Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time it happens, Pure Vanilla thinks nothing of it.

It's a typical morning; Pure Vanilla’s slumber is broken only by the sun’s rays streaming in through cream-colored curtains and dancing across his face. Yawning himself awake, he muses on the fact he’s been allowed to rest undisturbed - even with the dawn’s rays already cresting over the hills, none have come to wake him. The smell of spiced tea wafts pleasantly through the air and while he may not have been woken outright, a small turn of the head reveals that the Neapolitan sisters have already come and gone, leaving a piping hot cup of tea on his bedside table.

The kind gesture is a welcome treat for the day ahead. For once there are no meetings, no plans to be made. Pure Vanilla can take the day’s pace at his leisure; even his clothes are already laid out and pressed for him, hung on the bathroom door with care.

Rare are the days Pure Vanilla finds time to enjoy a morning by himself, to soak in the warmth of breaking dawn and cradle a steaming hot cup of tea in his hand at first light. The sound of tittering birdsong comes from the nearby window, causing his head to lift; it’s a clarion call, a duty that cannot be ignored even on his day off. Pure Vanilla slips from the bed, brushing off his nightgown as he makes his way across the room. Three steps forward and the balcony doorknob is twisting in his hand as he throws the doors wide, a smile on his lips to greet his friends.

Pure Vanilla steps out into the sunlight without pause, squinting slightly as a flurry of blue crosses his vision. He greets the Blueberry Birds with a pleasant whistle; they answer in kind with a smattering of warbled replies. Pure Vanilla watches fondly as they chirp and hop along the branches of a nearby tree; he’d planted the sprout long ago, let it grow tall and strong as a place for them to rest and build their nests in the springtime. The Blueberry Birds flit back and forth amongst its leaves, ruffling their feathers and clacking their beaks before a handful of them descend to settle along the balcony’s edge.

The birds hop back and forth in expectant greeting; Pure Vanilla smiles as he runs his hands over their small heads, only to have them tug at his robes impatiently with their beaks.

“Yes, yes,” he laughs, gently pulling himself from their grasp. “I overslept, I’m afraid. Let's get you fed, shall we?”

Pure Vanilla slips back into the room grabbing the small bag of birdseed he keeps atop a small side table. When he returns, the birds have already lined up in a neat little row - standing almost as if at attention in anticipation. The sight warms his heart, makes his smile deepen with fondness as he looks them over and places his hand into the bag. A quick scattering of seed along the balcony's ledge has them already fluttering about in a whirlwind of movement as they all rush for their breakfast.

Pure Vanilla stands back, watching the clamor with an affectionate gaze as the wind rustles through his hair. The long, golden tresses slide gently across his shoulders as he lifts his head, watching the leaves of the tree sway along branches now deserted of his friends.

Almost deserted, anyway. A new flicker of movement has Pure Vanilla squinting; his hazy vision lands upon a single, solitary figure rustling in the shadows.

One bird has remained behind - and it is a bird Pure Vanilla does not recognize.

A Blueberry Bird sits perched atop an inner branch, barely discernible to Pure Vanilla’s peering eyes. It is smaller than the rest, tucked into the shadowy parts of the leaves as if trying to mask its presence. Its feathers are tinged a darker hue than any Blueberry Bird Pure Vanilla’s ever met, and its eyes gleam with unnatural brightness as it meets his gaze.

It is impossible to say how Pure Vanilla knows, but he knows.

Perhaps it is the familiar pulse of his Soul Jam in acknowledgement, or something instinctual drawn forth by the time they have spent together. Perhaps it is the way the bird's eyes track him so intently, piercing him to his core with the sharp intelligence behind them. In all other manners it is a perfect mimicry, yet its nature is betrayed by how rigidly still and silent it sits, draped in shadows amongst the rustling leaves.

“Hello, friend,” Pure Vanilla says after a moment. “Not going to join your kin?”

The bird does not respond; it only tilts its head as if pretending to consider his words. Its feathers ruffle and its beak clacks at empty air; abruptly, it turns away him, as if openly declaring a lack of interest. The bird’s eyes are averted, pointedly looking anywhere but him.

An amusing farce, if not a bit transparent. Even with its back to him, the feeling of being watched is unmistakable.

How familiar.

Pure Vanilla turns away to leave the bird in peace; his attention is redirected to the rest of the flock, still hopping around and picking at the seed scattered along the balcony's ledge. He calls to them with a sweet whistle and a smile; the few who have already finished flutter over to perch upon his shoulders. Pure Vanilla pets their feathers and gives them gentle kisses as they nuzzle up against him, warbling with contentment.

Usually after being fed, their typical morning activities are concluded - but today, Pure Vanilla has a different idea.

“You know,” he remarks aloud, “I don't have any meetings today, but there's quite a bit of work to be done at my desk. Why don't you all join me for a bit?”

The birds chirp in acknowledgement; they’re largely ignorant to his words, but when Pure Vanilla leaves the balcony doors open as he steps inside, it is not terribly long before a few fly in after him. Pure Vanilla’s paperwork is naturally never of any interest to them, but there are always some that are eager to explore the ever-present curiosity that is his room.

Pure Vanilla sits at his desk, picking up his quill and papers as more and more birds finish with their breakfast and flap their way inside. Several of them come to sit on his bed; more still flit over and perch upon his desk, tilting their heads in interest at being allowed into his bedchambers.

It is not often that he invites them in, as they usually have better things to do and, in truth, tend to make a bit of a mess. Anything small and shiny is usually snatched up in their greedy beaks; Pure Vanilla has lost many a coin from his bedside table this way. Even more often, stray openings on his pillows are quickly pecked apart, the soft feathers within snatched up for nest-making.

A bit inconvenient, but not terribly. His friends deserve soft places to sleep too.

The bulk of the flock slowly ventures inside, finding little nooks and crannies to rest in around the room. They chirp to each other, poke and prod where they please and after a bit more exploration, eventually flap their way out the window to continue their day.

Pure Vanilla pays them no mind, scratching away with his quill as he goes through his correspondence. Most are letters from citizens or documents to the side for his signature, along with various propositions that need his perpetual acknowledgement. There's nothing from his friends today, which is a bit of a disappointment, but the lack of pleasantries does allow him to focus and narrow down what's important.

Still, it’d be nice to hear from them. Hollyberry Cookie has seemed especially distracted as of late.

After about a half hour, Pure Vanilla sets his quill down; it's still early in the day, but the rumbles of hunger have not eluded him for long. Last night’s dinner had been meager at best, the result of a dinner party whose selection had been rather slim. He'd still eaten, still complimented the host as one does, but it had been a bit disappointing to have so much seafood present on his plate.

Pure Vanilla sets the last stack of papers to the side with a grimace as he lets out a long, jaw-cracking yawn. He pushes his chair back, standing up and brushing aside the hair from his face.

Time to get dressed.

A quick trip down to the kitchens should provide something suitable, something that will settle his grumbling stomach and allow him to return to work. Pure Vanilla’s already mentally ticking through his options as he heads towards the bathroom – it is a happy accident, a single stray glance upwards that causes him to arch his brow in surprise.

Not every bird has left.

The smallest bird, the one that had rested in the shadows is now perched atop his cabinet, peeking over the corners to watch him through sharp, narrowed eyes. If a bird's face was capable of such emotion, Pure Vanilla might have labeled its gaze as displeasured.

“Hello, friend,” Pure Vanilla calls. “I'm heading down for some breakfast. Have you eaten anything?”

The bird does not answer; it merely watches him, tilting its head in open inspection.

“Well,” Pure Vanilla continues, “There may still be some seed out on the balcony. You can check if you like.”

The bird clacks its beak irritably; Pure Vanilla fights down a smile.

“You’re a rather handsome fellow,” Pure Vanilla remarks, tone purposefully light. “I hope someone's taking care of you.”

The bird simply stares back at him as Pure Vanilla turns away, plucking his robes off the bathroom door before heading inside.

His shower is quick, a matter of routine and a few simple scrubs with his favorite shampoo. Blow-drying his hair takes ages - brushing it out, even longer. By the time Pure Vanilla exits the bathroom, fully dressed and ready for the day, it’s of little surprise to see the bird has moved. Rather than his cabinet, it now sits upon his desk, looking over the documents with a gaze far too intelligent for any simple beast.

Pure Vanilla pretends not to notice.

A quick re-brush of his hair and inspection in the mirror finishes up his preparation; through it all, the bird upon his desk does not make a single sound. It only watches as Pure Vanilla places his hand on the doorknob and gives it a polite nod of acknowledgement.

“I’ll be back soon,” he tells it. “You can do a little writing yourself, if you like.”

Birds do not roll their eyes, but this one does something awfully similar.

Pure Vanilla simply chuckles under his breath, shutting the door behind him with an audible click.

Breakfast passes unremarkably; it’s nothing more than another cup of tea, a nice plate of pancakes and a newspaper to peruse as he eats. Pure Vanilla manages to finish half the plate before setting it aside, picking up his staff again before making his way back up the winding stairs towards his room. Usually he’d put in a bit more effort towards at least finishing his meal, but itchy curiosity has got the best of him today.

He wonders if his guest will still be there.

On first glance, it would seem not; Pure Vanilla opens the door to his room to find it bare of any occupants. There’s a small tinge of disappointment, though he’s hardly surprised. It’s not until he crosses the room back towards the balcony doors that his gaze lands upon a small, familiar figure perched upon the ledge.

The bird watches him with an air of open disdain, which seems to only deepen as Pure Vanilla smiles and steps towards it.

“Hello, friend,” he says gently. “Were you waiting for me?”

The wrong line to say, apparently – the bird gives Pure Vanilla an unimpressed glance before abruptly turning away and taking off into the air.

Pure Vanilla watches it go without a word, silently gazing upwards as it flutters high above and out of sight. It had waited all this time, only to refuse Pure Vanilla the moment he’d returned.

A strange sort of ache settles in his chest.

Still, there’s nothing to be done about it at the moment. Pure Vanilla can only turn away, shutting the balcony doors behind him as he makes his way back to his desk. A heavy sigh escapes him as he collapses back into his chair, picking up the closest piece of paper and letting his tired gaze scan the document’s title.

It’s gibberish.

Pure Vanilla blinks, squinting as he peers closer – perhaps his poor eyesight is just playing tricks on him? Yet when he attempts to read further down the page, each subsequent word becomes more and more distorted the longer he looks at it. The letter swirl and distort before his very eyes, illegibility becoming impenetrable and causing a strange sort of sting at the back of Pure Vanilla’s mind.

He drops the paper, quickly grabbing at another – yet it too has been reduced to something inscrutable. Worse, the pain sharpens each time Pure Vanilla tries to look upon the words, until he has pushed every stack aside and now sits hunched over his desk, rubbing fruitlessly at his temples.

The image of the bird perched on his desk and scanning his papers comes to mind; Pure Vanilla sighs, pinching his brow with a wince.

These documents had been important, too.

The ache in his head does not abate, even after several minutes of keeping his eyes shut and counting his breaths. If anything, the pain seems to worsen – it is not until Pure Vanilla drags himself over to the bed and collapses into its sheets that some form of relief can be found, if only when smothering his face into the pillows.

A myriad of colors and unbidden shapes swirl beneath his closed lids – golds and blues that dance just out of sight each time he tries to grasp at them. It feels as if pinprick claws have sunken into his scalp, burrowing down to where he can’t pry them out.

A spell. Some sort of magic woven into the pages, no doubt.

Is that why he’d come? Shadow Milk Cookie hardly needs to play pretend to cast Pure Vanilla’s mind into disarray. Is this really all he’d wanted?

Answers are not forthcoming. Pure Vanilla simply rolls over onto his side, pushing his face deeper into the pillows with a heavy sigh as he resigns himself to his fate.

Waiting out the magic is the best course of action. Pure Vanilla’s exposure had been brief, and there’s no telling what could go wrong if he tried to pull apart a spell he’s unfamiliar with. Shadow Milk’s mastery over the arcane is unparalleled – there’ll be something worse waiting in the wings if Pure Vanilla tries to futz with his handiwork.

Nothing to do but sleep it off, then. A shame. Pure Vanilla had been looking forward to a proper day to himself.

When sleep comes, it is fitful; each feverish toss and turn is accompanied by shadows that dance across Pure Vanilla’s mind and cruel laughter that rings painfully in his ears.

The familiarity aches like an open wound.

--

The next time Shadow Milk comes, it is as a serpent.

Pure Vanilla isn’t expecting him; after his initial traipse through Pure Vanilla’s bedchambers, Shadow Milk and any other unnerving sorts of beasts have been noticeably absent from the balcony. It’s been nearly two weeks since Shadow Milk’s come and gone; the spell he’d sprinkled upon Pure Vanilla’s papers had faded away after a poor night’s rest, and there’s been no more mischief forthcoming. Upon further rumination and stretch of absence, Pure Vanilla simply chalks the visit up to a strange flight of fancy of the other’s ever-shifting moods.

Which is why it is all the stranger to rouse himself from his bed one bright, sunny morning and notice a distinct absence of birdsong.

At first, he thinks perhaps the windows are closed too tightly or he has risen too early - but the sun is high in the sky, shining brilliantly through the curtains. It’s well into his friends’ breakfast time, yet the air is remarkably silent.

There is no sound of fluttering wings, no chirps. The quiet is almost eerie in its stillness, draws Pure Vanilla over to the balcony before he even realizes. Curiosity and unease drive his footsteps forward, a strange sense of foreboding settling in his chest.

When Pure Vanilla throws open the balcony doors and holds his staff aloft, the first thing he sees are the tree’s branches devoid of his feathered friends. It’s an unwelcome sight, a clear departure from their usual routine. Had something happened? Has someone drawn them away?

A flutter of movement draws his eyes upwards towards the roof; instantly, relief floods through Pure Vanilla’s jam. The flock is mercifully still here, perched above his head on a nearby rooftop. They are, however, strangely silent and still, huddled closely together while glancing between Pure Vanilla and the tree. Pure Vanilla follows their nervous gaze, peering into the branches as he holds his staff high –

Only to spy a long, lithe form curled in the shadows.

Wound among the tree’s branches sits a small, onyx serpent. While its size is rather diminutive, its appearance is immediately striking - dark blue coloration is striped down its belly framed by black, hardened scales that shimmer in the small specks of light leaking through the branches.

Its forked tongue flicks idly as it tilts its head, considering Pure Vanilla with an air of deep amusement.

“My,” Pure Vanilla remarks after a moment. “I've never seen a serpent like you before.”

The snake tastes the air again, eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence. Its sharp gaze is far too watchful for a beast that relies on scent, not sight.

“What beautiful scales you have,” Pure Vanilla says thoughtfully. “Such a handsome creature.”

If Pure Vanilla didn't know any better, he could swear the snake is preening.

“In any case,” Pure Vanilla continues, “I’m always happy to have a new friend, but I'm afraid you're scaring my birds.” He reaches out with his staff, offering it out horizontally as it taps the nearest branch with its tip. It’s meant to serve as a bridge, something for the snake to grasp onto should it so wish.

Rather than move immediately, the snake looks him over for a bit. Sharp eyes weigh Pure Vanilla on what feels like an ever-sliding scale of whims. Finally, after a full minute of waiting, it slithers closer, long body sliding across the branches. When it stops, it taps the tip of Pure Vanilla’s staff with its snout, as if testing the waters.

“I won’t drop you,” Pure Vanilla says. “Please, join me. I can't imagine it's very comfortable in that tree - and I think that's where the birds belong. Why don't you come down, and I’ll get you some breakfast?” The snake looks at him, its gaze both unimpressed and slightly curious at the same time. After another long moment of open judgement, it finally slithers down the staff and wraps its body around the handle in a tight coil.

Pure Vanilla slowly moves the staff backwards, bringing the snake up and off the tree. Each step he takes is slow and measured, the snake bobbing along with the movement. He watches it closely, and the snake watches him back.

The journey back inside takes him to the bed; carefully, Pure Vanilla lowers his staff down until it’s resting comfortably on the pillows. The snake remains curled around the staff, looking up at him with a slight tilt to its head.

Neither seem certain of what the other might do next.

“Well,” Pure Vanilla says, after a moment, “I’m going to go feed the birds first. You’ve no doubt caused quite a bit of stress, so I’d like to fill their bellies and set their minds at ease. Will you wait here for me?”

The snake says nothing, not that Pure Vanilla expects it to. It simply watches as Pure Vanilla retreats, grabbing the usual bag of birdseed and stepping back out into the balcony.

To say the birds are displeased would be putting it mildly; even with the offering of seed, only a few of them descend from the roof to peck away at their breakfast. A dreadful apprehension is clear amongst the flock, along with their open displeasure that Pure Vanilla had not simply gotten rid of the wretched thing that had so rudely claimed their home. Still, once Pure Vanilla's closed the balcony doors behind him, he sees more of them flutter down to the ledge – even if they’re giving him a bit of a pointed look as he retreats.

When Pure Vanilla turns his head back towards the room, he squints his eyes to see the snake has fully slithered off his staff. It’s now curled perfectly in the center of his pillows, coiled and content like a jewel on display. Sharp eyes peer about the room as if scanning its whereabouts – before it catches Pure Vanilla looking and turns its snout away in feigned dismissal.

“Such a pretty thing,” Pure Vanilla says again. It’s an idle sort of comment but it seems to serve its purpose well - the snake immediately tilts its head back towards him in acknowledgement. “I wonder,” Pure Vanilla continues, “what were you doing up in the branches? Were you looking for a meal?”

The snake flicks its forked tongue out at him, which Pure Vanilla takes as some sort of agreement.

“Apologies,” Pure Vanilla hums. “I don't have any birds in here for you, I'm afraid. I could fetch you an assortment of berries, but I will have to go to the kitchens to get them. Will you be here when I get back, or will you have slithered off before I return?”

The snake simply lowers its head, resting its chin comfortably atop its coiled body. Amusement glitters in its eyes, even if its face remains as unchanged as before.

Well, nothing to do but find out.

The trip to and from the kitchens isn’t a terribly long walk - still, it’s a bit of a surprise that when Pure Vanilla returns, he finds the snake sitting just where he’d left it. It hasn’t budged an inch, as if perfectly content to make itself at home on Pure Vanilla’s pillows. If anything, it seems especially pleased at the blink of shock Pure Vanilla gives it as he shuts the door.

Pure Vanilla doesn't comment on the snake's apparent laziness or lack of movement. He simply crosses the room, sitting on the bed at a respectable distance away. He fishes the bag of berries from his pocket, holding it out in offering for the snake to sniff – a gesture which goes fully ignored.

“Well,” Pure Vanilla remarks to himself, pulling the bag back as he starts untying the strings. “I'm glad to see you're comfortable. It's not often I get a snake as a visitor. Most of the time my birds will-”

There's a touch to Pure Vanilla's side; he freezes immediately.

The snake has slithered its way over to him; its long body brushes against his arm as it begins coiling around his wrist. Pure Vanilla stays very, very still as the snake slowly, almost leisurely winds its way up his arm. The grip of its body around him is tight, just shy of painful as it slithers higher and higher. When it crests his shoulders, its snout brushes almost teasingly against his neck.

Pure Vanilla holds his breath.

The snake’s ascent seems to stop at Pure Vanilla’s shoulders; it drapes itself around him, long tail coiling firmly around Pure Vanilla's throat. The hold is not painful, but each undulation of its powerful muscles comes with a squeeze, a fleeting sensation of a vice at his neck before it relaxes again. Its grip upon him is a threat, a taunt that hangs in the open air between them as Pure Vanilla inhales and exhales in slow, measured breaths. It feels intimate, unnerving –

Possessive.

There’s an unpleasant ache in the familiarity of it all, in how the snake hisses in satisfaction against the curve of his chin. Fragmented memories stir; a body pressed against his own, wandering hands and a wicked grin grazing the nape of Pure Vanilla’s neck. A stirring sense of mutual curiosity tainted by disdain and the cruel barbs slipping from a silver tongue. Delirium, raw and potent, bleeding through his mind in breathless gasps as reality slipped ever further from his grasp.

The complete and utter consumption of self, stripped away by a claim laid upon his very existence.

The snake lowers its head to rest in the curve of Pure Vanilla’s shoulder, its snout pressed dangerously close to his neck. After a moment its mouth parts in a wide yawn as sharp fangs glisten dangerously in the light.

It’s baring its weapons. Reminding him of its power, of Pure Vanilla’s own vulnerability.

“Aren’t you a bold one,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, voice deceptively steady. “Decided to make yourself comfortable?”

The snake's body tightens ever so slightly, a gentle press at Pure Vanilla's throat before immediately relaxing. The squeeze feels teasing, meant to once again taunt Pure Vanilla with its proximity. The danger it poses is potent, yet Pure Vanilla had allowed it to slither its way into his bed without protest.

Pure Vanilla doubts it’s here to kill him; he knows better than to test it.

“I must feel warm to you,” Pure Vanilla remarks; his hands slowly move back into motion as he resumes untying the bag with stilted, careful movements. “Are you looking for a place to nap?” The snake seems unbothered by Pure Vanilla’s words; it merely flicks its tail as Pure Vanilla tips the bag over, allowing a berry to fall into his palm.

The snake looks down at the berry, and Pure Vanilla looks at the snake. Slowly, carefully, Pure Vanilla lifts his hand, holding the berry out in offering. The snake glances between Pure Vanilla and the berry.

After a long moment of consideration, the snake's mouth opens. It gingerly lowers its head, snapping up the berry from Pure Vanilla's extended palm. It swallows the treat down in a single gulp, tilting its head back to ease the slide before openly licking its lips.

What a very un-snakelike thing to do.

The snake yawns again before settling its head back down on Pure Vanilla's shoulder. Pure Vanilla tips another berry into his hand and offers it up again, but the snake shows no interest. It merely glances at him before pointedly looking away.

“Is that all?” Pure Vanilla asks. “You can’t be full from that.”

The snake ignores him.

Pure Vanilla puts the berry back in the bag, tying the strings tightly before setting the pouch on his nightstand. He sits back, hands in his lap, and looks to his small, serpentine companion. The snake merely glances at him before closing its eyes, an apparent dismissal of Pure Vanilla's interest in it. It seems content to simply lay there, as if ready to doze right off around Pure Vanilla’s shoulders.

Experience has taught Pure Vanilla to expect otherwise.

He has no doubts that the sleepy disposition is merely an act, and there is another shoe yet to drop. He’s certain something is going to happen; he just simply isn’t sure what. The most obvious outcome is a set of fangs piercing his neck, yet that almost seems too obvious to believe. 

It’s still unclear why the snake is here or why it’s keeping up such pretenses, but enduring façades is nothing new. Shadow Milk only appears on his own terms; deception must be interlaced with their every interaction or their time together will end as quickly as it's begun.

“Well,” Pure Vanilla remarks to the open air, “I should get some of my writing for the day done.”

 It's a dangerous thing to offer considering Shadow Milk’s last visit, but somehow Pure Vanilla doesn't quite expect an encore performance. That would be too predictable, and the Master of Chaos rarely is.

The real question is, what's going to happen when Pure Vanilla stands up?

“I am going to stand up,” Pure Vanilla announces firmly.

The snake continues ignoring him.

There’s no hiss of discontent, at least – it’s as good a sign as any. When Pure Vanilla pushes himself up from the bed, there is no movement from the other; when he sways uneasily on his feet, there’s not so much as a glance in his direction.

The snake seems ill-obliged to do anything at the moment than simply lie there. Coiled firmly around his neck, the feeling of the serpentine body pressed to Pure Vanilla’s own is strange. The beast is remarkably cold - and while all snakes are certainly cold blooded, the chill exuding from it makes Pure Vanilla force down a shiver.

A cautious step forward earns him nothing; there’s no rebuke, no dissatisfied snap. The snake continues its pretense of dozing, bobbing slightly with the movement as Pure Vanilla takes careful slow steps towards his desk. As Pure Vanilla lowers himself down into the seat, the loud squeak of the springs suddenly causes the snake to raise its head. It snaps its snout to the side, staring at him down as Pure Vanilla stares back.

“I’ll be quiet,” Pure Vanilla promises. “I just want to do a bit of writing. You can sleep on me if you'd like. If you get hungry, I'll feed you more berries.”

The snake continues looking at him, expression inscrutable. Finally, the snake simply lowers its head and closes its eyes once more.

Pure Vanilla picks up his quill and, after a hesitant pause, begins scratching away at the pages. The silence that fills the room is strange, coupled with the odd tension still held taut in Pure Vanilla's chest. The ticking of the clock is the measure by which he counts each scratch of his quill upon the paper. He’s still bracing himself for the last domino to fall, for searing pain or piercing fangs to sink into his dough.

Yet as more and more letters pass through his fingers, Pure Vanilla finds himself slowly forgetting about the snake resting upon his shoulders. He’s drawn deeper and deeper into the correspondence as he works away at his desk, mind drifting as he ticks through a mental calendar of mounting obligations. It is not until the sun has risen fully in the sky and familiar beams of noonday sun are hitting Pure Vanilla square in the face that he realizes just how much time has passed.

He really should get a new set of drapes for the tallest window. He always finds himself squinting in the light whenever his workdays run like this.

When Pure Vanilla glances over to the snake, it is with no small amount of surprise that he sees it has fallen fully asleep. Its body rises and falls with slow, even breaths – perhaps it is yet another façade, but it seems genuine enough. The quiet morning and warmth of Pure Vanilla’s dough appears to have lulled it into slumber – for how long, it’s impossible to say.

Pure Vanilla still has not dressed for the day yet, but he has a feeling that any attempt to disrupt their fragile peace will result in the snake leaving entirely.

As if on miserable cue, a loud grumble issues from Pure Vanilla's empty stomach. The snake's eyes snap open, its head lifting in one swift motion. It looks over Pure Vanilla with open displeasure, as if he’d jostled it awake with purpose.

Pure Vanilla offers a small, apologetic smile on his face. “I'm sorry,” he tells it. “I fear I'll need to leave for lunch. Would you like to join me?”

The snake looks at him, and Pure Vanilla looks back.

A hiss pierces the air, low and dangerous.

Pure Vanilla stills, limbs taut with tension as the snake’s mouth opens. Its sharp fangs gleam in the light, and it’s the only warning he gets.

The movement is immediate - the snake lunges for his throat.

Perhaps because he'd been looking at it, Pure Vanilla manages to recoil just barely quick enough - his neck is swiftly grazed, but not yet pierced. As the snake pulls back for another strike, Pure Vanilla purposefully tumbles backwards out of the chair.

They go down in a flurry of movement; Pure Vanilla’s hands catch on the serpent’s neck, yanking it off and sending the writhing body skidding away on the floor. Pure Vanilla quickly scrambles to his feet as the snake furiously flips itself around. It lets out another hiss of anger, fangs bared as Pure Vanilla quickly hops up onto the bed and out of its immediate reach.

The snake glares at him from the floor. Pure Vanilla stares breathlessly back.

“Don't bite me,” Pure Vanilla says in a tone that comes off far more scolding than fearful.

The snake hardly looks mollified; it is the picture of irritation. It’s difficult to say if it’s because of Pure Vanilla’s words, or from its failed attempts at harming him. After a moment it simply hisses at him again before abruptly slithering under the bed.

A dismissal, however fleeting. Pure Vanilla knows when to take it. He doesn't bother to dress; he simply grabs his staff and hurries to the door, swiftly shutting it behind himself. Stepping out in his nightclothes is hardly ideal, but Pure Vanilla has a feeling that should he linger, the snake will strike at his ankles from beneath the bed.

At least the castle is largely empty today. There's not much to be done on Sundays, so Pure Vanilla only encounters a servant or two on his way to the kitchens. His return after a proper meal is a tad more painful, punctuated by running nearly chest-first into a Parfaedian dignitary who gives him a rather judgmental once-over.

When Pure Vanilla opens the door to his room once more, it is with no small amount of trepidation. His slow and careful peek around the wood nets him nothing; creaking it open a little wider reveals no sign of the snake whatsoever. It means little, considering it had gone under the bed before he’d left – yet after several minutes of waiting, Pure Vanilla summons the resolve to step inside and check in full.

Maneuvering his staff, Pure Vanilla manages to slip it fully under the bed – and to his surprise, finds that there is nothing hiding beneath there. Another, more thorough survey of the room allows the tension to eventually bleed from Pure Vanilla’s shoulders as he finally confirms the room’s single occupancy.

The snake has left - or at least if it is hiding, it is not somewhere he can find.

Still, Pure Vanilla does not expect to get off scot-free. It is of little surprise that when he lays his head down to rest that night, his dreams are swiftly warped to nightmares of twisted horrors and pristine rivers of milk that glisten in the dark. Greedy claws tiptoe down his sides, pricking painfully into his dough and drawing hoarse, guttural gasps that rattle in his throat.

The feeling of a smile pressed to his nape persists through it all, even as it grazes its fangs along the delicate curve of his neck.

When Pure Vanilla sluggishly lifts his head from the pillow the next morning, he cannot help but note the acrid taste of foul magic lingering on his tongue.

--

Another three days pass before Pure Vanilla is visited again.

Frankly, he hadn’t expected to see much of the other; the last time Shadow Milk had appeared as a bird, it had been weeks before another visit. Considering the tense manner in which he’d slithered off this time, Pure Vanilla had hardly been bracing himself for another pop-in on such short notice.

Which is why it’s extra surprising that, upon stepping out onto the balcony one bright sunny morning with birdseed in hand, there is another distinct lack of birdsong. It is the only warning Pure Vanilla gets before a cold, scaly weight suddenly drops down upon his shoulders.

Pure Vanilla stumbles immediately; it is only the steadying weight of his staff that allows him to quickly right himself and prevent a fall. He clutches at his chest in surprise, head swiveling - only to find a serpentine snout smirking back at him. A familiar, scaly body is already curling into place around his neck, settling down like it belongs there.

The serpent had dropped down from the roof, no doubt – lying in wait until he'd stepped out into view. It exudes an impossibly smug aura, holding its head high with such open amusement that Pure Vanilla can't help the wry smile that twitches to his lips.

“Hello there,” he says after a lengthy pause, looking the creature up and down. “I didn't think you'd be back so soon.” The snake flicks its forked tongue in the air for a lengthy period, like it’s blowing a raspberry in his face.

A show of defiance. Snide, gleeful defiance.

“Alright,” Pure Vanilla laughs, tilting his head. “And here I was, thinking you didn’t like me. Weren't you the one baring your fangs last we met?” The snake tosses its head before glancing away, as if he'd already begun to bore it.

Pretending as if he doesn’t matter, as if its perch upon his shoulders is nothing more than happenstance.

Pure Vanilla leaves a quick scattering of seed upon the ledge to coax back his wayward birds heading back inside; he makes sure his shoulders are stiff as he walks, keeping the snake steady so it does not slip and fall. The fangs it displays with a coy yawn do not go unnoticed, nor the way its tail tightens when Pure Vanilla meets its gaze.

An open threat, as if warning off any funny ideas about hasty removals.

With a vacant sort of hum, Pure Vanilla heads over to his closet, pulling out his robes for the day and setting them on the bed. His movements are slow and careful, waiting to see if anything more sudden might upset his uninvited guest. The snake seems unbothered for the moment, yawning again even as Pure Vanilla leans over to smooth out his day robes collar.

“I’d like to go to breakfast,” he remarks aloud. There'll be no scribbling away at his desk today - Pure Vanilla has meetings that cannot wait, not even for the little rapscallion coiled around his neck. “Is that going to be a problem?”

The snake gives him a considering look; Pure Vanilla gives it a considering look right back. “I need to get dressed first,” he tells it. “I think that it will be difficult with you around my neck.”

The snake does not move. It almost seems like it’s smiling at him, as if it knows it’s being a nuisance.

Of course it knows. No doubt that’s why it’s here in the first place.

Pure Vanilla sighs. “Fine,” he says firmly, “but I'm still going to get changed.”

It's a slow process, though not entirely impossible. He has to be very careful around his neck, slowly pulling his nightgown up and over his head as the snake curls tighter in warning. The only truly difficult part is getting the new robe on, and even as the snake hisses dangerously close to his chin, it still allows him to finish without striking.

Once the robes are on, the rest is rather simple; Pure Vanilla fastens his brooch into place and diligently positions his hat atop his head, trying to balance all of it properly. In truth it’s a rather large piece, even for him, but he finds himself inexplicably drawn to it just the same.

It’s not until Pure Vanilla has his staff in hand and a hand on the doorknob that he pauses, glancing back to the companion draped around his shoulders.

The snake has already closed its eyes, as if perfectly content to simply lay there unopposed.

“I’m leaving now,” Pure Vanilla announces.

Nothing, not even a flutter of the snake’s tongue.

“Are you going to be joining me?” Pure Vanilla asks. It seems prudent to warn the other, should it merit some sort of reaction - but the snake does not budge. When Pure Vanilla tries the doorknob, letting the room fill with the creaks of the rusty hinges, the snake finally opens one eye to give him a look.

It is a look of amusement.

Such a fickle, strange-tempered beast.

Breakfast, surprisingly, is a rather pleasant affair, though the presence of the snake perched atop his shoulders certainly causes several looks of concern from the servants. Only one seems to summon the courage to question him when Pure Vanilla sits down at the counter; an older, wizened woman with a whisk in hand gives him a sizeable once-over before asking aloud why he’s got ‘a little beastie’ hung round him today.

Upon hearing her inquiry the snake lifts its head and hisses threateningly - Pure Vanilla picks up a nearby spoon and holds it in front of the snake's face, barring it from making eye contact with her.

“Just a friend come to visit,” Pure Vanilla says with a smile. “He’s riding along with me for the day.”

“Hm.” The woman looks the snake over, watching as it irritably tries to duck away from the spoon Pure Vanilla keeps moving in front of its face. “I thought you partook in the company of bluebirds, Your Majesty.”

“I do,” Pure Vanilla affirms, “but there's always something to be said for a new perspective on things. Why not a snake’s?”

“As you say, Your Majesty,” the woman replies, looking thoroughly unconvinced. The snake hisses again, and Pure Vanilla gives it a gentle bop on the snout with the spoon in reply.

“Stop that,” he orders.

The snake’s eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment Pure Vanilla wonders if the mask will drop – yet, after a moment of contemplation, it merely whacks him in the face with its tail before curling up to face the other way.

A good sign. Pure Vanilla may have the patience to wait out whatever antics these may be, but he’ll swiftly draw the line should the serpent’s fangs bare at anyone else.

After breakfast, Pure Vanilla heads to his meetings. He stops momentarily to ask the snake if it would like to return to the room, but it seems set on ignoring him right now. The glance it gives him is soured by open petulance; clearly, it’s not letting the scolding tap of the spoon go anytime soon. At least it doesn’t raise a fuss when Pure Vanilla takes his seat at the head of the table – if anything it seems completely oblivious to the uneasy looks the dignitaries are sending its way.

Pure Vanilla does not bring the snake up and, true to their form as politicians, the others at the table avoid the topic entirely.

The discussions of the day drag a bit near the middle, but it’s not nearly as bad as Pure Vanilla had been expecting. The snake seems to doze off again somewhere around the half-hour point, judging by the slow rise and fall of its body around Pure Vanilla’s neck. It seems to be firmly asleep – though Pure Vanilla can't help but notice that from time to time the lights seem to flicker whenever the arguments turn a bit too loud.

Eventually the topics are concluded and the dignitaries dismissed; the sun’s already dipping towards the horizon by the time Pure Vanilla rises from his chair. A quick glance at the snake reveals no change as it continues slumbering, even when Pure Vanilla pushes open the ballroom doors with an audible thump.

What a strange show of vulnerability from the other. Usually to fall asleep in another’s presence is a mark of trust, yet little exists between them. Shadow Milk may presume Pure Vanilla will not harm him – and he would be right – yet it feels so strange to be intrinsically entrusted with the other’s well-being while out and about. Even with a potent, angry threat coiled dangerously around his neck, Pure Vanilla cannot help but feel compelled to treat him gently.

Perhaps that paradoxical nature is the point Shadow Milk is trying to make.

The quiet that stretches between them is anything but comforting. As Pure Vanilla ascends the steps of the tower towards his room, he can't help but brace for the inevitable. There’s something coming, some trick to be played – the day is coming to a close and with it, the façade will surely drop. When Pure Vanilla enters his room, his footsteps feel heavy; when he lowers himself to the edge of his bed, it's with a heavy sigh.

The sound seems to finally pierce the snake’s slumber; it jerkily lifts its head, blinking its bleary eyes and yawning with an open display of its sharp, piercing fangs. It gives Pure Vanilla a groggy once over as Pure Vanilla looks back, offering a small smile in return.

“Hello there,” he says in greeting. “Did you have a nice nap?”

The snake continues peering vacantly at him; it seems almost delicate in its sleepy disorientation. It cranes its head this way and that, stretching out its neck with a tiny, soundless sigh -

Before it suddenly ducks its head and presses its snout against the underside Pure Vanilla's chin.

It's not a show of affection - that much is made startingly clear. The moment Pure Vanilla tenses, its mouth opens wide, fangs ready to strike.

Instinct saves him.

Pure Vanilla swiftly grabs the snake’s neck, yanking it backwards – the snake’s mouth snaps around empty air, mere inches away from his neck. With a firm grasp and an even firmer look, Pure Vanilla holds it just below the base of its head, keeping it caught in place.

Despite its abject failure, the snake seems completely unapologetic about the whole affair; it writhes like an irritable worm in mid-air, tail whipping from side to side as it’s pulled fully off his shoulders.

“I told you not to bite me,” Pure Vanilla says, exhaustion from the day eating its way into his tone. “You're not a very good houseguest, are you?”

The snake sticks out its tongue.

Pure Vanilla keeps his grip on the snake as tightly as he can, holding it out from himself at a safe distance as he rises from the bed. A careful walk forward has his free hand land on the balcony door; he pushes it open and steps outside.

Carefully, gingerly, Pure Vanilla places the writhing serpent atop the balcony ledge. The moment he lets go, he quickly steps back - narrowly avoiding another snap of the snake’s fangs.

“You know,” Pure Vanilla says, arms folding across his chest as he looks the beast over. “If you keep doing that, I'm not going to let you in anymore.”

The snake seems completely unperturbed by this declaration; if anything, its narrowed gaze seems to flicker with amusement.

“I don't mind you coming around,” Pure Vanilla tells it. “But you can’t snap at me whenever you feel like it. You won’t have any friends if you treat them this way.”

The snake flicks its tail angrily; it hisses at him one last time before tossing its head and slithering down the balcony’s edge. As swiftly as its mood had turned, it disappears from sight.

Pure Vanilla heaves a quiet sigh into the cold night air.

Even when safely back inside, Pure Vanilla’s mind is abuzz; he immediately sits back down on the bed, slumping into his pillows with a tired groan. The day had been taxing as is, Shadow Milk’s fickle moods notwithstanding – and it’s not as if Pure Vanilla is altogether surprised it had ended on a sour note. Yet that familiar, panging ache in his chest has returned with the other’s ugly departure, leaving Pure Vanilla to bury his face in his sheets and sigh.

Shadow Milk is a lonely creature – this, Pure Vanilla understands. The histories and visions into the other’s mind from Pure Vanilla’s time in the Spire has given him a clearer picture of the Master of Deceit than any other living Cookie can claim. To be crafted for a singular purpose, then rejected for it again and again – a miserable fate. It is no wonder the Witches had not forced such burdens upon the Soul Jam’s successors; it is little mystery why Shadow Milk resents Pure Vanilla’s very existence.

Pure Vanilla’s time beneath Shadow Milk’s claws had been agony; every moment, a hell he could not look away from. Grief and despair had been Truthless Recluse’s constant companions, deepened by bubbling anger at Shadow Milk’s relentless prodding. He’d been broken down by hopelessness, his own mind molded by false memories to accept one singular truth.

All that he is, was and will be, belongs to Shadow Milk Cookie.

Yet, despite how deeply Shadow Milk had woven his falsehoods into Pure Vanilla’s soul, that assertion had never been the truth. Pure Vanilla knows that now, knows how to stand on his own two feet with the confidence to face it. His choices, his mistakes – all of it is his alone. His to grieve, to accept, to learn and move forward by. Whatever becomes of him, the Soul Jam’s power must be wielded for the good of Cookiekind – just as Pure Vanilla had wished for all those years ago.

His time in the Spire still weighs heavily on Pure Vanilla’s soul – even without Shadow Milk’s nightmares, Pure Vanilla’s memories conjure up tremors and terrors of their own in the waking hours. It had been agonizing to be shattered so thoroughly, to succumb to a claim upon his very existence that damned him in the same breath. Shadow Milk had been cruel beyond measure, and each time he closes his eyes, Pure Vanilla cannot help but remember the feeling of a hand clasped around his throat.

The same hand that had hovered dangerously above his Soul Jam – but had left it in place until the very last moment.

Shadow Milk had wanted the Soul Jam, but he had also wanted – him. The realization had become dangerously clear the deeper Pure Vanilla had been drawn into Shadow Milk’s web, when he’d watched how effortlessly Shadow Milk pulled him into his grasp. The possessive gleam in Shadow Milk’s eyes, the way he crowded into Pure Vanilla’s orbit and basked gleefully in his reluctant attention – none of it had gone unnoticed, had been the very basis for which Truthless Recluse’s plans for freedom had been laid.

The trick he’d played weighs heavily on Pure Vanilla, even now. It had been necessary of course, and he certainly doesn’t regret it; yet he couldn’t deny there’d been a mutual sort of – intrigue, between them.

Pure Vanilla does not want to belong to Shadow Milk Cookie; not like that, never again. Yet even in the depths of his despair, even consumed by the deepest throes of agony, there’d been some small, resilient spark of fascination with the other.

The once great Fount of Knowledge is dead and crumbled, but the cackling jester that stands in his skin is no fool. His cunning is a weapon; his power, unimaginable. He had been created as an apex being, the zenith of creation and the Witches’ greatest work. Each flick of his wrist shatters reality itself, and each time his sharp gaze lands upon Pure Vanilla, he feels –

Breathless. In all the worst and best ways.

Shadow Milk Cookie does not take. He could, effortlessly and cruelly, but that isn’t the game he plays. He sets the board to his liking and sometimes leaves others little choice – but there is always a choice. He gives his prey a moment to pause and think, to find any openings in the match to exploit. He cheats and lies, coaxes and befuddles, but he does not take what is not freely given. Not with Pure Vanilla, at least.

Which brings to mind the moment Truthless Recluse had allowed Shadow Milk to place his hands on him – because Truthless Recluse hadn’t cared.

It certainly hadn’t been his healthiest moment, but a combination of turbulent emotions had won out. Ennui and misery had him brushing off Shadow Milk’s wandering gaze until directly confronted with it; even then, his interest in the matter had been born of lingering curiosity rather than deep desire. Shadow Milk’s unending stream of games had paused momentarily, overridden by a simple request to  - explore Pure Vanilla’s weak, flimsy dough. He’d expressed with a wry grin his desire to run his hands over the body the Witches had chosen to wield the Soul Jam, to feel out the flaws of his other half in every literal sense of the word.

To touch another Cookie, after centuries alone in a solitary cell.

Even now, the memory brings a myriad of conflicting emotions to Pure Vanilla’s chest. Shadow Milk’s touch had been so frighteningly gentle, bordering on reverent – at complete odds from everything Pure Vanilla had grown to expect. He’d closed his eyes, bracing for some form of inevitable pain; yet that choice had only heightened the sensations of each brush of cold hands wandering across his dough. There’s been some light prodding, a few curious squeezes here and there; nothing brash or crude, just simple, genuine exploration of the compliant body beneath him.

When Pure Vanilla had cracked open an eye, it’d been to the sight of Shadow Milk leaning over him, hair draped over his shoulder and something unrecognizably vulnerable in his gaze.

It had felt intimate, agonizingly so, and it had ended as quickly as it had begun the moment Shadow Milk’s hand latched onto his neck. Pure Vanilla had been pulled back into another game, and they’d never spoken of it again.

Yet, even now, the memory is surprisingly steadying. The acknowledgement of Shadow Milk’s compulsions towards him had been a source of strength, a crack in the other’s perfect lie.

If Pure Vanilla is just another part of Shadow Milk – then why had the other’s fascination with him felt so sincere? Why had Shadow Milk felt compelled to explore and touch and understand something that he claimed belonged to him from the beginning?

Pure Vanilla Cookie does not belong to Shadow Milk – but Shadow Milk wants him to. That much has been made perfectly, achingly clear.

The phantom feeling of coils tightens around Pure Vanilla’s neck.

He sighs, rolling over on his side as he pulls the covers up and over him. It’s too much to think about tonight; as much as the snake’s odd visits mystify him, there isn’t an easy answer to be found right now. Pure Vanilla knows who he is, who he wants to be. Shadow Milk’s continued presence in his life is a challenge – but it’s not insurmountable.

Regardless, there’s a time and place for such worries, and right now, Pure Vanilla needs sleep. He has another long day tomorrow, and a good night’s rest always does wonders for a restless mind.

It takes nearly half an hour for Pure Vanilla to finally nod off – when he does, his dreams blur and melt into feverish pools of heat.

A hundred, thousand hands grasp his waist, sweeping him along as he dances atop a sea of darkness that ripples with each step. Starlight glitters underfoot as he’s spun and twirled by a force he cannot see; it dips him low, lets his hair flow out atop the water.

The smell of burnt dough fills his lungs; the hands tighten their grasp as ice pierces Pure Vanilla’s throat like a knife.

When he jolts awake beneath the rising dawn, it is with the embers of screams dying in his throat.

--

The next time the snake comes, Pure Vanilla shuts the door on it.

Granted, it had startled him; he’d hardly expected it to show up the very next day, much less for it to suddenly slither across his feet the moment he stepped onto the balcony. Pure Vanilla’s jolt of realization had sent him stumbling back, immediately slamming the doors together to block its entry.

After pressing a hand to his now-racing heart and slowing his quickened breaths, Pure Vanilla grabs his staff to peer out through the closest window –

Only to find the snake slumped petulantly against the door, waiting for him to return.

Eventually Pure Vanilla collects himself enough to try the handle again; once it turns, he immediately takes a step back. As expected, the moment the door swings open the snake’s body falls forward with it, landing on the carpet with an audible thump.

It looks up at him, expression caught somewhere between annoyed and sullen.

“Don’t give me that look. You startled me,” Pure Vanilla tells it, voice firm. “You knew perfectly well what you were doing.”

The snake lifts its head, inclining it to the side in a sort of prideful smirk. It slithers closer – only for Pure Vanilla to take another purposeful step back.

“No,” Pure Vanilla says, arms crossing across his chest. “You’re not riding along with me today.”

The snake, to Pure Vanilla’s budding amusement, blinks in open shock before its eyes narrow.

“You’ve tried to bite me twice now.” Pure Vanilla steps to the side, slowly circumventing the little menace glowering at him from the floor. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear that I don’t like it. So, until you behave, I’m not letting you on me.”

There’s an irritable hiss in reply; Pure Vanilla shakes his head, holding his ground with a firm stare of his own.

“You may stay in my room.” Pure Vanila waves his staff towards the bed. “You may keep me company if you’d like. But that’s all for today.” Pure Vanilla purposefully looks away as he steps out onto the balcony, leaning over to grab the bag of birdseed as he does. “I’m going to feed my friends.”

With that, Pure Vanilla shuts the doors behind him, leaving the snake alone in the room and a barrier between them.

Pure Vanilla takes his time feeding the birds; he hardly needs an excuse to soak in their company, letting them nestle up against him and cooing to the ones that settle on his head. Still, part of him remains reluctant to head back inside just yet– largely because, upon reflection, he’d immediately regretted leaving Shadow Milk unsupervised in his private quarters.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing to be done about it now. Pure Vanilla will simply have to summon his courage and see what fresh mischief awaits him.

By the time Pure Vanilla finally breaks away from the flock, nearly an hour has passed; when he reopens the balcony doors to his room, he fully expects a whirlwind of chaos awaiting him.

Instead, a quick glance around the room reveals nothing out of the ordinary. Everything is still in its place, not upended or floating around the ceiling. Rather than wreckage and carnage, the only thing that’s changed in the room is the snake’s location.

It’s lying on the edge of his bedspread, body coiled tight and head resting atop its tail. The snake’s expression is inscrutable, yet its gaze is watchful and sharp.

Interesting.

“I’m glad you’re comfortable,” Pure Vanilla says – he means it, too. “I’m going to shower and get dressed, then do some paperwork. Are you hungry?”

The snake doesn’t budge, doesn’t even lift its head. It just continues watching him with narrowed eyes, tail twitching slightly to the left.

“Alright,” Pure Vanilla tells it. “Well, when I leave for breakfast, you tell me then.”

There’s an inaudible huff before the snake’s eyes close – Pure Vanilla knows a dismissal when he sees it.

Pure Vanilla’s shower passes without incident; he’s half-expecting to slip on something or see a pair of beady, unwelcome eyes peek out from the curtains, but his privacy is thankfully undisturbed. By time Pure Vanilla exits the bathroom, towel wrapped high around his hair, the snake is still laying listlessly upon the bed. It gives him a glance, rather blatantly looking him up and down in his bathrobe before turning away.

Well, if it’s content to lie there, Pure Vanilla won’t be the one to disturb it.

Taking a seat at his desk, Pure Vanilla pulls the closest stack of papers towards him and picks up his quill. A quick perusal shows the text lies untouched – for now, anyway. Pure Vanilla dabs the tip of the quill in his inkwell, nibbles thoughtfully on his lower lip, then gets to work.

The scratching of the quill fills the quiet of the room in soft repetition; the ticking of the clock accompanies each jotted note or signature scribbled across the page. The pleasant silence and monotony of the work is lulling in its simplicity, allows Pure Vanilla to reach a sort of meditative state as he reads, writes and signs each paper that passes along his desk. Some documents he pushes to the side, those in need of rework by cleverer hands than his – but then again, that’s what his own dignitaries are for.

Pure Vanilla is so focused on his work, it’s not until the clock chimes ten that he finally sets his quill down and glances up –

Only to find the snake peering down at him.

It’s managed to wind its way up the lamp that stands to the right of the desk; its body hangs loosely off the lampshade that’s tilted askew under its weight. It’s been watching him – for how long, who can say.

“Hello, friend,” Pure Vanilla says after a moment. “How did you get up there?”

The snake gives him a considering look, but nothing else.

“My apologies. It’s grown quite late, hasn’t it?” Pure Vanilla pushes himself up from his desk, shaking out his sore wrist as he stands. “You must be hungry.” Pure Vanilla gives it a once-over of his own, a small smile on his face. “Thank you for being patient.”

Snakes do not scoff, but this one huffs something awfully similar.

“Here.” Pure Vanilla extends his arm towards the snake, holding it out in offering. “Let’s head down, shall we?”

The snake blinks, tilting its head to the other side as it glances between the arm and Pure Vanilla’s smile.

“It’s alright,” Pure Vanilla promises. “As I said, you were patient and well-mannered. You may not curl around my neck, but to show my gratitude, I will carry you upon my arm if you like.”

There’s a long pause that follows; the snake simply stares at him, the sharp intelligence in its eyes betraying how thoroughly it’s scanning him up and down. It feels as if Pure Vanilla’s being openly judged – and he is, he knows he is, making it hard to tamp down on his widening smile at the small creature doing it.

Shadow Milk cannot possibly know how silly he looks, or he wouldn’t have assumed this form in the first place.

“I will be careful,” Pure Vanilla says simply. “I promise.”

Finally, after another weighty glance, the snake cranes its neck out; it deftly wraps its body around Pure Vanilla’s arm, grasping tight as it squeezes him to the point of pain.

“Gentle,” Pure Vanilla cautions; the snake squeezes tighter, as if to be contrary, before finally relaxing its grip somewhat.

Pure Vanilla crooks his elbow, holding the snake against his chest as he picks up his staff with his free hand. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it supports the small creature well enough. “There we are,” he tells it. “Now, shall we head down to breakfast?”

The snake’s forked tongue flicks in the air; it nestles up against him, long body shifting along his arm. It seems content like this – though how long its good mood will last is impossible to say.

“You know, you’ve visited me several times now.” Pure Vanilla’s staff taps on the floor as he starts heading across the room, each step slow and careful. “I appreciate the company, of course, but would you mind if I gave you a name?”

The snake glances up at him, its expression somewhere between quizzical and annoyed.

“Come now,” Pure Vanilla says coaxingly, “I need something to call you. How am I to address you without a proper name?”

There’s another half-glance before the snake looks away, as if already bored by the conversation.

“Let’s see,” Pure Vanilla hums, carefully opening the door with his staff. “I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is Fang, but I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

The snake’s body suddenly ripples, as if tickled by his words.

“You’re quite beautiful.” The tapping of Pure Vanilla’s staff echoes against the walls as he makes his way down the stairs. “Striking coloration, a gorgeous pattern down your belly. You deserve a beautiful name in kind.”

There’s no response, but by the way the snake’s hold briefly tightens before relaxing, Pure Vanilla imagines it’s pleased.

“I could call you Blue,” Pure Vanilla muses, “but that feels a bit simple. How about – Periwinkle? That has a bit of charm to it.”

The snake hisses; Pure Vanilla chuckles in reply.

“No, huh?” Pure Vanilla clicks his tongue in thought as he steps off the last stair, continuing onwards into the corridors. “Hm… Agapanthus? No, that’s a bit of a mouthful. Lobelia, perhaps?”

There’s another discontent grumble, masked as a hiss.

“Picky, aren’t we?” Pure Vanilla nods to a servant passing by, though they take one look at the snake and then scurry away. “I could call you Sweet Pea. Their petals are remarkably – ow!”

The snake’s coils have tightened painfully, a punitive show of force.

“Alright, alright.” Pure Vanilla shakes his arm a bit; the snake’s grip loosens once more. “Well, I’m running out of flowers. If you don’t care for Bluebell, I’m going to need to pick a new theme.”

Surprisingly, the snake’s head lifts and turns towards him; it surveys him openly, forked tongue flicking in the air.

“What?” Pure Vanilla blinks. “You like Bluebell?”

The snake’s tongue flickers again briefly, before it turns and settles back into place. A show of acceptance – or at the very least, a lack of defiance.

“Very well.” Pure Vanilla smiles, tucking the snake properly back against his chest. “Bluebell it is. A lovely choice, for a lovely creature.”

Another squeeze follows, but this one is remarkably gentle – appreciative, almost.

“It’s nice to meet you, Bluebell.” Pure Vanilla hops over a bump in the carpet as he turns the corner; the kitchen lies in view now, just down the hall. “I hope we can become good friends.”

The snake offers nothing in reply, but Pure Vanilla doesn’t expect it to.

Small steps, little by little. Pure Vanilla is a patient Cookie.

“Now then,” Pure Vanilla remarks, glancing down as his steps slow before the kitchen doors. “Shall we share a proper meal together, to mark our first day as friends?"

The snake seems to be ignoring him, pointedly looking away from Pure Vanilla’s smile.

“Bluebell?”

Nothing, not even a glance.

Pure Vanilla’s smile twitches mischievously. “Sweet Pe- ow! Ow!”

Well. That had been expected too, but at least Shadow Milk’s listening. Even disguised, even cloaked in this farce of a form, he’s still here, still openly seeking out Pure Vanilla’s company. Even if his heart is closed, his ears are open – and that, Pure Vanilla can work with.

One small, tiny step at a time.

--

The snake’s visits become habitual.

It doesn’t come every day, even if part of Pure Vanilla wishes it would. Whenever Shadow Milk plays the role of a serpent, at least Pure Vanilla knows where he is; there’s no guesswork as to what he might be up to, or what plan he may be setting into motion. A serpent that’s lazing around on Pure Vanilla’s desk might be crumpling his papers or knocking over breakables, but at least that mischief is manageable.

Sort of.

Shadow Milk – or Bluebell, as he seems to prefer – presents something of a paradox in Pure Vanilla’s life. His moods seem as fickle in serpent form as any other, but he will also go through bouts of remarkably good behavior without any sort of rhyme or reason. Some days he will sit quietly and patiently, nestling up against Pure Vanilla for warmth; some days he will hiss and spit at the slightest disturbance before smacking Pure Vanilla in the face with his tail and abruptly taking his leave.

He also hasn’t stopped trying to bite – ends every day with some sort of attempt, really – but that seems to happen regardless of however pleasantly or poorly the day passes.

It feels like he’s trying to prove a point.

Perhaps Shadow Milk’s trying to drive home the folly of Pure Vanilla’s patience. No amount of kindness or quiet moments together seem to change the inevitability of how the days come to an end – Shadow Milk’s fangs will bare and Pure Vanilla will scramble to avoid them. He’s had several very close calls, even felt the scrape of his dough being lightly pierced before yanking Shadow Milk back. Deep down, Pure Vanilla knows he can’t do this forever.

Some day he won’t move quickly enough, and that day feels sooner rather than later.

The snake’s bite doesn’t seem venomous at least. On the single day he had felt a true scrape, Pure Vanilla had retreated to his mirror to find a tiny bead of jam budding at the wound. Yet, despite the clear if minor puncture, there’d been no signs of dizziness, nausea or any other sort of ill-boding symptoms. Whatever Shadow Milk’s reasons for striking at him, poisoning Pure Vanilla does not seem to be his goal.

Still, the imminent threat remains as clear as ever, and Pure Vanilla knows full well what anyone else would do in a situation like this. A sensible Cookie would stop playing along, cut the farce short and expel Shadow Milk by force if necessary. It would be difficult, but it’s not an unthinkable task; Pure Vanilla’s powers have only grown since his time in the Spire. Still, it’s not ideal, and certainly risks the fates of any unfortunate enough to be caught in the castle when the rug is pulled.

Shadow Milk is fickle and powerful, but the fragility of his ego is what truly makes him a force to be reckoned with.

Which is why it’s all the more puzzling that he’d concocted this façade in the first place, because to Pure Vanilla’s growing bafflement, Bluebell…

Bluebell has begun to be sweet to him.

It’s not an immediate thing, not even close. Their first week together had been filled with an unspoken tension – yet day by day, it seems to have given way to a growing sort of calm between them. Affection, though tempered, is given in ways that would be unthinkable at Shadow Milk’s hands. Even if every night ends with a flash of fangs, many of the days spent in the others company are pleasant to the point of confusion, and only serve to worsen Pure Vanilla’s increasingly conflicting emotions.

There’ve been brushes against Pure Vanilla’s arm, a snout that presses into the palm of his hand and nuzzles into it without shame. Hours are whiled away curled in Pure Vanilla’s lap, nestled into the folds of his robe while he writes away at his desk. More and more meetings have been pushed aside for later days, simply because when the servants come to fetch him, Pure Vanilla finds he can’t bear to disturb the other sprawled out upon him.

Most of Bluebell’s time in his company is spent dozing the day away. The stark show of vulnerability twists Pure Vanilla’s heart painfully each time he glances down only to find the other fast asleep in his lap. Pure Vanilla is a source of warmth, certainly, but to continually nod off in his presence means that Shadow Milk must find him, of all things –

Safe.

To be another’s place of refuge, a warm embrace to slumber within – Pure Vanilla could never have dreamed the Beast of Deceit would seek him out for such things. In a strange way, he hasn’t; not once has Shadow Milk dropped his mask, keeping to his charade as Bluebell snuggles into Pure Vanilla’s arms. It’s heartwarming and terrifying in the same breath, a heavy responsibility that feels as if it could shatter their peace with a single misstep.

Could Shadow Milk’s own dreams keep him up at night? Does he not trust his attendants to look after him – or is this all a ploy to highlight the folly of Pure Vanilla’s relentless compassion?

Impossible to tell. At least the coils around his neck, should Pure Vanilla permit it, have gradually become loose and lax instead of tight and controlling. The more Pure Vanilla openly states his dissatisfaction with the latter and removes the snake from his person, the more Bluebell seems to reluctantly gentle its touch the next day.

Pure Vanilla openly states a lot of his thoughts, and Bluebell always seems to be listening.

Whether it be walks through the garden with the serpent about his shoulders or sitting in his breakfast nook with a cup of tea, Pure Vanilla finds himself rambling aloud his various contemplations to the other. Much of it is idle, simple ideas or observations that pass him by; some of it are queries he directs to the snake, earning some sign of acknowledgement or feigned ignorance depending on the question.

Some of it is purposeful.

“Thank you for keeping me company.”

The remark is often offered with a casual thoughtlessness to it, something Pure Vanilla throws out from time to time. Sometimes it’s when they’re eating a meal together or taking a stroll through the markets; tonight, it’s while they’re curled up in Pure Vanilla’s reading chair with a good book. The snake doesn’t offer much in reply, a slight wiggle of its tail at best, but Pure Vanilla knows its listening.

“I can get lonely at times,” Pure Vanilla hums, carefully turning the page. “I cherish my friends dearly, but I know we cannot always be together.”

The snake, coiled in his lap, blinks back at him slowly.

“What about you, hm? You seem to like spending time with me.” Pure Vanilla lowers a hand, skimming delicately over the snake’s glistening scales. It’s always a toss-up if it will allow him to pet it, but tonight it arches up into the touch without protest. It even lifts its head, nudging at Pure Vanilla’s wrist until he moves his hand to gently massage the top of its scalp in gentle, slow circles.

“I can’t imagine my days are all that interesting,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, trailing his hand along the snake’s nape. “Why do you keep coming back to visit an old man like me, I wonder?”

The snake swivels its head, craning its neck upwards; Pure Vanilla knows this motion well. Obediently, he drops his hand to its chin and begins scritching along its jaw.

“Is that why?” Pure Vanilla asks with a small smile. “You just want scritchies?”

There’s a rather sour look shot at him, but the snake continues lolling its head this way and that to allow Pure Vanilla more access.

“Well, I don’t mind.” Pure Vanilla glides his hand along the curve of the snake’s neck, smoothing down its scales. “It’s nice having someone to talk to, even if you don’t talk back.” His hand pauses, just above where the snake’s body begins to coil. “I wonder what you’d say if you did?”

The snake shifts restlessly, and Pure Vanilla resumes his gentle petting down its body.

“Maybe you’d tell me you like my company too?” Pure Vanilla wonders aloud. “Or maybe you’d tell me to talk a little less.”

There’s another nudge at his hand, as if in agreement.

“Would you tell me why you keep trying to bite me?” Pure Vanilla scratches lightly over the snake’s nape before brushing at its head. “Hm? I can be sweet to you all day, but you still snap at me every night. Why?”

The snake is still leaning into his touch, but its eyes are newly sharp and watchful as it meets Pure Vanilla’s gaze.

“Do you hate me?”

The question pierces the quiet like a knife; beneath Pure Vanilla’s touch, the snake stills. His hand remains upon its body, its odd, slow pulse a steady beat against his palm.

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The snake’s gaze is inscrutable; its eyes track Pure Vanilla’s own with startling clarity.

“It must be hard,” Pure Vanilla murmurs softly. “Many Cookies are afraid of snakes.” His hand brushes gently across the serpent’s scales in a single, slow motion. “Sometimes it seems like you want me to be afraid of you too. Like you’re testing me, or want me to push you away.”

There’s not a flicker of movement, no sway or turn of the snake’s head. It is perfectly still, a statue frozen in place as it watches him intently.

Pure Vanilla’s gaze softens; the ache in his chest pushes him forward, lets the words spill forth before he can stop them.

“Isn’t that lonely?”

It’s a line too far. Pure Vanilla knows it the moment it leaves his lips, knows the moment the snake recoils and immediately bares its fangs. It lunges and for a fraction of a second, Pure Vanilla –

Contemplates.

His hand finally shoots up, grabbing the snake by its neck – its fangs snap upon empty air, thrashing as usual as it fights his grip. It is a writhing mass of black that glints in the soft glow of lamplight, a fury that hisses through the silence.

The same old song and dance. The same pang of mourning and shiver of fear that dampens Pure Vanilla’s dough with beads of sweat.

He’d tread too close, skimmed the veil that separates snake from Beast. His own fault. His own desire and grief weakening him yet again.

Pure Vanilla knows he should stop this. He should place the snake outside, lock the doors, and draw the curtain on this whole affair. That’s what anyone else would do, what his friends would tell him to do – to hold fast against the darkness, to stop letting in that which could destroy him.

Instead, Pure Vanilla pulls the snake close, cradling it against his chest.

The action seems to stun it; its writhing slows to a halt as its wrapped up tight in Pure Vanilla’s arms. Its head is still held fast, pointed away from any vulnerable dough – but it is still drawn into an undeniable embrace as Pure Vanilla buries his face against its body.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

The snake tenses; it strains lightly in his grip before lying still again.

“I’m sorry,” Pure Vanilla whispers hoarsely. “Don’t go.” A swallow, thick and painful. “I won’t say anything else. I’ll sit and read, and you can lie there and sleep. I promise, I won’t say a word.”

A plea to pretend, for just a little longer.

The snake lies remarkably still; when several moments have passed and Pure Vanilla finally lifts it from his chest, it’s not looking at him. When he places it back on his lap, its head turns away. When he releases it from his hold, it sits perfectly still for several long moments.

When Pure Vanilla lifts his hands away in full, it promptly jerks its head to the side and slithers down off his lap.

Pure Vanilla doesn’t watch it go – he doesn’t have to. He only looks away, exhaling a breath that feels far too shaky before glancing back to find it’s disappeared on the spot.

The ache in his chest is back.

There’s still a book to be read, a mystery to be solved, but sudden fatigue grips his dough that echoes its weariness in a shaky sigh. Pure Vanilla slips a bookmark amongst the pages before rising to his feet, discarding the book on the chair as he ambles over towards the bed.

Sleep is usually a welcome reprieve on nights like this, nights filled with sorrow and aches that never really go away. Yet when Pure Vanilla slips under the covers, it is with trepidation; when he clicks his bedside lamp off, he cannot help the tremble in his arms. Darkness swallows the room whole in a single breath; Pure Vanilla squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face amongst the pillows.

What’s coming is inevitable, as routine as clockwork on days the snake visits.

Pure Vanilla has suffered night terrors before. The Dark Flour war weighs heavy on his heart, disturbing his sleep even on the best of nights. Yet, for every terror that has gripped him in his dreams, he has never had them night after night, seemingly without end. Not, at least, until Shadow Milk slithered his way into his life - not until Pure Vanilla opened his arms to embrace that which seeks to destroy him.

The pulsing shadows and freezing chill seeping into Pure Vanilla’s dough are reassuring in their consistency. A haunting melody echoes like a whisper against his ear; phantom threads bind his wrists, pulling him down into the depths amidst a sea of starlight. Memories melt and twist in a kaleidoscope of color across his vision – his tormentor is choosing tonight’s stage for their eternal dance.

As Pure Vanilla sinks deeper and deeper into the abyss soaking into his mind, a hand cups his cheek; it is gentle, almost tender in how it brushes along his jaw. For a single, fleeting moment, Pure Vanilla wonders at the change – before a new hand grabs his arm and yanks, throwing him headfirst into the darkness.

No. No such luck.

Tonight will be no different.

--

For seven days, the snake does not return.

For seven days, Pure Vanilla does not rest.

Every visit had always been punctuated by the haunting of terrors that lurked in the night, the all-encompassing grasp of that which could never let him go. Back then, there had been some reprieve from such sensations upon the days it stayed away; the cooldown period had been a boon, had made such unpleasantness manageable. Yet now, even without the snake’s presence, each time Pure Vanilla lays his head upon his pillows, it is with dread. Each time he places his hand upon the comforter it is with a pause, a hesitation that stills him as he stares emptily down at the sheets.

Slumber had once been an escape from his troubles, however fleeting. Now its necessity weighs upon him like a stone, a rope around Pure Vanilla’s neck that pulls him down into a ravenous, waiting maw.

Shadow Milk’s hunger is incessant - his grip, eternal.

Sometimes, when Pure Vanilla is being plunged into the dark, he wonders about the inevitability of the pull. Some part of him muses if the magic’s woven upon some fragment he’d left behind, some shard of Truthless Recluse that remains bound to the Spire’s halls. So many versions of him had come and gone in a place where time has no meaning; could there be some small part of him that he could never truly reclaim?

Had he damned another to an eternity unending?

Pure Vanilla had surrendered to Shadow Milk that fateful night. He still remembers the sensation of consumption, how thoroughly he’d embraced the other’s soul and entwined it with his own. Their joining had been fleeting, shattered by his own hand – yet, he cannot claim to fully understand everything that had transpired. He’d been overwhelmed, moving on instinct, and Shadow Milk –

Well. Shadow Milk hadn’t taken it well, had he?

The dreams change each night, but the theme rarely wavers. There are always hands upon him, threads woven about his limbs as he’s pulled and maneuvered through streams of distorted memories and fanciful illusions. Some nights he wears the skin of Truthless Recluse, a costume forced upon him as he’s held fast in another’s arms and forced to watch the world crumble and burn around him. Some nights he is a weapon, a traitor that cuts through his allies and steps over their crumbling bodies into an agonizing embrace.

One night he is a king, sitting upon a throne of shadows that caress at his form, all while faceless Cookies bow and grovel at his feet. A silver tongue spills lies from his lips in a voice that is not his own, all while phantom hands run tenderly through his hair.

In each dream he is born anew as a Cookie of Deceit; in each dream, he is overwhelmed by an obsession so potent it chokes the breath from his lungs. They are together, always, always, always – a pair that should not, cannot ever be separated.

Most maddening of all are the fleeting bursts of pleasure, the sweet taste on his lips that turns to ash upon his tongue. Despair and delight dance a fine line in sickening tandem, a frenzied heat pulsing through Pure Vanilla’s dough whenever he feels that light, airy presence grazing up his spine. Temptation wraps itself around him as he sighs into its neck; the kisses trailed down his throat forever burn with the feverish promise of exultation if he would only submit.

Desire bleeds from every corner of Shadow Milk’s web, seeps into Pure Vanilla’s soul through each shuddering exhale. The need to claim, to keep, to own is engraved upon his heart by claws that sink ever deeper with each passing night.

Pure Vanilla’s days fare little better.

It is a cruel thing to wake unrested, to know that each sleep comes with no reprieve from the aches and pains of the day before. Each new dawn comes with a growing fatigue; each day begins melding together in a murky haze with no real distinction. Pure Vanilla slogs through his meetings until he can no longer separate words from the noise; he picks at his food with bites that dwindle by the day. He waits upon his balcony for some sign of the other; it’s a show of growing desperation for the chance to talk, to be allowed some reprieve like before.

The snake does not appear, and Pure Vanilla feels his grasp on reality slipping with each passing breath.

Dreams are the only connection left between them, and it is through dreams that Pure Vanilla takes the first step.

It’s difficult to talk whilst in the throes of Shadow Milk’s illusions; sensation and disorientation overwhelm before coherent thoughts can filter through much of the time. Yet Pure Vanilla is patient, waiting and watching as he’s pulled from dream to dream until the moment is right.

He finds his chance on the seventh night, deep in the echoes of a long-lost memory.

The recollection is distorted, of course; in it, Pure Vanilla kneels before an altar, clad in robes of blackened silk. The priest that stands before him is a being of pure shadow, holding aloft a crown of thorns. His people, twisted and malformed, smile at their king awaiting anointment as Dark Enchantress Cookie watches from his side. It is the sight of her sneer that helps clear Pure Vanilla’s mind, allows him to focus as the priest places the crown atop his head with a cruel, reverent smile.

Pure Vanilla cranes his head upwards, meeting the priest’s gaze as he states:

“We belong together.”

There’s a ripple of interest; it’s a tangible thing, marked in how the priest’s thousand eyes widen, how the room itself shimmers briefly before stilling. Something curious brushes against the back of Pure Vanilla’s mind, seeking out the intent behind his words.

Pure Vanilla exhales slowly, before continuing:

“But I am not an object to be owned.”

Anger, white-hot and searing, floods his senses in an instant; Pure Vanilla gasps as he clutches at his head and clenches his eyes shut. He can feel the dream warping, feel the ground give way as he tumbles forward. The crown upon his head cinches tight, the thorns digging into his skull as Pure Vanilla plummets, trembles and burns.

An inevitable outcome.

It still needed to be said.

The rest of the night fares little better, nor the two that come after. Shadow Milk’s irritation permeates each vision without subtlety; the hands that hold Pure Vanilla grip tighter than before, unrelenting and desperate. Pure Vanilla is forced along memory after memory, all distorted to show Shadow Milk beside him every step of the way. Running with him through the battlefields, laying beside him in his tent, sneering back at him from the waters bearing his own warped reflection.

A tired trick, and one Pure Vanilla knows better than to fall for. Shadow Milk may be trying once again to impress upon Pure Vanilla the inevitability of belonging, yet the blatant rehashing rings with a new sort of desperation.

Eventually there is a slip, a moment where Shadow Milk’s control wanes ever so briefly. Standing amidst his flock in a sunlit meadow, Pure Vanilla watches the darkness roll in amongst the clouds overhead – a sign of a scene to be changed, the next memory about to fall into place. It is while Shadow Milk concentrates on weaving the latter that Pure Vanilla finds his voice, is able to call into the sky:

“You’re afraid of me.”

The air freezes in his lungs.

Pure Vanilla is sent hurtling backwards, crashing through the earth that parts around him in waves. He’s plummeting, hurtling downwards in freefall as shapes and sounds all blur together, screeching in horrific, mangled melody. The dream keeps warping, contorting as if writhing in agony as Pure Vanilla falls – as Pure Vanilla sucks in another rasping breath, forcing out:

“You’re afraid to-”

Phantom hands clamp over his mouth in an instant; Pure Vanilla wrenches his head to the side, slipping from their furious grasp as he hoarsely shouts:

“Let me CHOOSE!!”

Pure Vanilla’s back hits a wall; it’s solid, unforgivingly so. It knocks the breath from his lungs, sends a sharp burst of pain ricocheting through him as he doubles over, clutching at his chest. All around him, darkness swarms in furious, twisting motions, a rolling sea of black punctuated by thousands of hateful, narrowed eyes all pinned on his gasping form. Pure Vanilla plants his palm on the floor, attempting to struggle to his feet only to feel new hands grasp his wrists, forcing him down. Pure Vanilla’s fights their grasp, teeth gritting as new determination swells within, building in his chest -

A burst of light erupts from his core; the hands dissipate with the blast, seared away in an instant. The darkness recoils as Pure Vanilla shakes himself, forcing himself up on shaky feet as he pins the shadows with a firm stare.

“I let you touch me.”

The darkness stills; its eyes widen.

“Back in the Spire,” Pure Vanilla rasps, “You asked, and I let you. Not because I thought you owned me, not because I belonged to you. It was because you asked.”

Shadows unfurl in rolling waves, spindly things that waft along the floor before fading away into nothingness. The eyes are still upon him, still watching him with unparalleled intensity.

Pure Vanilla sways lightly, his unsteadiness slowly rescinding with each passing breath. “I know,” Pure Vanilla says hoarsely. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’ve been rejected, over and over again. But-!” he says sharply, voice raising; the shadows are pulsing with anger, just barely withdrawing at his tone. “But,” Pure Vanilla continues, voice gradually softening, “that doesn’t mean you get to take away my choice. Even if you’re afraid to hear it.”

Darkness coils at the edges of his vision; when Pure Vanilla turns, the inky black is solidifying, twisting into something that’s swiftly filling the darkness with an icy chill. From the mist of shadows, the body of a massive snake slips into view, its massive bulk filling the room as it raises its hulking body high and lets forth a guttural hiss. Sharp, familiar fangs gleam in the faint glow of Pure Vanilla’s light, bared towards him in open threat.

Bluebell had always fit in the palm of Pure Vanilla’s hand. This beast looks as if it could swallow him whole.

“We belong together.” Pure Vanilla’s words are firm but gentled, even as he meets the venomous stare of the serpent bearing down. “We are two halves of the same whole. But belonging does not mean ownership.” Pure Vanilla takes a step forward, gaze firm. “Because if I belong with you, you belong with me, too.”

The snake hisses at his approach, a flicker of uncertainty wavering in its eyes.

Pure Vanilla’s hand reaches up, brushing over the steady pulse in his chest. “I am more than a puppet to be played with. I am someone who can make a choice; I can choose to be with you, or choose to reject you like all the rest.”

There’s another step forward; the snake visibly recoils, drawing back with unease.

“You hurt me to test me,” Pure Vanilla continues. “To see what I will endure before leaving like the rest. You have decided my rejection for me, despite your wish to keep me.”

Another hiss comes but it’s weak, enfeebled by how the snake inches away from him.

“I have already held out my hand to you, Shadow Milk Cookie.” Pure Vanilla lifts his arm, palm extended towards the other. “I will stay, if you will have me. But not as your property. Not molded into a perfect puppet whose fate and choices you can be sure of.” Pure Vanilla’s lips twitch with a small, sad smile. “The oppression of perfection, the tedium of certainty - were those not the same shackles you threw off yourself, all those years ago?”

The darkness shudders violently; the snake’s eyes go wide. Its body stills, frozen in place as Pure Vanilla takes a final step forward and slowly, gently places his hand against its hide.

“Let me choose to be with you.” Pure Vanilla’s voice is soft, his words accompanied by the snake’s rapid pulse beating beneath his palm. “Give me reasons to stay, and I will. I promise.”

The snake is motionless; its eyes are unfocused, as if drawn into its own thoughts. The shadows are silent and still all around them – even the eyes are slipping shut, retreating into the abyss as the pressure in the air begins to lessen. The breaths come easier to Pure Vanilla now, slow and steady as he closes his own eyes with a sigh –

Only to feel a gentle bump on his forehead.

Pure Vanilla’s eyes open; the snake has lowered itself, curving its neck so that the flat of its head is pressed against Pure Vanilla’s own. Its own eyes are closed, but Pure Vanilla can glimpse the pattern of eyes striped down its belly pinned upon him in anticipation. Pure Vanilla simply smiles, his own eyes slipping shut as he nuzzles back against the serpent’s head.

“You know,” Pure Vanilla murmurs quietly. “You remind me of a friend of mine.” His smile deepens. “Bluebell.”

The snake huffs; the puff of warm air tickles Pure Vanilla’s neck.

“It’s true.” Pure Vanilla lifts his free hand, gently running it over the snake’s snout. “You’re a lot alike. Both very beautiful and headstrong – though they’re much smaller.”

There’s a gentle nudge, as if in admonition; Pure Vanilla chuckles and nuzzles back in reply.

“I like having them around,” Pure Vanilla says softly. “I feel less lonely with them by my side.” His hand smooths across the ridge of the snake’s jaw, delicate and tender. “They try to bite me, but…” There’s a pause as Pure Vanilla’s hand stills, as his smile softens. “Talking to you, I think I understand them a bit better.”

The snake’s eyes crack open, giving him a curious half-look.

“At first, I thought Bluebell was only trying to hurt me.” Pure Vanilla tilts his head, pressing his cheek against the snake’s scales. “But deep down, I think they were just afraid I’d leave. Testing me, the same as you.” Pure Vanilla raises his hand to his own neck, placing it along its curve. “Or maybe they were trying to claim me, too.”

The snake’s pulse quickens slightly against Pure Vanilla’s cheeks.

“Well,” Pure Vanilla muses aloud, “it would have been quite a statement. A bitemark on my neck is hard to cover up. Anyone who saw me couldn’t help but take note, could they?”

If Pure Vanilla didn’t know any better, he might have commented on the flash of embarrassment in the snake’s eyes before it pointedly glances away.

“Still, I’d like to see them again. Without the biting this time.” Pure Vanilla rubs his cheek gently against the snake before slightly pulling back. “If you run into them, will you mention it?”

The snake grumbles; Pure Vanilla laughs in reply. “No,” he says with a smile, “I don’t think all snakes know each other.” Another grumble; Pure Vanilla laughs again. “Alright, alright.” He smooths the scales atop the serpent’s head, gaze softening fondly. “Then, instead – I’d like to make another choice.”

Pure Vanilla takes a step back; the snake’s head instinctively follows after before it seems to catch itself and pull back. Pure Vanilla grasps the edges of his robes, dipping into a low curtsey as he bows his head.

“Would you like to dance?”

As Pure Vanilla glances upwards, the surprise on the snake’s face is plain; it cocks its head at him with a wary eye.

“There’s no threads.” Pure Vanilla straightens up, holding his arms out in offering. He turns his wrists to the other, baring them before a curious gaze. “Nothing to bind or pull me along. So, on my own two feet – I’d like to dance with you.”

The snake’s still watching him; it shifts uncertainly, hesitance plain.

Pure Vanilla simply smiles, arms lowering as he closes his eyes. His heels touch together; his arms curve to form a circle out in front of him.

First position. He remembers this much, even now.

With a steadying exhale, Pure Vanilla arcs his arms above his head, and begins to dance.

Fluidity had always been the cornerstone of his ballet; while most of the movements are lost to the millennia he has lived, Pure Vanilla still recalls the basics. When bound to reality, his dough has become much stiffer than his youthful desires would allow; here, he is held back by no such restrictions. Pure Vanilla dips and twirls without pause, mentally running through the steps his old teacher had drilled into his head.

Pas de bourre into demi-plié. Demi-plié into relevé. Cambré derrière, minding the neck –

Something bumps into Pure Vanilla’s chest.

His eyes snap open; the snake is before him but it’s already recoiling, giving him space with an air of chagrin. Its massive body is coiled in a wide circle around him – as if forming a stage upon which he could dance.

“Apologies,” Pure Vanilla says with a smile; he dips into a small bow before slipping back into position. “I wasn’t looking.” He nods encouragingly. “Shall we?”

The snake, still giving him a wary look, shifts slightly closer as Pure Vanilla lifts his arms once more and resumes the dance.

It’s not an immediate thing – for several steps the snake merely watches, its head bobbing as it follows Pure Vanilla’s graceful movements. It’s not until a simple, stumbled sauté that Pure Vanilla finally glimpses the mighty serpent gliding into motion.

The snake bobs and weaves with each of Pure Vanilla’s dips and twirls; it’s an ever-present partner, leaving him space but never drifting too far. It slithers in elegant swirls, matching its time to Pure Vanilla’s own steps as they glide across a dance floor of their own making. Stars ripple in the darkness, scattering beneath Pure Vanilla’s feet; alongside it all there’s a budding melody rising in the air, a familiar tune that drifts and soars with each flourishing movement.

It’s imperfect; Pure Vanilla has to nimbly avoid the snake sliding out of the way over and over again, but there’s a building joy in such absurdity. This is their first dance that feels real, as real as any dream can be, and the realization pulls a laugh from Pure Vanilla’s chest. The snake brushes past him almost teasingly, swiftly slipping away only to twist around him with glee. A silly, whimsical pirouette has Pure Vanilla stumbling once more, until they collide with a single missed step.

This time, Pure Vanilla does not allow the snake to pull away; his arms reach up and catch it, gently tugging its snout closer with open fondness. “Thank you,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, eyes crinkling happily. “That was wonderful.”

The snake exhales slowly; its gaze is still uncertain, but there’s something more sparking in their depths. Pure Vanilla simply smiles, running his hands over its scales before he leans forward and closes his eyes –

To press a gentle kiss against the snake’s forehead.

Warmth soaks into his dough; not immediate, not overwhelmingly, but slow and steady like a rising tide. The ground beneath Pure Vanilla’s feet becomes soft and spongey as it wraps around him like a cloud, enveloping him in a sea of pleasant fog that tickles in his lungs. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but the aches and pains are subsiding as gentle touches brush against him, feather soft and fleeting as Pure Vanilla’s head lolls to the side.

The sound of distant birdsong begins filtering through his consciousness; bit by bit, Pure Vanilla feels his eyes begin to creak open.

He’s in his bed.

The pleasant rays of the morning sun are streaming in through the window; outside, the chitters of his impatient friends grow louder the longer Pure Vanilla listens. As Pure Vanilla shifts in his bed, he realizes two things – the first, that the fatigue that had plagued him has dissipated, smoothed away by what finally feels like a good night’s rest.

The second is that Bluebell is lying on his chest.

The snake is coiled in place atop the blankets, resting its chin on its tail. Its eyes are wide awake, watching Pure Vanilla closely as he blinks back at it. Slowly, a small smile forms on Pure Vanilla’s face as the snake lifts its head in greeting.

“Good morning, Bluebell,” Pure Vanilla says softly. “I was just dreaming about you.”

Pure Vanilla lifts a hand from under the covers, cupping the snake’s body to prevent it from tumbling down as he scooches upwards. Bluebell seems unbothered, settling itself in the crook of Pure Vanilla’s arm and resting its chin against his chest as he smiles down at it.

“I feel wonderful, Bluebell,” he tells it. “Refreshed and ready for the day. How about you?”

The snake flicks its tongue in reply.

“You know,” Pure Vanilla continues, pushing off the covers as he gets to his feet, “you weren’t the only snake I dreamed about. I also dreamed of my friend, Shadow Milk Cookie. Do you know him?”

Just like birds, snakes don’t roll their eyes – except this one undeniably does.

Pure Vanilla laughs; the vibrations gently jostle the serpent against his chest. “Apologies. I know, I know – not all snakes know each other.” He lifts a hand, running it gently down the curve of the snake’s neck. “And in truth, even if he is not a real snake, it hardly matters to me. I will accept his companionship in any form he chooses. I hope he knows that.”

The snake arches its head, searching for further touch; Pure Vanilla cranes his neck down, pressing a tiny kiss to the top of its head.

Bluebell seems fully unbothered, and turns to boop Pure Vanilla’s lips with its snout.

For a brief, fraction of a second, Pure Vanilla could swear he felt another Cookie’s lips brush against his own.

Still, the sensation is gone as swiftly as it’d come; Pure Vanilla merely chuckles as he repositions his arms and looks fondly down at the other wrapped in his arms. “Now then,” he remarks with a smile.

“What shall we have for breakfast, my friend?”