the faint smell of pine.

Life has been... life-ing. 

If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much. 

You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities. 

You have a life. Or, you had one.

You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over. 

You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.

At least maybe even feeling good.

But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.

You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.

Your boss has noticed. Fuck.

“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."

“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.

they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say. 

Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say. 

Same words. Same tone. Same lie.

You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.

You ignore it because ignoring is easier.

Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what? 

Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?

You don't have the energy for any of that.

Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see. 

He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.

So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.

Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced. 

You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes. 

You play pretend.

“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."

They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.

All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.

Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters. 

You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.

It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.

Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.

You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.

But at last, nothing comes. 

Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.

A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.

"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.

You turn your head slow.

And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass. 

Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 

“…Pierrot?"

Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.

You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.

The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.

Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.

“My dear," he breathes.

And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."

HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough. 

His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.

“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"

You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—

Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."

You close your mouth.

He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit

“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."

You don't have an answer. 

You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.

He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.

His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."

You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.

He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.

“Pierrot, what are you—"

“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Eventually, you're going to feel better."

“You don't know that."

“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."

He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.

So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.

“You're safe." “I’m here." “You don't have to be anything right now."

His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.

“Pierrot?"

“Yes, my dear?"

“…Thank you. For coming."

Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

“What the fuc… Harlequin?”

You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"

“Uh, just... come in."

You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.

“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."

You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand. 

“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"

“I wasn't ignoring you—"

“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

The truth is, you've watched every single one.

You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.

You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.

“I watched them," you mumble.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"

“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich." 

Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."

You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.

Except.

Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.

“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"

You don't look up.

“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"

“No."

You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.

The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.

“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"

“I sleep."

“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.

One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression. 

Something almost like... guilt? 

“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"

“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.

“Okay," he says.

“…Okay?"

“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."

You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."

“I have other good qualities."

“Name three."

“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 

“The hell, Jester…?”

You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens. 

He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.

“You took longer than expected to open."

it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.

He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.

His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.

You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."

One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"

You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."

"the truth is usually a good starting point."

You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.

He does, like for a long time. 

And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.

“You have no food," he states.

"i have... some food."

“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”

Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.

“What are you doing?"

“Ordering groceries."

“You… you can't just—"

“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”

And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.

When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."

“You don't have to—"

“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."

You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.

“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."

You blink, "how do you know about—"

“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."

It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.

“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."

He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.

"Give it to me."

“What? no—"

“Give me the phone, little human."

There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.

But you hand it over.

He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."

“That’s… terrifying."

“Good. Fear is motivating."

He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."

You hesitate then you sit.

His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.

“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.

“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

“I disappeared for months."

“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you." 

You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”

You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.

You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.

But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.

“I know—"

“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."

You open your mouth. close it.

he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.

“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."

He closes the notebook with a snap.

“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."

"Restrictions?"

“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."

the words hit harder than you expect.

“I didn't—"

“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"

You don't answer.

He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."

“Like what exactly?"

“Like someone who has given up."

The words hang in the air between the both of you.

And something in his expression just changes, a little  softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.

He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.

“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation. 

You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.

He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."

He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.

He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.

“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.

“I don't know," you admit.

He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."

You think about it. "i'm tired."

“Obviously."

“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."

He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."

“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."

“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."

“Yeah."

Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."

He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.

“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."

He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.

“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."

“You can't know that."

“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."

You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"

His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."

You do.

He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.

Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 

“Is that, Doctor??”

You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.

You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus. 

Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse. 

Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.

So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday? 

You're either dreaming or he's lost.

But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is. 

Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.

“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”

"...Hi?"

"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”

"I don't know. Two week ago?"

“Disgraceful."

He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You're flinching. That's dramatic."

He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.

"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”

"I have a lamp—"

“A lamp  is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.

"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”

"Wow. Thanks…”

"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.

"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."

"You came all the way here though."

"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."

He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."

He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."

"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.

"...That was a joke."

"Ah. Well. I can see that."

"Was it funny?"

You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.

He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."

Again, you didn't answer.

He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.

"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."

"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"

"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."

You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."

"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."

"You could just say you care."

"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.

"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."

"...You?"

"Surprised?"

"A little."

He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."

He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.

"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."

"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"

"Yes."

You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.

He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.

"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.

You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ