#this dumbass

He blinks. “No?”

“No,” you repeat.

“The fuck you mean, no?”

“I mean no,” you say slowly, like you’re explaining something very basic. “You don’t just walk in here, say ‘we’re done,’ and expect me to accept that like a subscription cancellation.”

Mammon scoffs. “That’s how breakups work!”

“You’re sweating,” you point out.

He immediately wipes his forehead. “That ain’t the point.”

“You’re doing that thing,” you add. “Where you panic because you’re emotionally invested and decide to nuke the whole situation instead of communicating.”

Mammon points at you. “Hey—don’t psychoanalyze me!”

“You’re literally the Avatar of Greed,” you say. “You don’t give things up voluntarily.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “…Shut up.”

You cross your arms. “We’re not breaking up.”

Mammon groans. “Why not?!”

“Because this isn’t a breakup,” you say. “This is a poorly disguised ‘I’m scared you matter to me’ episode.”

Silence.

Then Mammon slumps. “I hate how good you are at this.”

You grin. “Yeah. C’mere, dumbass.”

He hesitates for half a second—then immediately clings to you like you’re the last profitable asset in Hell.

“…We’re still together, right?” he mutters.

You pat his head. “Unfortunately for you.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“I think we should break up.”

Mammon laughs immediately.

Like—full belly laugh. Loud. Obnoxious. He has to lean against the counter to keep himself upright.

“HAHA—oh wow—good one,” he wheezes. “You practice that, or—?”

“I’m serious,” you say.

He waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, and I’m givin’ away all my money next.”

You cross your arms. “Mammon.”

He straightens up, still grinning. “C’mon. Say it again. I love a good joke.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

He laughs again, sharp and disbelieving. “No you ain’t.”

“…Excuse me?”

“You can’t,” he says, like somehow missed a memo. “That’s not a thing you get to do.”

“That is literally how relationships—”

Mammon steps closer, pointing at you. “Nah. See, I don’t agree. And since I’m involved, that means it don’t count.”

You stare at him. “That’s not how consent works.”

He shrugs. “Worked for me just now.”

You move to step past him. He blocks you.

“Oh, don’t do that dramatic walk-away crap,” he says. “You’re mad. You’ll cool off. Happens all the time.”

“Mammon, move.”

“Nope.” He grins again, smug and infuriating. “We’re still together.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

He tilts his head. “And yet—here we are.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he softens, just a little, dropping his voice. “You ain’t leavin’. You wouldn’t threaten me like that if you didn’t care.”

You open your mouth to argue.