Almost as bad as hopping someone’s fence to listen in on–”

You shove their shoulder. “Hey. I only did it, like, three times. And they were all years apart.”

You swallow, twirling the cord around your finger.

“Yeah. I should probably, uh, talk to Noelle about that.”

They give you an amused look. “She thought you were planning her murder.”

“Tomayto tomahto! It’s not like Susie’s any different. She straight up fantasizes about being bullied by her.”

“Eh. They’re a special case.”

“Mmm. Like us,” you let slip. “We’re a special case. ‘Cause you always manage to make my blood vessels burst.”

They sigh. 

“Yeah. Guess we are.”

~~~

guys this is enemies to not enemies they arent smooching by the end LOL (and it got way too angsty I WASNT TRYING TO DO IT)

YES at the very end i default to she/her pronouns bc thats what i just regularly default to so IM SORRY (this is also partially why i avoid anyone talking abt reader in third person but i couldnt just NOT include the last part lol)

and like....... on a more important note......

wait guys r u freakbob like me…… like I CANT TELL IF U GUYS R LIKE ‘ooh yandere teehee kris loves u a little too much’ OR ‘wow they have actual issues like DEGENERATE issues’ BECAUSE I DONT WANNA SCARE U GUYS OFF LMAOO

ive gotten so many asks and comments trying to feed my urge BUT IM SCARED (im nervyyy u guys are more tame than im expecting)