Chapter Text
Narratives were like the sap of Culture, as a concept.
Their circulation kept its many branches and flowered, leafy ends alive, so they would continue synthesising more experiences, evolving, growing taller, more dense and rich. Those experiences, when recorded and remembered, be it through oral or written transmission, were classifiable as stories. They were the foundation of all that was complexly social.
Some stories, seen as explanations and origins, like all those of mythological nature, acted like a binding resin that repaired gaps and wounds when the sapling stretched too far, when it broke due to outside disturbance, or some other kind of issue. It allowed for mistakes, for change, painful but certain.
Human society relied on culture, much like culture relied on human society. Not one without the other. Narratives shaped reality through subjective and perceived objectivity. Perceived, because even science was the human interpretation of what existence could contain and mean.
To be human was to write history, through fictional and non-fictional stories, however infinitesimal they may appear to be in the endlessly expanding context of the Earth and space, or to the so-called fundamental stories themselves.
This was, through a much more metaphorical lens, a variation of something Nox had been taught all his life. Or, rather, since he’d begun his time here, what he knew as he was now, if one was to be specific— The timing of it all hardly mattered, if he gave it a minute. Time was just an invented concept, after all; And he of all people best knew just how its passage was only visible through change. And Nox had not changed in a long time.
He couldn’t really make out where one period of his life ended and another began anymore. It filled him with something akin to sadness, despite how little or how long it’d actually been.
That past had stopped existing a while ago, though he yearned for few things about it— He yearned to be human again. To feel the prick of wooden splinters if he touched a run down foundation, in the freshness of the autumn night air, out on the patio to watch the stars. To feel the warmth of the blood dripping out, when he’d take the intruder out of his epidermis. To be able to feel the slightest breeze on his skin, the water and the dampness of his fingerprints, when he later washed it off. To not mind the splashes, so long as they didn’t land in his hair. To feel the dimples on that pretty face, the one that formed when he smiled scowled at him.
Despite this, Nox didn’t think of himself as a yearning soul.
Not entirely, despite how it only felt natural to call it that.
Yearning was an inherently human experience, integral to the human condition. And he was no longer human. Yes, Keys Are People Too, though Ex Libris ensured it would depend on one’s definition of personhood, and his certainly included them— But it was different. He had experienced a loss that was impossible to describe with words.
Violet had told him— Human existence was an endless chase, most often of purpose; A ritual of pining after an objective, or following a semblance of one. Much like they did, now.
Those people, the ones who yearned for gifts, who came seeking wishes from them, they always searched for what they felt they’d lost, she said. Whether it be the right to possessing large wealth, to resisting the erosion of memory, to receive someone’s love that would never belong to them otherwise-
It was always a search of the sort. The seeking of a goal to accomplish. It was no coincidence stories always relied on them to exist— A story without a goal would hold little to no traction, and even less worth. At least, to most anyone. It would fade into the sands of irrelevance.
He often wondered whether or not she’d just said that to make Nox feel like a man again, rather than holding to it as an actual belief. She was wise as much as she was compassionate, Ih her own elegant and slightly tough way— She’d picked up such traits as a sister to other the Keys, and she made use of her skills with him now.
To mixed outcomes.
Situations where such uncertain questions were said to hold simple, definitive answers, were some where Nox’s inherent contrarianism always popped up and made him feel the need to question, regardless of whose mouth it came out of, or how good it did him to ponder on it seriously.
So, Violet said it was a good thing, to have an objective. She encouraged him to keep going, for their family. Nox was not so sure anymore.
He felt a ghost on his lips. A shudder ran down where his spine would be.
Did the ends justify the means? Did the means justify the ends? Did the ends hold more worth? Did the means? Which ones, if so? Was it relative? Were there absolutes?
For being, in part, an artifact that helped assist in the completion of miracles, he was certainly torn about it, about them.
It was, as a whole, part of a more global debate he now had with himself ad nauseam, ever since he met the brat.
Well— Not quite. A little after that. After he proved his determination, non-incompetence, and a hint of compassion, though Nox still didn’t understand why he bothered to at all, given he never quite tried to appreciate the stories as they were written until he was challenged to do so. Somehow, he still derailed it, and showed more sympathy towards the fictitious characters than he did the author’s intentions. Nox knew Ex Libris would have laughed in the face of such irreverence.
It used to be so simple.
That was a mantra he had now taken up whenever he was hesitant due to that interference, acting like he believed that thinking it hard enough would somehow make it true.
It was merely self-soothing.
He couldn’t go around pretending he didn’t notice that ever since he and the brat had grown to be on better terms, his narratonin yields had gotten much better. He should’ve felt excited by such a prospect. And yet all he could feel was incessant dread, and a need to look away from the products of his work.
It was easy to play by his assigned role, abide by its rules, its proper needed logic, however heavy and saturated with a sense of unrest it made him feel— It was not guilt, it couldn’t be, and he could not afford it—, he remembered it like it was a moment ago.
Where had he gone wrong, exactly?
Though he didn’t want to, he allowed his mind to guide him through his memories, in search of an answer.
The first time he’d noticed it was back at the beach.
Gorgeous location, it had been, with skies so clear they made the void look full, and water so translucent he was able to see his feet perfectly, even with water up to his neck. He only knew that because he’d been pushed to go in, as he would never willingly get anywhere near that state, otherwise. He was suddenly made aware of the fact he disliked water the slightest bit less, nowadays.
The brat had helped him make flames earlier. He’d appeared to grant him help, channeling rays into heat through a bottle. Ironically, at that moment, Nox’s eyes had not perceived an obstacle or tool, but instead a person who embodied a blessing from the solar star itself. The hair surrounding his face was being hit by the blinding light of the midday sun, and made to glow like a halo, framing the face of an angel. He had asked for him to stay so he could look at it the slightest bit longer, and he had obliged him, as he often did.
Sundown had filled those blonde curls with shades of fire he didn’t even know existed, a walk later. The image had been burnt into his mind that evening, and he hated the idea that he would never get to see it again. Hated that he would never see it in person. He would have to get in the way of whatever he wanted to do for himself at some point, they had discussed that inevitability, and evidently, that implied he would not be graced with his presence following that.
Still, he tried to commit it to memory, so it could survive for as long as he could breathe. A small eternity. He probably hung onto it more than the other ever would, and that was okay, it was his one greatest treasure, along with Violet’s presence. One he should not, and could never have.
He could only blame himself for that. He yearned for two types of sunlight the way Icarus had yearned for the skies. It was an entirely fruitless endeavor, and either way, he was going to feel the burn.
In the meantime, he still soared above the seas.
His flight, on that island– It had been a moment in time where he’d been able to experience beauty to its fullest, even though he’d been certain that he never could again. He should not have been mourning the fact it would die with both of them, unrecorded and unspoken of. And yet, he felt grief.
Nox looked back to it, and remembered he couldn’t think of a moment where he had been enjoying the company of another— Of a human being, so intensely, in so long. Worst of all, it was true, sincere, despite their differences both in temperament and sides of a conflict, as he had now learned. That made him incomprehensibly uncomfortable, and yet, he couldn't help himself.
The memory tasted like chocolate. A strong, toasty flavor, an aromatic embodiment of comfort. The fond smile addressed his way and the rustling of the wrappers had been carved into his mind. It was part of why he liked to revisit it, despite knowing it inevitably soured on the second night, filling his mouth with the punch of fictitious sand and vague sensations of a foot to the face when morning came.
He had been so angry then. The little idiot’s sense of self-righteousness had been entirely self-triggered, his words much too loosely strung together, like making a sword out of rusty razors and duct tape, and Nox would have still thought it utterly unwarranted, if not for what his own past self did next.
He had never realised he had so much sin staining his hands, and at that moment, he could feel it like it was directly touching his nerves, and not his metallic exterior, or his fictitious flesh. It was in the wood he held onto. The one he let go of to hug his own sides like he a child being yelled at again, because he knew what he’d done had been a grave, grave error.
That slash wasn’t real. It was gone the next time they saw each other. But in that instant, with that little red pearl running down his cheek like a tear neither of them was shedding, he had never felt more like he was accomplishing his role to perfection.
And it was an awful feeling. It made him feel sick, it made him feel wrong.
What a miserable existence.
He felt so bad for having such a sore-spot with these thoughts.
Quite recently, he had confirmed the other was capable of lying to him, and didn’t trust him— Despite demanding to be trusted, the little hypocrite— And he already knew that, so it shouldn't have even mattered, because words were as provable as evaporated water and had no weight at all if unsupported by acts— And that lead him back to not being certain the brat was even half as kind as he claimed to be, or if Big Gold, Bronze and Little Silver were all in the clutches of yet another terrible, selfish human who wanted something they refused to achieve— His thoughts frequently entered such frenzy.
Products of fears that had filled his mind since the start, dictated his measures, his approach, and that were now hard to turn away from.
Facing the blind faith that was put into him two days prior, by the object of these thoughts, it could come to demolish the foundation for a lot of his acts and behaviors if he wasn’t careful; All that, as it opened a door to something impossible and hard to grasp at. The unknown was scary and unpredictable. Unpredictable meant he would not be in control. And Nox relied on control to survive.
The letter had soothed some of his worries, despite everything. Although his ever-distrusting mind frequently reminded him of the possibility she could’ve been forced to write such words.
But the blonde wouldn’t have prioritised getting her word to him, to Violet, first, in the face of oblivion, if he didn’t actually care—
And Silver was smart, she would’ve hidden something in code if she needed to, or Bronze would have in her stead if the need was present, surely…
But then, that would mean–
It was because of that mounting pile of evidence that Nox now found himself feeling like he had marbles in his stomach, weighing him down painfully, whenever he so much as considered any thought like that about him seriously. Even with his experience as one of the Twelve Keys.
Worst of all, he knew why.
Everything that had happened at that moment had lead him to a singular, terrifying conclusion:
He wouldn’t have done something like that. It was simply not who Chase was, because Chase was a good person.
He sighed, and quietly cursed the fact he was saddened by the absence of a large hoodie in the room, as he shuffled the raggedy piece of fabric he used as cover between his iron hands.
He had never been one to find sleep easily— His mind was too active, and he was incapable of proper rest, a majority of the time. The never-ending churning of events and challenged convictions kicked around in his brain, refused to allow him the blessings and curses of Morpheus. That hoodie had been comfortable, it had felt lived in, and it had been the closest thing to an embrace he thought he’d be able to experience from an outsider anytime soon, before the crypt incident. It was why he’d gotten greedy, back in the sandy dungeons (though, if he could be honest with himself and face the full truth, he’d been indulging since the very start).
That night, in the sleeve of that red monstrosity, had been the most comfortable night he'd had in a while. His head had been filled with thoughts of being complimented on his appearance regarding something he didn’t even notice himself; A very clear sign that he was perceived, deemed important enough to remember by another person, by him.
The thought made his chest ache, though it moved without breath or heartbeat.
A little too desperately, he pulled the blanket up to where his heart would be, and tried to pretend it was the same.
It was not.
Something very specific was lacking.
Chase had this warmth to him— It permeated his very being, regardless of actual temperature. Similar to it, Nox pointed out to himself, was the way chocolate tasted. One could feel it in the way it rubbed off on everything he touched. The hoodie, the fictional characters he helped when he was not supposed to, his friends he brought along— He, Buddy, Nox himself. He realised it when he thought of discarded thorns on the floor, ripped off the clothes they were made to adorn mercilessly. What had been left in their place had been a little yellow peony.
That hoodie had been returned to its rightful owner, some books ago. He recalled scoffing at himself when it was over, as he noted that things only got to that point because the other party didn’t know to surrender what wasn’t his. Opposites, attraction, something like that. It was rather ridiculous, and such lighthearted thinking was not typical of him. It had been before, when he was planning ways to ruin his day, make him give up. He hadn’t been worthy, then. The last instance of that had been back when they were still exchanging fists. Waging war on the sidekick was different.
Violet, too, mentioned that he seemed a bit different. Less guarded, occasionally.
It had held some moral weight to it. She appeared to consider the mere idea of calling ‘the humans’ by names or nicknames in a light that was overtly negative, so to explain this blossoming connection and the changes it lead to...
He’d heard many of her well-intentioned warnings; They had a very cautious edge to them, sharpened by years of experience. To say he was less guarded— It was a statement that made him feel guilty and guiltier, like he was setting himself up for failure.
She was still concerned by the possibility any sort of connection was making him too soft, getting him to lose sight of his objective. He tried to share her concerns. He ignored the part of his mind that supplied it, on the contrary, only motivated him further, in the desperate and impossible attempt to hope for the utmost unattainable. There would not be a happy ending for both of them. Even if looking at the shine of his teeth when he smiled vaguely made him feel otherwise. With that in mind, he could not even trust himself.
“Nox?”
Particularly not after neglecting his place in reality.
He had said it himself, he was not a hero. He never would be, no matter the narrative. It was simply not his assigned part to play.
Just once was an irregularity, a flaw in the continuum of his existence. He had to say it, because it was true.
His voice had broken harder than it had back at the beach. He had been trembling like the ground had, in his arms.
“I’m scared. I-I don’t want you to go. But you have to go now…”
He sounded utterly terrified. Entirely hopeless, like he’d foreseen his lone, grim end already. Nox’s heart, whatever was left of it, had shattered hearing it in his ear. Chase had never looked so openly broken before.
He knew he couldn't cry, out here. He had no tear ducts to sob out of. But he could still vividly feel the sensation of tears pooling in his eyes again just thinking about it, like he was back under that tree, surrounded by paper rot.
The words had left his mouth like he had been sure of himself. He hadn’t been, he hardly ever was, lately. But it had been what he needed to push away the fear of dying alone.
“I can stay a little longer.”
Feeling clung onto like a lifeline— He had been made into one, even then, when all hope was lost and at the end of the world. The warmth that had filled his ribcage when he’d seen the embers of hope come back to life in those brown eyes, it had made the icy cage around his heart evaporate, launching his heartrate to the sky.
And when presented with the ability to save him, he…
It had been heresy of the highest degree. He still felt so surprised by the other’s sudden epiphany— Like he’d finally understood something about himself and the world around him that he had not before. Nox wasn’t afforded that luxury. He still doubted, even now. A story without roles was like a story without a goal— It lost meaning, worth— Didn’t it?
But then, why would it accept that ending? Why would it give either of them any narratonin?
He wasn’t meant for the role it had ultimately given him— He wasn’t deserving of it, and it was not his place— It wasn't an intentional redemption, in fact, it wasn’t a redemption at all; It was utterly nonsensical, its existence not meant to be.
Nox had wanted it, though. He had wanted it like he wanted to be human, and he didn’t know what to make of it now.
That had been why he hadn’t left, why he’d committed such a profound act of blasphemy in the face of what he knew he was meant to embody. With his own life not risked, as far as he knew, nothing could possibly come to justify it.
The truth stared him in the face, and he couldn’t look it in the eye. Because he knew he would do it again, if the opportunity was to rise. If it hadn’t been too much. If he hadn’t broken his rules.
He wanted to be Chase’s hero, in a situation like that. He wanted to be a savior to the angel that had rescued him from the depths of that coffin without hesitation. He wanted to feel the softness of his hair under his fingers, the velvety texture of his skin, the pulse of his heart in his ear, the way he had been cradled back like he was something more precious than life itself, the spread of his warmth through his lips. He wanted to be that close to him again. He—
“Nox, can you hear me???”
A firm voice tuned him out of the spiral of thought he’d gotten lost in, accompanied by the lightest pressure on his shoulder. His musings were gone, shoved back down like dirty clothes and an idol shrine under a bed, and left to stew as ingredients of an unholy melting pot, into his deep unconscious.
“Y-yes, sorry. I was.. Thinking things over. I’m with you, I just… I needed a moment.”
He could tell by the way shiny purple eyebrows knit together that he sounded insincere. He frowned back in turn, to make himself look more convinced. It just made him look conflicted, which wasn’t off. Her measured silence screamed she could tell, yet out of grace, she didn't insist. She was normally difficult, but they could not afford to waste a single spare second.
“Alright. Silver is currently active. I have come to fetch you.”
She knew it was not a good time. It was easy to guess, with the way blue gems reflected the floor angrily, emotions directed at abstraction rather than object. But they were out of options and running out of time. They knew it better than anyone else.
Nox had to suck it up. And he would, as he always had.
“Let’s.. Get to it.”
His gaze focused and hardened with a practiced attempt at gathering himself. He picked the pieces of his mess up, and rearranged them back into what was most efficient. He left his resting place, following behind glittery heels, with thorny vines climbing up his walls once more. Despite his apathetic expression, all he knowingly experienced was dread. He ignored the longing, a blossoming bush with flowerbuds in a variety of grays and yellows, because it was not supposed to exist.
He couldn’t do this anymore.
He had no choice. Reality had warned him of his fate in the past, and he had to face the consequences of disobedience in the present.
He only allowed himself to hope it would, for once, enact fairness, and grant Chase the mercy he’d been deprived of.
…
Chase was just about bouncing off the walls, despite waking up a mere hour ago. That was rather unusual for him.
It was hard for him to say he could’ve had a nicer 18th birthday and mean it, after yesterday. At least, without stepping into the realm of impossibility, like somehow blowing up in popularity after having deleted his socials, or finding all of the missing keys, gathering the needed narratonin, convincing a certain someone to grant him a little time with Violet, maybe getting to see his gorgeous icy eyes in person, making that wish so mom could feel okay and live again— Aaand there he was. going off-topic. Damnit, Chase.
Back to his birthday!
He’d gotten a lot of gifts he liked! Like a knitted rose and star sweater, new guitar strings, a simple mic set-up to record vocals with, gluten free cake, Allistair merch— The list was long and full of joy.
Even better, for the bigger part of the day, he’d gotten to hang out with Danielle, Simon and Ross (in his FACE, by the way, he was 18 too now too! No more “baby height” or “needs applesauce” jokes!! Free at last!!!), and did karaoke with them after a laser game (he won! Because Deacon was on the other team, mostly, but he won!).
He only had sparse occasions to do things like that, as of late, so managing to be with them and keep up felt like a nice change of pace.
He’d been so preoccupied, with his mom, the wish, the keys, and his favorite dark skillet, as of late— The former (and latter, though he’d only just gotten to admitting it) barely left his mind.
She’d sounded so tired, in that bed of hers. He avoided pictures of her from last year so he wouldn’t notice her shrinking like a bouquet left out to dry. That strategy didn’t work very well, not when the situation jumped up at him at every opportunity. She hadn’t been able to come greet him downstairs, though she’d promised she’d try— He’d soaked her slice of cake in as much tea as he could without making it soggy…
Yet again, he was back to thinking about it.
Maybe it would be best for him to not think at all.
Attempting to find peace, he waved those thoughts away with one hand, the motion anchoring him back to reality.
His brown eyes were greeted by the attic window’s familiar green view of the farm, and he felt himself relax slightly.
He didn’t like being like his cousin when it came to this stuff— the man embodied sufficient anxiety and maladaptive daydreaming for the two of them, and still somehow had enough to spare for the entire state of California.
But he truly couldn’t help himself, and he knew that. Some things could not be ignored through overcompensation— That time-sensitive issue specifically being one of them.
It was frustrating for him, to get so much work done and yet end up with so little narratonin. The more time went by, the more he had to drain from the jar whenever he visited Myra, and the more it would set him back on that damn wish. Gathering the keys was slow enough— And that just made it worse.
He'd been going over potential causes for it over and over, with Deacon’s help, now that he saw how well even Prunella was doing with Goldie. He concluded that, with Silver not feeling any effects due to the crack she used to have, it had to be his fault. He was doing his best, though— Giving it his all! Even if he deviated from the story, it was usually for fun or safety purposes; He’d been enjoying himself a lot, as of late, so it should’ve had to work, right? Not to mention Deacon for sure joined in with his antics, most of the time, too?? How come no one else seemed to be punished for it???
A frustrated humm escaped his throat, catching the attention of busy hands, but he didn’t pay it mind. He needed to feel better—
Yes, on the bright side, this had been the second party he’d gone to since everything-book-and-magic started. And he didn’t come back home to Bronze calling him a moron. So that was a clear show of personal improvement, in his humble and objective opinion!
There. That was something to be happy about.
His gaze caught onto a rust-coloured sparkle, as he looked away from the window.
Speaking of Bronze, it appeared that he and Deacon were discussing brands of peanut-butter candies. Something about prices shooting up lately. The small man seemed empathetic to the idea being discussed, at least, until the 20-year-old knocked over one of the Reese’s cups he was snacking on.
“Oh! Sorry, I—”
The tall man’s apology reflexes were on point. His catching ones? Not so much. There was reason as to why he only did one year of basketball, back in highschool.
Too slow!, The treat seemed to say, falling off the box the Heroine Key called home.
They both watched as it rolled its way under some furniture, frozen like deer in headlights. Their witnesses, Silver (still knitting), Chase, and Goldie (on a gummie-pillow), were much of the same. Aside from the latter letting out a slightly exaggerated gasp.
The first of them all to break out of that state was the braid-wearing one. He hopped off the cardboard to leisurely walk to the scene of the crime, and got down on one knee to check the lost treasure’s position. He muttered something, when he found it, and got up.
Before any of them had the chance to do anything, Bronze had already disappeared behind the dusty shelf. The silence was deafening.
After a minute of pure suspense, a spark of burnt orange emerged, dragging the peanut buttery treat behind it. He, and the food, were caked in dust, to the point he looked matte and unshiny. He didn’t even bother to clean up or go that far before sitting down, pulling the treat into his lap like he was a pirate checking booty after a successful raid.
Chase giggled a bit, amused and fond at the sight of this display. Bronze was not lazy, per se. He just knew when not to bother— Or, rather, had strong convictions regarding his decisions when it came to that. Deacon, despite somewhat knowing him better, did not share this sentiment, and it was easy to tell by the look of disgust painted on his face. He even looked worried. And also conflicted. A classic menu, in the facial expression restaurant of Deacon.
It came together into a very odd, delectably comedic blend.
Chase was full-on laughing now.
Finally, as the candy bar-sized man reached to break off a piece and continue eating like nothing had happened, the brunette voiced his concerns, with energy somewhere on the spectrum between ‘dog owner trying to convince dog not to swallow shoe’ and ‘unpaid, burnt out school nurse’;
“You’re not eating that. It’s dusty!”
One of the Helper Key’s eyebrows shot up towards the sky so fast Chase briefly considered the possibility it spontaneously gained sentience, and was scared to miss its flight at the eyerport (hairport?).
“… I am literally metal. It’s fine.”
The nonchalance, though expected, only served to make the blonde double over harder, looking like folded origami.
“But— But it’s gross! Seriously??”
Bronze, unperturbed, looked Deacon dead in the eyes. Then, measuring his every movement, he took a slow bite.
The message, evidently, being: Don’t tell me what to do with my food.
And with the way in which he then dusted it off thoroughly, after making sure the med student held his face in his hands and groaned, he added in parentheses: (Even if you might be right.)
Needless to say, Chase was on the floor. Silver was trying her hardest not to offend Deacon by laughing, stuffing her face with cheese pretzels to make sure of it, and the Hero Key had wandered over to his brother to ask for a dusty bite too.
Moments like these helped the blonde recover his determination, when he felt it slipping. It reminded him that, despite the time-sensitive nature of his objective, he could enjoy the journey leading to it, too. He would get there, he knew that— He wasn't one to give up on things he really wanted. He just needed these instances to remind him that he didn’t have to make himself miserable getting there.
Although, again, by the ancient fury present in his side-eyeing of him, his cousin was no longer of the same mind. He was turning to face the aspiring boyband-king to give him a piece of his thoughts, when Bronze hummed something that immediately made his features soften from scowl to smile.
“I do appreciate the concern.”
He left it at that, straight to the point, as always. Whether it’d been to be clear towards the taller man or get him to spare his relative from his ire, Chase didn’t know, but he was grateful nonetheless.
Deacon’s stink-eye could kill millions, if it had any material weight. Aunt Beth would’ve been the first to know. They were thankfully quite rare— The blonde knew they weren’t his usual “annoyed but fond” glares, as they were devoid of any other simultaneous gestures. He only did these when he was genuinely tired, and with how much research he’d been doing for Aunt Myra’s sake, it was unsurprising to find him acting like this.
He still went all the way over to Chase— Without a hint of anger, this time, instead boasting a more thoughtful expression.
“By the way— I know I gave you the present I had planned to already. But! I was given an idea, when Ross called you a wuss— After the lights went out yesterday.”
Chase’s eyebrow quirked upwards, and he was faced with a choice. Either insist on the fact he was not a scaredy-cat, because he wasn’t, and risk fighting Deacon, hence wasting time instead of working in a story. Or accepting defeat and listening to prove them wrong in the long-run. Ultimately, he went with the second option, biting back a snarky remark on the topic.
“‘M listening..”
Deacon pulled his laptop onto his thighs, and opened it as he spoke.
“It’s a surreal, atmospheric exploration game from a few years back. I watched a playthrough to an ending, it’s not a scary game at all— It’s mostly just eerie. So you get to add an actually solid piece of evidence to saying you’ve played a horror game, next time you plead not-guilty to being easy to spook! Though you certainly are.”
The blonde chose to ignore that last part, and instead focus on his unexpected gift. He regarded the machine with a curious gaze.
“Are you sure that’s okay? I don’t want to hog your computer for a silly thing like that when you’re studying or researching.”
His eyes wandered the screen to where the download option had been triggered, and then the game page. It looked like a strange, low-poly world. The preview video had paused on a grassy hill that disappeared into the darkness.
The brunette just shrugged off the younger one’s concerns, making them slip away like water on a seagull’s feathers.
“You could spare a little more time away from your usual mindset— You’ve been getting weird, lately. And a lot of this game’s reviews claim it’s got a way of making you feel at peace for a bit. I don’t think you’ve quite understood how much you need these breaks, even with what happened when you were sick.”
The blonde opened his mouth to protest, but the other sternly cut into it before he had the chance to.
“Everyone’s worried about you, Chase. Even Prunella can tell you’re still pushing it. You only took a break because of your birthday, and already wanna go back even though we almost died.”
A short silence washed over them both. They hadn’t really discussed what had happened in depth, last time. Mostly because neither of them wanted to. Chase looked uncomfortably pale, remembering paper faced imitations of his friend and family. Deacon was frozen like he felt his limbs turning into something unfleshy and cellulosed again.
This time, the former broke the silence, voice soft and hesitant.
“I’m doing this for mom, you know that.. But, fine. You’re right. I can’t do anything if I get myself or any of you hurt.”
He didn’t quite believe that first mention. But it was irrelevant, he just had to sound sufficiently convincing. Deacon had enough to deal with by himself, on top of generously helping with Myra and the Keys, hence the addition of still needing to watch out for his now adult cousin being most certainly unwelcome.
The sharp talons of shame grabbed a hold of him and dragged him into its waters when he spoke next.
“I promise I’ll give your game a try, I just— Could we.. Do a short story? While it downloads? Please.”
I don’t want to suffocate in the guilt of inaction. I need to see Buddy.
With what had happened, Chase had a lot of hopes— One of them included asking the mysterious raven for help. Trusting him, as he had pointed out. The Villainess Key Holder was able to do things with good intent, he was sure of it now— Surely, if Chase helped him get away from his situation...
Deacon frowned, the freckles on his cheeks shifting with his facial muscles. He seemed somewhat opposed to the idea, but ultimately, sensing the blonde’s pleading in his words, his empathy triumphed. He sighed and gave way, omitting to mention that the game had already finished downloading, and was freshly open. That could wait.
“Fine, let’s do that first.”
The younger Hollow’s expression lit up, and he moved to go grab something— A little bag. With lightning speed, he went down the stairs, returning with… A dark slice of cake, in a plastic box. He hastily threw it into the bag.
With a slightly louder voice, the other turned his head to call to their smaller friends.
“Hey, Silver, Bronze? Are you up for an adventure?”
The former, who’d been quietly listening into their interaction as she knit, had already put her needles aside. She placed the near-complete blanket on her oldest brother, who’d taken to laying in the sunlight after a dusty bite. He thanked her, and vowed to take great care of it in her absence. With that, she made her way to Chase, who picked her up in his hand. She turned into a key almost instantly, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful that she trusted him so much.
The Helper, on the other hand, had been snapped out of a nap to hop on over to the older of the two humans. There was worry, in those green gems of his— Yet he did not express it verbally, instead climbing onto Deacon’s hand.
The blonde gently grabbed the laptop as to place it aside, accidentally causing an end of Silver brush against the keyboard—
And there was a flash.
Deacon blinked a few times, stunned and blinded, then jolted when the machine was dropped back onto his lap. Bronze was equally as shocked, looking around and to the keyboard, and then the screen, where his sister was now glowing inserted. A gasp said his sibling shared the same sentiment.
Chase had vanished into the game.
Bronze’s voice broke the silence.
“We can do tha—?”
“YOU CAN DO THAT???”