#( thanks yami for the last bit w/ Dorothy btw 🫶 )

[memory-of-deross]

What if Hollow and Screenwriter have to share a room?

The room in question was freezing.

Screenwriter was left writhing where he sat, holding his arms close in some attempt to keep the warmth that was already fleeting with the others prominent presence. Both his mind and his body was far too accustomed to how the Metropolis would portray the cold, and even more so, the principle of Winter itself; snow littered the ground artificially as to not disturb the mechanical and bright nature of the city and the weather was unnatural, always decisive on the Aurora’s every word. Seasons simply did not come on their own within the capital, it sheltered the citizens further into a bubble that one couldn’t quite break. He knew what it was like to be cold, to some extent, but it was overwhelming now— feeling his right metallic hand clench up as the frost seeped into the nooks and crannies of it that helped it able to function, making the man hiss as he tried to shift it a bit more forcefully to no avail.

“Can’t you just end this already..” He muttered bitterly, looking over at his unfortunate companion of the day, who returned the resentment in his own gaze with something much more sharp, akin to an icicle that was pushing further and further into one’s skin; it only made Screenwriter run his left hand through his messy hair with irritation. There was far more important things to do, than entertain whatever childish grudge that Hollow held for him. He was not the person to do so nor would he ever be. Alas, the sentiment was lost on the other, as with any hope of his hand leaving the room without breaking apart as the harsh boreal only heightened with the others discontent. Great— Screenwriter’s eye twitched as the “God” sneered.

“You dare to disgrace the divine with such ill words? As long as you are mortal, if my wish is to damn you with frost, so be it.” The corner of Hollow’s mouth twitched into a smirk, nothing short of beaming with pride and if this was merely a hint of what others would put up with, Screenwriter would rather himself be tossed away into a junkyard and crushed than deal with this— or anything, for much else longer, it was like nails dragged along chalkboard, there was too many things to do and when time was so precious, spending it on someone like him would only be unwillingly.

He needed a nap. Desperately. Or his daughter, Dorothy— one of the two.

Screenwriter sucked in a breath as he shut his eyes, in some scarce hopes of tuning out the grating sounds of Hollow and to maybe get some semblance of rest, but it was disrupted as soon as the thought arrived, stomping footsteps from the others and something so cold that it made him wince seizing the collar of his shirt and jerked forward much to his dismay, coming face to face with the frosted over face of the damned annoyance.

“I’ll grace you with the truth, you—“

By no means had Screenwriter been a violent man. If anything, he found himself keeping his head low and biting his tongue if he could help it from doing something he would regret— living in the Metropolis taught him that you walked on glass that was bound to shatter as with your body if you were deemed troublesome, and aside from that, keeping something of a job was necessary for him and his daughter.

Of course, at the end of the day, he was nothing short of someone who let desperation and frustration get in the way of ration. And dealing with someone strutting around, calling themselves a God and even worse bothering him about it when he very much only wished to just rest…

Without thinking about it much, he raised his right hand, partly frozen at this point and swung right at the other’s face. A loud crack could be heard before his body suddenly leapt to lunge too and hands grabbing onto the others neck and squeezing.

“Why.. don’t. you. SHUT it?!”

… The crashing of furniture, punches thrown, and yells could be heard for a while afterwards. Oh dear.

Much later on, a young girl donning a light blue outfit skipped into the room, holding two coffee mugs in her hands, only to find the sight of a defeated, crumpled Hollow who was wilting with the pain, as her father was slumped against the wall, unlike the other who didn’t seem to have the energy to even move his hand after the fight, merely sleeping. The ice on his metallic hand was thawing quickly so.

“F.. Father—?” Dorothy called out and blinked, only to jump back as one of the mugs came falling onto the wounded Hollow, the heat of the coffee falling onto the ice creating steam as his pure white outfit was cast with the dark shade of the coffee.

A howl of pain echoed the room.