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“Ah, that should be the last of it!” Sage exclaimed, wiping his clothing rid of snow as he beamed up at the lights decorating the trimmings of his home. How delightful! It could do with a few bows, perhaps an orchid or two, but otherwise delightfully beautiful! The twinkling of each bulb blinked individually, each one lighting for half a second before drifting to the one aside it.
Sage had always loved Christmas—who doesn’t? It was just about the happiest of days there could be! Albeit cold,(Especially in his dear recluse’s humble abode) it was especially fun to see cookies fair well! Glancing up at the twinkling lights once again, he chuckled at the thought of Recluse’s home with such joyful decor. Speaking of… Had he put his weekly arrival on postpartum?
Ah…Perhaps he had gotten a bit too excited to explain to his dear students the importance of Christmas, and its significance.
Well, Why not make his way up to where he lay, on a lovely night as such? A bit chilly, the snow nipping at his dough—and he was most certain walking up the mountain would prove to be extremely cold and likely dangerous if not for him being, well, The Sage Of Truth. He was not a mere mortal! He’d definitely have to change his attire to that of winter appropriate, just to keep his dough from chipping or Witches forbid cracking.
Alas! No time to waste. He snapped his fingers, and his attire shifted to that of a thick, white coat—still intricately decorated with golden stitching, of course. His scarf a marvelous red—to match Christmas!— and wrapped neatly around his neck. The clothing was warm, but beneath it he could still feel that biting cold. Nothing too bad, but certainly not comfortable as it prickled against his
Dough. He could only pray the trip up the mountain would be merciful.
As he happily walked along the stone of the village’s core, making his way to the mountain’s edge, Sage wondered what Truthless might be doing at this moment. Probably reading, or perhaps staring blankly into space—no, more likely practicing his flames. Yes, that was always his favorite thing to during cold weather, even if he had long mastered it. There was something nostalgic in the way he cupped his hands around the false flames, eyes distant. Sage smiled at the thought, ignoring as a snowflake dropped onto his nose. He always looked so oddly peaceful in those moments, like a mere doughling watching flames of a fireplace.
The path up the front of the mountain was steep, lined with jagged rocks and patches of ice that would've sent a mortal tumbling down within minutes. But Sage strode forward without hesitation, humming a Christmas tune under his breath—though occasionally pausing to frown at the way the cold seeped into his joints, making his movements stiff. He flexed his fingers, watching the faint golden glow beneath his gloves pulse in response. Ah, warmth. He’d need to ask his dear recluse for a bit of that lovely cocoa later. Goodness, he underestimated the path up. He couldn’t even use his levitation spell, curtesy of the magic reducer Truthless had around the mountain to refrain from any funny business.
He continued up, nearly slipping on a patch of ice whilst lost in his thoughts about chocolate-dipped cookies—his heel skidded, arms flailing briefly before he caught himself with a chuckle and shake of his head. “Goodness! That would’ve been quite the fall!” Sage mused aloud, as if the mountain cared to listen. He adjusted his scarf, now damp from melted snowflakes, and squinted upwards. The Tower loomed ahead, its dark silhouette a stark contrast against the winter sky. From this height, he could see the village below, its own twinkling lights now tiny pinpricks in the distance. Ah, and the wind was definitely not merciful—it howled past his ears, biting through even his coat. He pouted, a bit upset his coat hadn’t been enough.
Witches, he should’ve worn gloves. Looking down at his frost bitten fingertips, he only can hum at the digits paled and slightly chipped. Dear Witches, he really shouldn’t have underestimated the cold. It was like walking in a freezer! Fortunately for him, he had arrived at the Recluse’s Doorstep.
The Sage of Truth wasted no time knocking thrice—once, twice, thrice—rhythmically pattering against the dark wood. His voice cracked into a sing-song lilt, “Ohhhh Dearest Recluse! It’s me, your Sage—ah!” He winced when a sharp gust of wind bit into his cheeks, rattling his teeth mid-word. He instinctively curled into himself, puffing a breath into his palms to chase away the numbness. “P-Please be a dear and let me in before I turn into a doughsicle!”
Silence. Only the wind answered him, whistling mockingly between the tower’s jagged stones. Sage blinked, tilting his head. No shuffling footsteps, no rustle of fabric—no familiar scoff followed by the door creaking open just enough to reveal a sliver of Truthless’s unimpressed glare. His stomach tightened. Was he… not home? Absurd. The recluse never left his tower unless dragged out by force (or, on one memorable occasion, by fire). Another thought slithered in: Or he’s ignoring you. Sage’s fingers twitched against the doorframe, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold. His own breath sounded too loud.
Goodness, had he done faulty? Was it due to his late arrival? Witches, he hoped Recluse wasn’t going to ignore him the entirety of the rest of this year! Oh, the thought made his heart ache.
Just as Sage’s fingers curled tighter against his scarf, knuckles whitening beneath the fabric, the door groaned inward with a reluctant creak. There stood Truthless Recluse, draped in his usual dark robes, staff gripped tightly in one hand. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but Sage didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered down—just for a heartbeat—to the chipped dough along Sage’s fingertips. "You," Truthless began, gaze hardening as he noticed the dark flush across the Sage’s cheeks, "are a fool." But the door opened wider anyway, a bit rushed—he was still a healer at heart, despite it all.
Sage didn't hesitate to dart inside, shaking snow from his coat like an overeager hound. "Ahhh, warmth!" he sighed dramatically, pressing frozen palms against his own cheeks as the tower's heat seeped into him. Truthless watched, silent, as Sage’s shoulders relaxed—only to stiffen again when Sage abruptly turned, eyes alight. "Dearest, you must tell me—do you celebrate Christmas?" The question burst out of him, eager and bright, before he could think better of it.
Truthless’s fingers tightened around his staff, knuckles going pale. "You climbed an ice-laden mountain—" his voice was dangerously calm, "—nearly cracked your fool hands off—" he pointed the staff at Sage’s frostbitten fingers, "—just to ask that?" A muscle jumped in his jaw as Sage, oblivious, nodded vigorously, already launching into an impassioned speech about mistletoe traditions. With a noise halfway between a groan and a growl, Truthless seized Sage’s wrist and dragged him toward the hearth, shoving him onto the threadbare rug with more force than necessary.
Sage barely noticed the manhandling, too busy gesturing wildly with his chipped hands. "—and the lights, Recluse! Oh, they’re like captured stardust strung across rooftops! And the cocoa—did you know cinnamon was invented for winter? Well, perhaps not invented, but—" His rambling cut off with a yelp as Truthless grabbed both his hands, pressing them between his own palms. White magic licked up between their fingers, not burning but searing in that peculiar way Truthless’s magic always did—like swallowing sunlight. Sage gasped as warmth flooded his veins, dough knitting itself back together. He always wondered how White magic, in all its glory, came so naturally to the Recluse.
Truthless exhaled sharply through his nose. "Did You slip?" His voice was clipped, but the way his fingers lingered over Sage’s newly healed ones betrayed something softer beneath the irritation. Sage blinked up at him, grinning sheepishly—he'd always been terrible at lying to Truthless. "Only a little! A teensy skid, really—oh! And speaking of skidding, did I ever tell you about the time I tried ice-skating? Absolutely marvelous, except for the—" Truthless pinched the bridge of his nose, cutting him off. "You climbed. An entire mountain. With ice. For Christmas, Sage." The last word came out strangled, like it physically pained him to say it.
Sage’s grin widened, undeterred. "Precisely! And what better mountain to climb than yours, dear Recluse?" He leaned forward, nose’s nearly touching as his grin widens.
Truthless recoiled as if burned, shoving Sage’s face away with one hand while the other gripped his staff, ignoring the perplexed look it gave him. He would not indulge in Sage’s dramatics.
Sage, too delighted to be discouraged, sprang to his feet and spun on the spot, taking in the stark, sadly undecorated expanse of Truthless’s tower. The hearth crackled dimly, casting long shadows over barren shelves, and not a single festive touch in sight. “Dearest,” Sage gasped, scandalized, “it’s like winter itself forgot you!” He waggled his healed fingers at the cobwebbed rafters, sighing loudly for the fun of it.
Truthless scowled, tapping his staff against the stone floor—once, sharp—but Sage had already seized a fistful of his sleeve, tugging insistently toward the nearest window. “Look!” Sage pressed his forehead to the frosted glass, breath fogging the pane. “The village lights, you can see them from here! I had decorated my own abode earlier, although it doesn’t quite compare to the festivity of the village.” His voice dropped, suddenly quiet. “You really haven’t celebrated? Not once?” It was so sad to think his lovely Recluse hadn’t had the opportunity to celebrate!
Truthless exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to rub at the phantom ache in his chest—an old wound, long scabbed over. “Not in a long time, no,” he muttered, turning away before Sage could see the flicker of something too close to longing in his eyes. Pathetic. The last time he’d celebrated, the decorations had been made of vanilla wafers, Vanilla Beholders decorating them evenly. He’d been softer then. Foolish.
Sage’s gasp shattered the memory like thin ice underfoot. “Oh!” The sound was pure, unfiltered delight, as if Truthless had handed him the stars themselves. He clapped his hands together once, sharply, before twisting on his heel and seizing Truthless’s robes again, fingers twisting into the fabric like he feared the man might vanish. “Then you simply must let me show you how wonderful it can be, now that you may have someone to share it with!” His voice wobbled with barely contained excitement, doughy cheeks flushed from more than just the excitement. A chance to spend more time with his dearest! Ah, how exciting!
Truthless’s grip on his staff tightened until the wood groaned, the numbness in his chest suddenly flaring into something jagged. Someone to share it with? As if Sage could ever— His breath hitched, sharp and sudden. The scent of vanilla wafers lingered in the back of his throat like ash. “No.” The word came out too harsh, too brittle. He jerked his robes free, stepping back until the hearth’s heat licked at his heels. “You misunderstand, Sage. I didn’t—it wasn’t—” His jaw clenched. Fool. He shouldn’t have said anything. Should’ve let Sage prattle on until the topic was forgotten.
But Sage, damn him, only tilted his head, blinking with those wide, golden eyes that saw too much. “How was it?” he pressed, shuffling closer. “The last time you celebrated? Were there lights? Oh—or jelly stew? Did you hang baubles from the rafters?” His voice dipped, soft with genuine curiosity, and not the manic curiosity that ate at him. “Who did you share it with?”
Truthless felt the question like a blade between his ribs—old names, old faces, laughter turned to ash in his throat. “Enough,” he snapped, the word cracking like ice underfoot. His fingers twitched toward the staff, magic prickling beneath his palms. “It doesn’t matter. It’s gone. They’re—” He huffed, teeth gritting together. He never should’ve allowed the sage in. He should’ve let him freeze.
Sage’s smile faltered, but only for a heartbeat. He leaned closer, heedless of the warning spark along Truthless’s knuckles. “But was it lovely?” he pressed, voice softer now, almost tender. “Did you have fun? Play in the snow? Did—” His words cut off with a startled yelp as Truthless seized his scarf, yanking him forward until they were nose-to-nose, the recluse’s breath hot against his still cold cheeks.
“Leave.” The word was a blade, shoved between Sage’s ribs with deliberate precision. Truthless’s fingers trembled—with fury or something worse, Sage couldn’t tell. “Or I will make you.” The threat hissed between them, unnatural in its jaggedness. Sage had heard Truthless snarl, scoff, even curse—but never threaten. Never him.
Sage’s chuckle caught in his throat, brittle as frost. “Ah—Recluse, surely you jest?” His hand hovered, halfway to Truthless’s sleeve, fingers twitching with the ghost of their usual familiarity. But Truthless recoiled like Sage’s touch was acid, his staff flaring with a searing blue light that scorched the air between them. Sage’s breath hitched. He’d misstepped. Worse—he’d misread.
The shove came swift, Truthless’s palm slamming into Sage’s chest with enough force to send him skidding back. Sage’s spine cracked against the stone wall, the impact shuddering through his dough like a fault line. A Gasp escaped him before he could bite it back, high and involuntary. His vision swam, his dough throbbing where Truthless’s fingers had briefly curled, not to heal but to harm. The irony tasted less humorous than he’d usually find it.
Sage let out a shaky hum, smoothing out his coat and fixing his scarf. “Perhaps I should…make my way back home.” He clears his throat, avoiding the gaze of Truthless as he makes his way to the door. What a productive visit.
The cold air hit him like a physical slap as he stepped outside, but Sage barely registered it—his chest burned far worse than any winter wind could. He’d ruined it. Again. His fingers twitched at his sides, dough still aching where Truthless’s magic had scorched him. How foolish, to think—to hope—that old wounds could be soothed with twinkling lights and cocoa. He hesitated at the threshold, half-turning as if to say something, but the door slammed shut behind him with a finality that made his shoulders slump.
The descent was worse than the climb. The mountain seemed to mock him, every gust of wind howling like laughter as he picked his way down the treacherous path with none of his usual grace. His thoughts spiraled—too much, too fast, always too much—until his heel caught on an ice-slicked rock. He yelped, arms pinwheeling as the ground vanished beneath him. For one surreal moment, he was airborne, the world tilting as the village lights blurred into streaks of gold far below. Then his ribs met stone, and the impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a wheezing gasp.
Magic. He needed—his fingers scrabbled uselessly against the ice, sparking nothing but frostbitten pain. Right. The mountain. Truthless’s wards. Stars exploded behind his eyelids as his shoulder clipped a jagged outcrop, the collision spinning him sideways. His head snapped back—white pain, sharp and bright—and then everything was soft. Snow cushioned his crumpled form like a lover’s embrace, the cold leaching the heat from his wounds with terrifying efficiency. He blinked blearily upward, vision swimming. Ah. His jam was leaking, wasn’t it? Dark purple seeped into the pristine white, swirling in hypnotic patterns. Pretty. Like ink in milk.
The world narrowed to the pulse of his own sluggish heartbeat, each thud pushing more of that precious jam into the snow. How... wasteful. Truthless hated waste. Sage giggled deliriously, bubbles of laughter popping in his throat like overcooked syrup. He was going to be so scolded for this. If he woke up. The thought should’ve frightened him, but the snow cradled his skull so gently, and the stars above blurred twinkled so beautifully, fear just didnt sound so appealing at the moment.
His fingers twitched, dough cracking further as he tried—futilely—to reach for the warmth of his own magic. Nothing. Only the hollow ache where power should’ve been, severed by the mountain’s cruel wards. "Ah...Recluse," he slurred into the night, tasting iron and something sweeter, "your mountain...is a bully." His words sank into the snow alongside his jam, swallowed whole. Distantly, he wondered if he would just be left here to freeze. No one ever came up the mountain, and Truthless never left it. Witches, he could really go for a cup of cocoa right now…
The stars above blurred into blotches of white as his eyes rolled slowly back into his skull, fingers twitching a final time before the world faded away. Although, he recalled the scent of Vanilla, before all senses vanished.
To be unconscious was a silly feeling. Not much is felt, but it was as if you were skipping time itself, much like sleeping.
Eventually, Sage awoke, slowly, as if his senses were reluctant to return. The first thing he registered was warmth. unnatural, searing warmth, the kind that could only come from Truthless’s magic. The second was the sharp scent of vanilla, mingling with something bitter. His eyelids fluttered open to the sight of the tower’s familiar rafters, and the feel of dough seaming itself together like stitching. And then—oh. Truthless’s face hovered above him, closer than he’d been in years, closer than he ever allowed himself to be. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack stone, his fingers dug into Sage’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, and his eyes were narrowed.
Before Sage could even croak out an apology, Truthless’s voice lashed out like a whip. “You,” he hissed, “are the single most reckless, idiotic—” His grip tightened, nails biting into Sage’s dough like he wanted to tear him apart just to put him back together properly. “Do you understand how close you were? Do you?” His voice cracked on the last word, brow furrowed as he shook his head furiously.
Sage chuckled weakly as the last of the cracks sealed, wobbling upright despite the sharp protest in his ribs. His grin was all teeth and stubbornness, even as his hands trembled where they clutched at Truthless’s sleeves. “You aren’t upset with me anymore?” The question was willfully oblivious, soft as the snow still melting in his hair. Truthless sputtered, hands flying up to grip Sage’s face with bruising force. “Fool!” he snarled, voice raw. “Absolute, irredeemable—!” The curses dissolved into ragged breaths, his forehead dropping against Sage’s with a dull thud.
For a heartbeat, there was only the crackle of the hearth and the too-loud sound of Truthless’s breathing, harsh and uneven against Sage’s lips. Then, quieter than the wind outside: “You could have crumbled, sage. Immortal or not—…it.. without your magic, you truly could have.” The words were stripped bare, brittle with something Sage had never heard before. not anger, but terror. Truthless’s fingers trembled where they cupped Sage’s jaw, thumbs pressing into the hollows beneath his eyes as if to assure himself Sage was real, solid. Alive.
Sage’s breath hitched. He leaned into the touch, dough still tender where it had been knitted back together, and whispered, “But you found me.” It wasn’t a question. Truthless had always found him—even when Sage hadn’t realized he was lost. Truthless’s exhale shuddered between them, warm and vanilla-bitter. “Fool,” he muttered again, but the word lacked its usual edge. His forehead stayed pressed to Sage’s, their noses brushing with every shaky breath. Sage could count his eyelashes like this. He’d never been so close before. Had he truly need to nearly crumble just to be so close? He’d gladly do so again, if so.
Truthless’s grip shifted, one hand sliding to cradle the back of Sage’s head, fingers tangling in dough still damp with melted snow. “You—,” he started, then stopped, teeth gritting. His thumb traced the curve of Sage’s cheekbone, hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Sage’s pulse leapt. He’d never seen Truthless hesitate before. Not like this. “You’re impossible,” Truthless finally growled, but his voice was rough, uneven. Sage grinned, slow and wobbly. “But you like that about me.” The words came out hoarse, but Truthless didn’t deny them. Just sighed, long and suffering, and squeezed his eyes shut.
They stayed like that for a breath, two—foreheads pressed together, Truthless’s fingers trembling against Sage’s skin—before Truthless abruptly pulled away, turning his face toward the fire. “…We did celebrations in the villages,” he muttered, so low Sage almost missed it. “In the…In the Kingdom.” His shoulders tensed, fingers flexing at his sides. “We—I gave my subjects food and necessities.” The confession hung between them, fragile as spun sugar. Sage blinked, thoughts stuttering to a halt. A king? Well…he didnt necessarily say. He’d ask later.
Sage, undeterred, shuffled closer still, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “Ah, but that’s precisely why it matters!” His grin was too wide, too bright, but his eyes—golden and unblinking—held a gravity Truthless couldn’t ignore. “Because you remember them. Because you care. That’s the cruelest truth of all, isn’t it? That love lingers long after kingdoms fall. Uh. Although you wont tell me.” His voice softened, dipping into something unbearably tender. “That’s why you hate Christmas, isn’t it?”
Truthless flinched as if struck, his grip on his staff tightening until the wood groaned. He wanted to snap, to snarl, to shove Sage out the door and into the snow again—but the words lodged in his throat like shards of glass. Because Sage was right, damn him. Always too perceptive, always prying at wounds Truthless had scabbed over centuries ago. “Enough,” he managed, voice ragged. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. What kind of truth allows such foo—”
Sage chuckled brightly, his usual scholarly, playful approach coming back as he eagerly interrupts. “Why, the best kind of truth! The kind that is cruel, but helpful nonetheless!” He batted his lashes, utterly shameless even as Truthless’s fingers twitched like he wanted to throttle him. “Take frostbite, for example—painful, yes, but it does teach you not to lick metal in winter!” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if this were a perfectly reasonable comparison. “Or how falling off mountains teaches you not to climb them in..haha, heels!”
Truthless exhaled sharply—halfway between a scoff and a growl—but Sage wasn’t finished. His fingers fluttered toward Truthless’s sleeve, tentative as a moth drawn to flame. “And loneliness,” he murmured, voice softening, “teaches you just how much it aches to have someone warm beside you again.” His fingertip brushed the frayed edge of Truthless’s cuff, featherlight. “Cruel, yes. But what a marvelous lesson, don’t you think?”
Truthless couldn’t help but stare at him. Then—laughter. Real, unfiltered laughter burst from his chest like a dam breaking, rough and startled as if he’d forgotten the sound of his own joy. Sage’s next words faltered mid-breath, his dough going suspiciously warm at the unfamiliar noise—so rich, so alive, and gods, he wanted to memorize the cadence of it, to press it between the pages of his ribs like a pressed flower. The sound was beautiful in its rarity, warm as the hearth at their backs, and Sage suddenly understood with devastating clarity: he wanted to be the reason Truthless laughed like this every day.
He cleared his throat, pretending to adjust his scarf to hide the way his fingers shook. “Ah—well! Mountains aside,” Sage chirped, pivoting with the grace of a man who’d spent centuries dodging consequences, “did you know mistletoe was originally used to ward off evil spirits? Fitting, really, given how terribly grumpy you get around the holidays.” He grinned, wide and unrepentant, and pointedly did not mention the way Truthless’s laughter had made his pulse stutter like a moth against glass. Ah, thinking of mistletoes…Wouldn’t it be ironic if his dear recluse got one? Oh, he must ask!
Truthless’s grip tightened imperceptibly around his staff, the knuckles bleaching white beneath his gloves as he stared at Sage’s stupid, shining face. “Evil spirits,” he repeated flatly, and Sage swore he saw the ghost of a smirk flicker beneath his cowl. “And what, pray tell, does that make you?” The question should’ve been barbed, like a barbed wire around the purest of homes. should’ve sent Sage scrambling, but the way Truthless’s voice dropped into something almost playful made Sage’s breath hitch. He could practically taste the challenge in the air, thick as powdered sugar. No! no, focus. Ask him!
Sage leaned forward, fingers tapping against his knee. “Ah—but you’ve dodged my question, dear recluse! Or were you too busy laughing at my expense to notice?” His grin softened as he studied Truthless’s posture, the way his shoulders hunched slightly. not from cold, but from hesitation—hesitation to admit to such true behavior?To something that proved he was more than a mere hermit, a man of no emotion? Sage wondered if the man realized how much he still carried himself like royalty, even when trying to disappear into his robes. “ truly, though. Why does Christmas matter so much to you?” Truthless asked abruptly, changing the topic swiftly. Ah, his dearest recluse always was good at swerving around things he was not interested in speaking of.
Sage spun up to float in the air—just a little—smiling brightly down at The Recluse, who only huffed as if exasperated by the theatrics. “Because, My dear Recluse, it is a Holiday of Sharing, of giving. Of spending time with loved ones.” His voice dipped, lighter now, almost wistful. “Usually, I only ever celebrate alone—Yes, yes, The Sage of Truth, alone? Such an ahem silly concept, yes.” He chuckled, though there was no true mirth in it this time. Sage didn’t elaborate further on why he was alone—there was no need to, not when his hands were already gesturing wildly to cover the brief falter in his smile. Such concepts were to be kept away, truthful or not. Not all truth had to be truthful, anyway. He could…He could manage. “A-anywho, and I’d love to spend said time with you, if you’d let me!”
Truthless hummed—something Sage had learned meant he was irked—and turned, his robes swishing slightly. His steps were nearly unheard as he led Sage down the winding halls of the tower toward the kitchen. Sage trailed after him like an excitable dog, fingers twitching toward every oddity and trinket they passed. A cracked hourglass, a book left open to a page half-torn, but his fingers never quite touched the items, of course. Something told him Truthless would know if he disturbed even a mote of dust in this place, which was slightly unsettling. “Ohhh, what’s this? Oo, and this here is odd indeed! Did you buy this from the village? or, ah, steal? And—” Sage gasped, pointing at a particularly ugly vase tucked into an alcove. “Did you make this? It’s—” He paused, squinting slightly as he tilted his head, adjusting his monocle. See, he’d lie to not offend his dear Recluse, but Soul Jam Of Truth! It…Never got very happy when he’d lie. It would pinch his soul, ouch! “…It’s hideous. But! I adore it, if it was made by you!”
Truthless didn’t slow, but Sage was quick to catch up. He did cheat a bit, by floating. Could one blame him? His dough was oh so delicate. “No,” he muttered, opening a cabinet a bit too harshly. “It was a gift.” He didn’t elaborate further, but Sage could practically feel the weight behind those words, like some unspoken memory clinging to the ugly ceramic like grime. Ah…Perhaps some things were better to not pry at, even though his curiosity was to never be soothed without an answer. He wisely shut up.
Truthless tapped his fingers against his staff, brows furrowed deep in thought. Did Sage like chamomile, or Earl Grey? Ah…he seemed like a chamomile type, soft and sweet with hidden depth, but then again, the man also thrived on simplicity—like plain black tea with no fuss. Decisions, decisions…He hesitated, then grabbed both tins, setting them on the counter with more force than necessary. Sage’s eyes lit up like a child’s at the sight. “Ooooh! Are we having tea? Oh, I adore tea! Though, ah, I must admit—” He leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a whisper. “—I do have a terrible habit of dunking biscuits until they dissolve. Truly scandalous, I know!” He taps his chin, crossing one leg over the other to sit …well, on nothing.
“Do try to guess! I’d love to see what you think I’d prefer!” He chipped, leaning forward to rest on his stomach, hands propped to rest on his cheeks.
Truthless looked up at him, unimpressed—then down at the tins. Earl Grey was bitter, chamomile sweet, the duality painfully obvious. Yet, it was... curious. Sage’s core ingredient was blueberries, if he recalled correctly—a fruit that could swing either way, tart or saccharine, depending on the batch. Which tea, then, would suit a man who thrived on contradictions? Truthless drummed his fingers against the counter, considering. Sage watched him with unabashed delight, as if the act of tea selection were some grand spectacle—which, given the intensity of Truthless’s scrutiny, it might as well have been. One couldn’t blame him, he hated being wrong. Even if that wrong was due to tea.
Then, suddenly, Truthless couldn’t stop himself from perking up a bit—of course! It was so obvious, it was idiotic! He went back to the cabinet, rummaging past jars of dried lavender and bergamot peel until his fingers closed around a small, unassuming tin tucked in the back. The label was faded, the handwriting barely legible now, but he knew it by heart: hibiscus and honeybush. Deeply bittersweet, with a kick of citrus peel lurking beneath—just like Sage himself, who alternated between saccharine theatrics and startling honesty. Truthless placed it on the counter with a quiet thud. “This one,” he muttered, refusing to acknowledge Sage’s widening eyes. “Don’t—” The Sage was already vibrating. “—don’t make a scene. I do not wish for a headache.”
But Sage was beyond restraint. His hands fluttered out, the noise pronounced, clutching at his chest as if his heart might burst out. “Oh—oh Jam Above, how did you—? No one ever guesses that! Not even the..the Merchants at the Bazaar!” His voice cracked in disbelief, shaky with something dangerously close to awe. Truthless turned away—too late—but Sage had already seen it: the faintest smirk curling beneath his cowl, smug and self-satisfied. Oh, he knew. He knew he’d won whatever game he had created. Sage wanted to bite him. Or kiss him. Or both, possibly at once.
The kettle whistled—too loud in the sudden quiet—and Truthless busied himself pouring the water, steam rising between them like a curtain. Sage watched his hands, mesmerized: the deliberate curl of his fingers around the handle, the way his thumb brushed the spout to test the temperature. Every movement precise, practiced—like he’d done this a thousand times before, for someone else. Someone who’d loved hibiscus-honeybush tea as much as Sage did. The thought made his dough prickle uncomfortably, jealousy souring his throat faster than over-steeped leaves. Had There been one, before him? “You…” Sage swallowed, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Did you…used to drink this often?”
Truthless pauses in his movements to turn his head to the side a bit to look at Sage, who was looking…quite pouty, to say the least. He had to hold back an abrupt snort that—if let out—would have startled himself,too. Sage notices, and pouts further.
“What?! What is so funny, my dear recluse?” Sage gestures wildly to himself, “Did I miss out on this grand joke?” He asks, attempting to sound indignant. It fails miserably by the way his voice pitches up near the end—he sounded more like a flustered child than a dignified Sage. Truthless raises his eyebrows—slow, deliberate—and shakes his head with a hum as he feigns innocence. “No, just had an..mm..thought.” He says, turning back to his task. He poured the tea with practiced movements, his hands steady—as if he hadn’t just thrown Sage’s entire world into disarray.
Sage could feel his dough warming at the obvious evasion. A thought? Oh, no no no—he knew exactly what sort of thought that was! One involving Sage himself and his very obvious—“..No, I don’t,” Truthless adds abruptly, interrupting Sage’s spiraling. “...An old friend enjoyed it.” Ah, so there had been someone else! Sage’s fingers twitched where they hovered mid-air, frozen in whatever dramatic gesture he’d been about to make. His chest tightened—how ridiculous. How utterly ridiculous! He was the Sage of Truth, not some—some jilted lover! And yet, the thought of Truthless brewing this same tea for another, smiling for another—Tsk! Out of sheer petulance, Sage decides then and there that he would change his favorite tea immediately. Yes! He’d pick the most vile, bitter leaf in existence and swear it was ambrosia just to spite him!
Ah..he best not get too zealous. He’d get to spend Christmas(hopefully,Fingers crossed!) With his dear Recluse! He didn’t see anyone else getting such a privilege, so clearly he was the favorite, Thank you very much!
Sage huffs, settling back onto the stool Truthless had nudged toward him with his foot—ungracefully, as if he couldn’t stand Sage’s floating another second. The teacup slid into his hands before he could protest, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The scent hit him first: tart hibiscus, the earthy sweetness of honeybush, and beneath it all, that faint citrus peel Truthless had somehow known he adored. Sage’s fingers tightened around the porcelain. Damn him. Damn him and his perfect memory and his stupidly precise tea selections! He’d have to question the Recluse on how he hasn’t grown senile yet.
Truthless watches Sage’s throat work as he swallows, tracking the bob with hooded eyes. The silence stretches, thick with something neither dares name. Sage’s fingers twitch, and he wants to reach out, to flick that cowlick sticking up at the crown of Truthless’s head, to pry the truth he hates so much from his lips, but settles for drumming restless fingers against his thigh. “So,” Sage drawls, “this ‘old friend’—”
“Is dead,” Truthless interrupts, too sharp. The firelight fractures in his pupils when he blinks, slow as a cat. Sage’s breath catches. Truthless exhales through his nose and turns away, pretending to adjust a nonexistent wrinkle in his sleeve. “Gone. Like everything else. Do not mistaken me allowing you to rest here as care, or me allowing your endless questions.”
Sage smiles, head tilting as he looks at the Recluse, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re lying. If you truly did not care, you would not have healed me, nor show such a reaction to me being in pain.” He chipped, adjusting his monocle. Although Truthless was the Beast of Deceit, he was such a horrible liar!
Truthless scoffs, lidded eyes squinting to glare at the Scholar. “You feed yourself lies to feel better. It’s only natural, I suppose, for you to be so idiotic.”
Sage only sighs halfheartedly, smiling. “Then prove you don’t care and kick me out. Tell me to go; make me walk down that mountain again.”
Truthless’s fingers twitch where they rest against his knee, the false flame flickering as if agitated by the challenge. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t so much as shift his weight toward the door. The silence stretches, thick with the unspoken truth Sage already knows: Truthless won’t. Can’t. And that, more than any confession, unravels him.
Sage leans in, close enough to count the faint scars along Truthless’s knuckles, the way his pulse jumps beneath the thin skin of his wrist. “You could lie to yourself,” he murmurs, “but not to me. Not when i know you more than you wish to know yourself.”
Truthless growls, slamming his hand on a book, sending dust motes spiraling into the firelight. “Fine. Fine! You want to know of my past so badly? You have five questions.” His voice cracks on the last word, brittle as winter bark. Beneath the anger, something raw glistens—a wound Sage hadn’t meant to poke. Yet, Alas, he had poked anyway.
Sage tilts his head, fingers tapping his chin. He knows Truthless has a tell—when lying, his flames burn cobalt instead of cerulean. Knows the way his left pinky twitches when suppressing a confession. Knows he collects sugar cubes like relics, lining them up on windowsills where they melt into amber puddles. But this? The tremor in his hands as he grips his own knees? That’s new. Perhaps there was a certain question he was afraid of being asked? If so, what question? Gods, only five…but Sage had always been good at picking locks.
Truthless watches him think, jaw clenched. The fire between them gutters, casting shadows that make his hollowed cheeks look skeletal. He was once whole—Sage knows this in the same way he knows the shape of his own reflection. Before the corruption, before the Tower, before the world peeled him open and left him to stitch himself back together with venom and silence. But even then…there was the Souljam. That iridescent shard embedded in his sternum, pulsing like a second heartbeat. No ordinary cookie could bear its weight without shattering. So what did that make him? He knew he was
Sage traces the rim of his cup. "First question," he hums, eyes never leaving Truthless's throat where it bobs once more, hard. "What—who—were you before your corruption?" If he questioned bluntly emough, perhaps Truthless wouldn’t be able to respond smartly. He never said he was a king, but he hinted!! Oh, he must know.
Truthless exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around his own mug. The steam curls between them like breath after a killing frost. "A healer," he lies—or half-lies, Sage realizes, because his flames don’t darken. But it’s not the full truth either, not when his pinky twitches against ceramic. He answers, but avoids what Sage truly seeks—the name he discarded, the shape of the hands that once stitched wounds instead of inflicting them. Who, he should’ve asked. Not what.
Second question. "What was your title before you corrupted?" Sage presses his knee against Truthless's beneath the table, humming when he was yet to pull away. The recluse stiffens, jaw working before he spits the words like shrapnel: "I had many. I was the former king of a kingdom." The admission hangs, jagged between them. Not a king. The king. Of what? Sage's pulse thrums. He recognizes the cadence of that bitterness—the way Truthless says 'was' like a curse yet to be broken, like rot between teeth. Which kingdom? How had he fallen so far from golden halls to this frigid tower, where the wind howls through cracks like mourners?
Third. "What kingdom did you reside in whilst crowned king?" Recluse, in all his glory, replies, "None. I was never crowned king—I did not want the crown."
Hah.
Oh, curse him. Sage only scoffs, knee beginning to bounce in irritation. Lies curled like smoke between them, but beneath it, something truer. A king without a coronation, then. A ruler who refused the throne. Sage leans forward, close enough to taste bergamot and something metallic on Truthless's exhale. "You're parsing words," he accuses. "You led them. You wore their colors. Don't insult me by pretending otherwise. Answer again."
Truthless only chuckles, tapping the edge of the book his hand rested upon. The sound echoes like a gavel. "Fourth question, Sage." His voice drips honey-slow amusement, but his fingers dig into the leather cover hard enough to crease it. Sage grits his teeth. Fourth question. He has one left after this. He needs to make it count. The fire between them gutters, throwing Truthless's face into sharp relief—the hollows under his eyes, the way his lips press thin as if physically restraining words. Sage exhales through his nose. Fine. If he wants to play semantics, Sage will corner him with history instead. History he’s been curious about, anyway.
"What do you know of the Ancient, 'Pure Vanilla Cookie'?" Sage watches as Truthless goes statue-still. His pupils contract to pinpricks, the blue flame in his palm flickering wildly once more before snuffing out entirely. The silence is deafening, if not for the beating of their hearts. Sage can hear the way Truthless's breath hitches, the way his throat clicks when he swallows. Interesting. Very interesting. Truthless exhales, slow and controlled— nearly too controlled, for someone as himself. "A fool," he says at last, voice scraped raw. "A sentimental fool who trusted too easily." His fingers twitch toward his sternum, where the Souljam he used to hold pulsed beneath layers of fabric. The movement is aborted halfway, but Sage sees it all the same.
Sage leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice drops to something softer, something almost tender. "Sentimental enough to heal a kingdom, I heard." Truthless's laugh is bitter, sharp as shattered glass. "Sentimental enough to lose it," he corrects. The admission hangs between them, thick with something Sage can't name—regret? Grief? Rage? Maybe all three. The firelight paints shadows across Truthless's face, carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. For a moment, Sage sees the ghost of someone else—someone younger, softer, with hands that healed instead of harmed. Someone long buried beneath the weight of a crown he never wanted.
Fifth question. Sage hesitates. He knows—he’s always known, really, in the way one knows the shape of their own reflection. But hearing it confirmed? That’s another matter entirely. Truthless watches him, eyes dark with something unreadable. Sage exhales, slow, deliberate. "Truthless Recluse." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Are you Pure Vanilla Cookie?" The words hang between them, and Sage is almost waiting for the inevitable, for him to be kicked out. Instead, all he gets is—
Silence. Deafening, unbearable silence. Truthless doesn't move, nor does he breathe. The firelight catches the edges of his silhouette, casting him in gold and shadow, and for a moment, he looks peaceful. Then, Truthless exhales, slow and shuddering, like a man stepping out of his own grave. "That name," he murmurs, voice scraped raw, "died with the kingdom he failed to save.” He doesn't deny it. Doesn't confirm it. But Sage knows. Oh, he knows. And the weight of that truth settles between them like snowfall—quiet, inevitable, and quite frankly? suffocating.
Sage doesn't realize he's crying until a tear splashes onto his wrist, hot and unnatural against his dough. He watches Truthless—Pure Vanilla—watches the way his fingers twitch toward his ribs, where the Souljam used to lie. The same one he held on his own chest-as if stolen. "Failed?" Sage whispers, and there's something horribly fragile in his voice, something that cracks halfway through the word. "Did you not try your best?" The question hangs between them, trembling. He doesn't mean to ask it. Doesn't mean to prod at wounds still weeping, but gods, does he has to know. Has to understand why the hands before him, once so gentle, now shake with the weight of their own violence. Was this to be his own future? Would he fall the same? Would he too succumb to the weight of--
?
Truthless moves before Sage can blink—his arms snapping around the scholar’s shoulders, pulling him flush against his chest with a violence that rattles Sage’s teeth. It’s not comfort, he knows. it’s containment. Away from his own thoughts, the same thoughts meant to corrupt even the purest of souls. Truthless’s fingers dig into Sage’s back like claws, his breath jagged against Sage’s ear as he spoke. "You’re strong," he rasps, and it’s not praise—it’s a plea, wrapped in a voice warm. The words shudder through Sage’s ribs, forcing their way into his conscious. "Stronger than I ever was. Promise me. Promise you won’t—" His voice fractures. The scent of Vanilla is telling, now.
“Promise me you won’t be weak, and fall to the same demise I did.”
Sage feels Truthless’s—no, Pure Vanilla’s—heartbeat stutter against his chest, erratic as a caged bluebird. The scent of vanilla is overwhelming now, sweet and cloying, buried beneath centuries of ash and regret. Sage doesn’t pull away. Instead, he fists his hands in the fabric of Pure Vanilla’s robes, gripping so tight the seams groan. “I can’t promise that,” he admits, voice muffled against Pure Vanilla’s shoulder. “But I can promise I won’t let you watch me fall alone.”
Pure Vanilla’s breath hitches. His grip tightens briefly before loosening, fingers trembling as they skim Sage’s spine. The firelight catches the glint of something wet on his lashes. “Sentimental fool,” he whispers, but there’s no bite left—just exhaustion, and something dangerously close to relief. Outside, the wind howls through the tower’s cracks, carrying with it the faintest echo of a bell tolling. Ah, 12:00 already.
Pure Vanilla hums, tapping Sage’s shoulder.
“Merry Christmas, Blueberry Yoghurt Cookie.”
Blueberry Yoghurt smiles, resting his head against the Former King’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas to you too, Pure Vanilla.”.
Shadow Milk scoffs, shoving at Pure Vanilla’s face.
“Do not—no! Get those chapped lips away from me, or so Witches help me-“
Pure Vanilla only grins, pressing closer, always uncaring of the way Shadow Milk’s claws dig into his cheeks—and smacks a warm kiss to Shadow Milk’s forehead. The latter wails, flailing as if burned, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand and sputtering in disgust. “Repulsive,” he hisses, flashing sharp canines as Pure Vanilla laughs brightly and genuinely before grabbing Shadow Milk’s wrist and yanking him forward into another embrace. Shadow Milk stiffens, pulling at his blonde hair half heartedly before sighing dramatically and allowing himself to be manhandled. “You’re damaging my reputation.”
Pure Vanilla rubs his cheek against Shadow Milk’s lashing hair, clicking his tongue (and failing to suppress a smile at the eyes that were very interested in staring at him from where they lay in his lover’s hair). “What reputation? You have none.” The insult earns him a kick to the shin, and Shadow Milk snaps his jaws near his ear—not close enough to bite, but close enough for Pure Vanilla to feel the heat of his breath. “Rude,” Shadow Milk mutters, but his fingers twist into Pure Vanilla’s robes, clinging tight enough to wrinkle the gentle fabric beyond repair.
The former king cups Shadow Milk’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the sharp jut of his cheekbones—softer now than they used to be, less hollowed by hunger. Shadow Milk stiffens, pupils dilating as Pure Vanilla leans in. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might bolt, might vanish into the shadows with a snarl—but then Pure Vanilla kisses him, slow and deliberate, and Shadow Milk exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping all at once. His claws snag in Pure Vanilla’s sleeves, but they don’t push him away—they pull him closer, until Shadow Milk is practically folded into him, knees pressed to Pure Vanilla’s thighs from where he floated.
He pulls away, smiling at his lover. “Merry Christmas, My bluebird.” Shadow Milk scoffs, flicking his forehead. “Merry christmas to you,too, silly nilly.” The words drip with exasperation, but the pupils of the eyes in his hair shape to hearts very tellingly. Pure Vanilla beams, tucking Shadow Milk’s wild hair behind his ear and lingering at the pointed tip, grinning when Shadow Milk’s ear twitches. “You’re blushing,” he sing-songs, voice warmer than any cocoa could ever be. Shadow Milk hisses, smacking his hands away—except his claws don’t scratch, don’t even catch dough.
Shadow Milk turns, tilting his head.
“Oh. I bet you were wondering where fount was? Yeah, welll~, since the author deems fount the last form of moi to be loved, he is stuck…Take a look~!”
“Fount, fount!! On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…”
Fount nearly sobs, palms pressing into his forehead as he mumbled:
“6-7 christmas trees..”
Needless to say, all is swell!! Uh. Except for fount. @fount! Is this true?
MERRY CHRISTMASSSS!!!!!!MWA MWA!!
And to my regular readers, or ones that knowww i know you..
THANK YOU SO MUCH !!!!i’m so happy you’ve been here with me through my bad writings, my good writings, my… less than prestigious writings!! I truly am so happy to go into a new year with you all!!