#maddancy

Adam x Lucas

I saw this picture and it freaked me out. a little-little demon with wings, it's so easy to forget he had human flesh for dinner. So I wrote a short fanfic from Will's perspective to let me go

He sits there. In the corner. Like a spider in a web of old books and candle wax. His wings—cardboard, drawn—but I can see them twitch. Funny. Scary. A mix of both. He writes. Scribbling in a notebook with gilded edges, like a schoolboy who has just discovered that words can kill.

“He eats people,” I remind myself. “He has killed, dismembered, prepared. He is a monster.”

But now… now he looks like a child. The child he never was. His fingers carefully turn the pages, his lips moving soundlessly. Is he composing poetry? Or a menu?

I stand in the doorway. He knows I’m here. Always knows. But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps writing. His back straight, like a pianist before a concert.

“Why does this feel… endearing?”

The thought burns. It’s treacherous.

He has consumed more than sixty people. Sixty. Sixty lives, sixty names, sixty stories turned to pulp and served with a sauce of Nietzsche quotes. But when he sits like this—hunched, absorbed, pencil in hand—he seems… fragile. Like a porcelain doll that someone is bound to break.

“You are the one who will break him,”

I whisper to myself. But I don’t move.

He licks the tip of his pencil. Just like back then, in Jack’s office.

“Eye contact is violence, Will.”

And now he himself creates that violence—on paper. Writing, writing, writing. About what? My dreams? How I tossed and turned last night? How my hand trembled when I cut the meat at dinner?

“He knows. Always knows.”

His temple isn’t a room. It’s him. Walls made of ribs, an altar of skulls, stained glass windows of memories of the sister he devoured to keep her with him forever. But now… now he is neither god nor devil. He is a boy. A boy afraid of the dark and so he created his own—from blood and poetry.

“Why can’t I hate him?”

Because his hatred is perfect. Because his love is a knife that cuts just enough for you to feel alive. Because when he looks at me, I see that child in him. The one who cried when Mischa disappeared. The one who decided that if the world took everything from him, he would take the world.

He turns around. His eyes are two embers in ash. He smiles—not with the grin of a cannibal, but with the smile of that very boy.

“Are you going to stand there long?”

He asks. His voice soft as silk on a blade. I don’t answer. He knows the answer.

He extends the notebook toward me. On the page—a drawing. Me and him. We stand back to back, but our shadows merge into one being with wings and fangs. We are a Rorschach test, one entity, whole, indistinguishable.

“Beautiful,”

I think. And immediately want to rip out my tongue.

He has killed. He kills. He will kill again. But as he draws our shadows, I… I want to sit beside him. To take the pencil. To add details.