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byrdtrolls · 6 days

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Hunters and Prey

(Teehee, Matteo belongs to @contrastparadoxx !! who helped edit this drabble)

Here's the thing- Loneliness had never been a question from which he expected an answer. It was a presuit predator. It followed him at a steady, constant pace. His thoughts were only ever on moving fast enough to not be caught, right now. He did not imagine a life where he was not being hunted. Sweeps later trolls would say to him, it must have been so boring, living alone on that planet for sweeps. But he had never been bored. He could not afford to be. There was always food to be gathered, hunted. There was always more ruins to explore. There was always books to devour and skills to practice and more work to be done. If there was no work, there was nothing to think about. If there was nothing to think about, loneliness would hit him like a derailed train, an animal too big to fight or escape. It would throw him around in its jaws as if he were a toy, it would leave him bloody and bruised with a consuming dread that something was missing. His body knew something was missing before his mind.

When he was younger, Papparav had visited. He had appeared at the doorway and took Lakrav in his arms, he taught him to read, and to speak. He would tell him funny stories about far away places and mystical things, words he had to write down to look up in the dictionary later but sometimes still failed to understand. It has been sweeps since Papparav came. Lakrav thinks of him all the time. He could not conceive of a universe bigger than the gentle safety of his ancestors arms. When he hoped it was always for his return. There was no way, he could have predicted what was right in front of him. The foxtroll stands still for a moment, before slowly peeling his snow goggles off his face. The winds were low.

The snare had been set off, but not by a deer, or a moose, or even a rabbit or bird. It was easy to tell what had been upended by the rope was not an animal. His clothes were a dark, fleece-y gray that was not suited for this weather. He was shorter than him, but not by much. It was hard to tell when he was suspended upside down by a single leg. A trail of oddly colored blood dotted sparsely on the snow showed he had come from the east. He had already been bleeding when he was caught in the snare. It was likely the blood loss that rendered him unconscious. Lakrav circles the hanging troll, wide eyed, as if he could open his eyes wide enough to suddenly understand what he was seeing.

The caught troll had weird ears- they were not pointed like his, but instead sprung from his head in a strange pink fan, like an angry, oddly beautiful lizard. The blood was very, very pink. The wound was unlike any he had seen from a scratch or a bite or a trip or even frostbite. It was like a tiny little circular punch through the person's side, made easily visible by how his shirt hung down backwards towards the forest floor. Lakrav circles him, he looks through his pockets. There are some things he recognized as useful. A pen, a knife, a small piece of paper. There were some he immediately discarded. A tiny leather pouch full of plastic squares, one with a photo of the troll's head and writing on them. A little metal box with some buttons. He did not know what a phone was, and, not knowing how to turn it on, tossed it. He takes more time than perhaps he should have, before gently lowering the troll back to the earth. The candyblood thinks for a moment, before wrapping the sleeping body up in a sheet, and loading him onto the sled as if he were any other kill.

Lakrav probably didn’t need to have dressed his wound so thoroughly, (he had no idea of the troll’s regenerative powers) but he did. He didn’t have the sense or the know-how to try and remove the bullet from the body, he probably could not have guessed it was there. But he had carefully disinfected the wound, and stitched it shut with three well placed vertical mattress sutures, interrupted. He had switched him into clean, dry clothes, fleece and wool pants and a colorful t-shirt, leaving only the man’s undamaged jacket wrapped around his shoulders. He had set him by a fireplace, and put on a pot of stew and tea, guessing the troll should probably eat after the amount of blood he lost.

And then he had left him there, going to work on his other chores while the fushia’s body slowly warmed and healed. There were still animals to be cleaned, more prepping to be done for the cold season. He could not afford to lose an entire day to this strange circumstance. An hour or two passed before the man started to stir, his eyes blinking slowly in a strange, sleepy half squint at the warm tones of the place that surrounded him. He took in the smell of herbs and meat, the crackling of the fire, the softness of fabric on his skin, the faint and distant pain in his side. A strange feeling of safety overtook him for a long, half awake moment. But slowly, his eyes started to actually process what surrounded him.

The sight of the room he was laying in makes so little sense that Matteo briefly wonders if something bad happened when all the blood went to his head. The place sits at an ever so slight tilt, snow up to chest height stacked up in the windows. Some parts of it bore the marks of a hunter- animal pelts, bones, weapons and ropes glinting sinisterly in the firelight. But right beside them, there are stuffed animals- colorful and garish fabrics hung like decorative drapes on the wall. There are bright pictures of plants, some more well done than others. A little down the hall, there is a massive map. It seems to show the whole of the long abandoned colony where Lakrav had spent his entire life. A good portion of it was marked by a long, meandering trail of Xes. The Xes at the end of the trail are quick, steady, and decisive. The ones at the beginning are shaky, overlarge and colored, as if made by a child. The room is littered with half finished art projects. There is a corner of the room where, inexplicably, five long rows of various minion and spongebob plushies are hung like a watchful jury. He would laugh, if he was not so scared.

Suddenly, the man in the adjacent room perks up, perhaps having heard him shuffling with a very attuned ear. Lakrav steps out of the animal cleaning room, hanging up an apron and some gloves on the wall. The bloodstains on these items seem to do little work to ease Matteo’s anxiety, even with the childish and curious look on the man's face. Lakrav walks over, leaning over the fushiablood, who recoils ever so slightly. He does not seem to have a great idea of personal space.

“Hi!” he says. “You’re awake!”

Matteo does not answer, not sure if he could find a way how to, even if it weren’t for the months-long period of going non-verbal he was already enduring. Why is this guy so close to his face?

“Do you speak standard?” The man asks. “Do you want soup? Do you want tea? Who are you? What's your name? Why are you here? Did Papparav send you? Do you know him? Why do you have a crown? Why are you dressed so weird? Do you want to be friends? Are you good or evil?” He asks in succession, his social skills clearly a little rusty from lack of use. And then continues to stare as the fushiablood proceeds to answer none of these questions.

“What did this to you?” He says, pointing at the bullet wound. “You fell over on a pointy rod, heh? A perfectly circular bee?” He asks.

And the question itself is so bizarre that without even thinking, the word,

“What…?” Escapes Matteo’s lips.

The foxtroll lights up.

“You do talk!” He exclaims.

“It… seems I do” Matteo says slowly, as if just as surprised to discover this as his companion is.

“You should really have soup” Lakrav decides, stepping back to ladle some into a bowl from the pot. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“It’s- I’m-“ He begins to object, but then as the smell gets closer his body seems to realize that he is, in fact, hungry. He takes the bowl in his hands, warming them.

“I’m Lakrav,” Says Lakrav, pouring himself a cup of tea. “What’s your name?”

“…Matteo,” The fushia says, short answers still easier.

“Who hurt you?” The other troll asks, blowing gently on his mug. “What’s this?” He says, pointing to the crown on his head. Repeating his earlier questions as if he did not grasp the man may have had a reason not to answer them.

“I was, attacked” Matteo says, in between soup spoonfuls. His hand going to the little golden band that wrapped around the Heir's head. “It’s- a sign of royalty.” He sighs, “I’m a Prince” He says, not sounding that happy about it.

“Heh,” Lakrav says. “I didn’t think it was real! Wow! A Prince!” with incredibly genuine enthusiasm for a turn of phrase that would have lent itself so well to sarcasm anywhere else. “I hoped you were a chef, heh” He admits, touching his beanie.

“Wha- why?” The fuchsia stutters.

The mutant leans over and presses a single metal finger to his shoulder.

“You have a fork on your shirt” He jokes.

Matteo pauses, and looks down at the trident stitched onto his uniform’s jacket, then back at the stranger. “…I think it’s actually a threek”

“A three-k” Lakrav echoes, with a blank expression, silent for a moment, and then suddenly bursts out into vicarious laughter, like a man who has not heard a joke from someone else in a long, long while.

“Eheheh!!! That’s not a real word” He says, jovially lightly punching the other guy's shoulder, before suddenly frowning, remembering his wound.

Matteo winces ever so slightly, but cannot help but let a tiny smile tug at his face for a half second. He takes in the strangely hard and cold feel of the punch, and the shininess of the mutant's hands.

"Sorry" Lakrav says.

“What happened to your fingers?” Matt answers.

“Hmm?” Lakrav says, holding up his hands. His palms are flesh, but the digits themselves are clearly metal, held in place by a bony little exoskeleton that rested on top of the skin.

“Frostbite” he says, his tone still light and easy. “When I was six. You are lucky I found you so soon, ya? You might have lost some too” He grins, with all the casual tone of someone talking about their breakfast.

“Right” Matteo replies, thinking about attempting to explain his deepdweller traits that allowed him to survive lower temperatures, but quickly surmises it would likely be more trouble than it’s worth.

“How did you get here?” Lakrav asks, ever curious. “I’ve never seen anybody besides Papparav around here.”

“My ship,” He explains. “To observe the planets state”

“A ship!” Lakrav says. “Like a pirate? Are there more of you?” He seems very thrilled. He’s very close to Matt’s face again. It was hard enough to wrap his head around one troll- a whole ship of them! Who would have thunk?

“Yes,” Says Matteo, his fins pinned back in discomfort. “But-” He starts, his hand going to his wound, probably in an indication that he and the people on his ship were perhaps not quite on each other's sides right now. But he is interrupted.

“Can I meet them?” Lakrav says, with unbridled enthusiasm.

“I don’t think… that’d be wise” He deflects, staring at the troll across from him.

“Why not?”

“For the…” Matteo trails off. He attempts to figure out how to answer, gesturing in hopes the candyblood will pick up on his subtext. “Obvious… reasons?”

“The reasons?” Lakrav answers, his eyes still wide with more curiosity than hurt. “They are not obvious to me.”

The Fushia paused as he stared into the open trusting eyes of the troll across from him. Pupils like deep weights that were unwillingly dragging his heart down lower into his chest. Did he really- have to be the one? To have this conversation with him?

“You don’t… know…?” He says, slowly.

“Know what?” Lakrav answers.

“You’re a mutant?” Matteo says, his mouth almost wincing around the words leaving him, fins now both back and down. At least there was no one to be mad that he was showing his emotions on his sleeve.

“You know what?” Lakrav says. “I don’t. Let me go find my dictionary.” He says, with a joyful thumbs up, setting down his tea and walking back to his bookshelf, pulling an old, old standard dictionary off the wall, and leafing through it. The man reads the definition, and then frowns, reading it again, once, twice over, his brow furrowing in confusion and upset.

“This is a bad word” He says, sounding a little hurt.

“It’s-” Matteo stutters.

“Listen” Lakrav says, that trace of pain in his voice turning to righteous anger. “If we’re going to be friends. You can’t be calling me these kinds of things.”

“It’s- no, uhm” Talking was starting to hurt, after months of doing none. “Not… meant as an insult. Just- just a descriptor.”

“Well” The troll huffs, closing his eyes. “I think you are a mutant.” He says, clearly still caught up in his misinterpretation of the definition that this was an insult that could be applied to just about anyone, like idiot, or freak.

“I think you are being a total mutant to me right now” He says, crossing his arms.

“Im… a Fushia?” Matteo attempts. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

“It doesn’t?” Lakrav asks.

“Its-“ he worries, biting his lower lip, careful to not let his sharp teeth draw blood “Uhm, okay. Maybe it's a bad word. But it’s only ever used to refer to people like you- with strange blood colors or traits outside of the norm.”

“Why isn’t there a nicer word for that?” Lakrav asks, with seemingly genuine curiosity.

Matteo stares at him for a long while, before breaking eye contact, his face turning to the wall.

“I can’t answer that,” he says.

“Hmm” Lakrav says, picking up some of his subtext all the same. “You say this to me like it’s a very bad thing. Does it mean I am sick or something? Why wouldn’t somebody want to be one? I like my blood. It’s one of my favorite colors.”

“There are a lot of people” The fleet troll says slowly. “Who really hate mutants. They don’t think they should exist. They will likely treat you harshly. It’s dangerous for people like you.”

“I’m sure they would not feel this way,” Lakrav says, with unabashed confidence. “If they got to know me.”

“Many won’t try.” Matteo answers. Lakrav stares at him for a long moment, before his shoulders fall, disappointed.

“Are you one of these people?” He asks.

He opens his mouth to answer, but there is a sudden bang on the door, and Matteo goes deathly still.

Another bang, and it falls open, a whirlwind of ice cold snow overtaking the room instantly chilling both inhabitants. The fire dims in its place, and Lakrav stands up immediately.

“Hey!” He says. “Could you close that!” He pleads.

The perpetrator of this break in steps forward, glancing around the room.

“What kind of fucking circus is this, Princeling” She says dryly, glancing around at the strange decor, resting her chin on her hand. She does not bother to answer Lakrav’s question, her eye’s immediately locking in on the other highblood in the room. “Do you have any idea how much time and money we just wasted, me and the crew wandering around in sub zero looking for you? I’m going to write to the higher ups. Thought you were over this nonsense.” She complains. The neutrality of her tone does not mask the venom of its intentions. She then looks away, pressing a button on the black earpiece that clings to her pointed ears.

“This is Habitt Ferawn back to the Raptor. I have him. In some kind of underground lair with a possible hostile. Call back the scouts onboard, I can handle it.”

Lakrav pauses, wary, not knowing much about technology, he is hopelessly confused about who she is talking to. He glances back at Matteo. “Is she a prince too?”

Matteo only looks back helplessly, seeming to have lost the words that had been quietly making their way back to him.

The purpleblood turns to him. “Who’s your friend?” She says.

Matteo drags himself to his feet, not saluting the woman, because, of course, she was of slightly lower rank, but all of the sudden standing like a soldier, his mildly baffled tone turning into a reserved one so fast and hauntingly it was like a switch had been flipped. Lakrav squints at his new friend.

“Officer Habitt,” Matteo begins. “He found me when I was injured. He took me here and nursed me back to health. He is not hostile.”

Habitt tilts her head. “Of course you’d find your voice now.” She says. “Of all times. You better not have snuck him in on the convoy, there haven’t been trolls on this planet for thousands of sweeps.” She accuses.

“There have been trolls on this planet for ten sweeps” Lakrav asserts. “Because that’s how old I am.”

Habitt stares at him for a moment, not dignifying this with an answer either. Nor asking the mutant any of her own questions about his situation, because well, she truly cared that little. It would not change how she thought of him. The cerulean pulls a short range pistol from her holster.

“Wait! M’am!” Matteo exclaims suddenly, his eyes widening, the man snaps into action, and tackles her just before she fires the shot, successfully deflecting it into the nearby wall.

Lakrav pauses. His hand going to his knife in his pocket. He glances at the circular hole in the wall, and the loud noise, and Matteo’s reaction, and quickly pieces it together.

“She hurt you with that,” He says, taking a step back, remembering the Prince’s wound.

“He lived.” The purpleblood answers. “He heals.”

“Listen,” The Fushia pleads. “Respectfully, Officer Habitt, we could-”

“You can’t expect me” Habitt frowns, but seems more mildly surprised by this development than anything. “To leave him here? A random unregistered Candyblood on an empty planet? Just you wait, Princeling, they breed like roaches.” She says, hitting him hard and square with her elbow, and Matteo lets go, and she re-aims the pistol.

Lakrav draws his knives in answer.

“Officer Habitt!” Matt cries, again, knowing how a knife brought to a gunfight ends. “Habitt, M’am, We could take him with us! We could- we could escort him back to the ship and acquire him. He could be of use to the fleet.” He begs, probably the longest string of sentences he has formed this night. “He has skills.”

“Well if you’re going to be a bitch about it” She says, a surprisingly crude response for how put together Matteo’s plea had just been. “Fine.”

Lakrav pauses, never having been asked his opinion on all of this. Part of him, in his overconfidence, truly believed he could take that woman in a fight.

“Go back to your ship?” He asks Matteo “With the crazy lady?”

“Please,” Matteo whispers. “She’ll kill you otherwise.”

“Not the right way to treat a guest.” The foxtroll answers.

“We can go anywhere in the galaxy” The man says. “Just come with me”

That, at last, finally seems to grasp the mutant. Anywhere. With a desperate tug, his feelings on the situation pull in a landslide the opposite direction. Anywhere?

Here it is, the moment he had heard about in storybooks since he was but a child. He had not imagined it coming quite so literally. Come on Lakrav, you know how this one goes. A Prince finds a Princess in a tower. Happily ever after. Why does he hesitate to step forward? The dreamer in him wants to lunge. The hunter in him wants to wait, is too familiar with traps not to recognize a shiny bit of meat on a stick. This cannot be safe. This was the very woman who hurt his new friend.

But… he cannot stay. He cannot fit the leviathan of this friendship back into the tiny box he called home now that it had been taken out. The moment the world got wider is also the moment these walls started closing in.

And he knows, from the hairs rising on the back of his neck, in the shadows of this tiny well-loved cavern of trophies, Loneliness waits. Loneliness lowers its weight to its haunches, loneliness softly treads across the floor, silent and deadly as a ghost, its lips watering and its eyes fixed. Caught up at last. An animal that could never have been more rabid, could never have been more hungry, could never have been more terrifying, more ready to kill him than it was at this very second. So it was a trap- it might not be one he would have to escape alone. Slowly, Lakrav steps forward.

“You will protect me?” He says, more of a demand than a question, even in a voice as open and passive as his always was.

“Yes,” Matteo says. And maybe he could, with his rank and his status.

And Lakrav stares back, his head tilted ever so slightly to the side with the questioning glance of a troll who had never, that he knew of, been lied to. He breaks eye contact, turning away. He gives one last glance to the room he had spent his whole life coming home to behind him. The mutant pauses, walking just over to the side, staring forlornly at his minion and spongebob plushie wall. He seems to debate between them for a second before grabbing a medium sized, slightly fuzzy one, and tucking it under his arm. He walks back over, and with his free arm, takes the fushia’s hand in his.

“Okay” He says, “Let's go.”

And he follows Fleet Officer Matteo Nyxxus out the door.

#TEEHEE #i had so much fun with this one #tw animal death #for like #hunting stuff #no animals killed onscreen but there's cleaning #tw medical #tw stitches #my writing #lakrav writing #fantroll #fantroll rp #homestuck #homestuck oc #homestuck rp #hiveswap #friendsim #pesterquest

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ashspecter · 26 days

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All We Wanted

@pennerjones's prompt: Clockwork tends Pariah Dark’s wounds after a hard battle.

Summary: Soft moments turn bittersweet when the future doesn’t seem bright. Sometimes, things aren’t meant to last but they can still enjoy the time they have together.

TW: wounds, needles, stitches, mild angst

Words: 2050

Read on Ao3!

The moon hangs low in the midnight-blue sky, casting a silvery glow over the somber landscape. Shadows dance in time with the gentle breeze as it gently runs its fingers through the crowns of ancient trees. Some of the trees creak in tune, matching the soft rustle of leaves and filling the all-to-quiet night with a soft but haunting melody.

It is the sound of silence— a beautiful but dangerous thing.

Amid the forest, stands a dark silhouette against the light of the heavens— a fortress. Its cracked bricks, usually what might be a marbled gray, appear black in the silver light as its spires reach toward the stars like skeletal fingers. There are no lamps, torches, or lit hearths and there is no furnishing other than what was left by the previous proprietor. The place reeks of spectral memories yet to take shape. It’s a lonely place. It’s a sad place. Even so, there is one window with a warm glow.

The chamber beyond the window is dimly lit and carries a tension palpable enough to taste. But it isn’t of bitterness or resentment, but rather a simmering blend of worry and anger. The emotions mix with the scent of herbs and magic, making the space feel homely and safe despite the circumstances of those within.

Clockwork’s usually fluid and graceful movements now carry a hint of urgency as their spectral form flickers with a muted frustration. In their frustration, their gloved hands work in a none-too-gentle way. Sticking and sewing torn flesh, cinching it shut, and moving on to the next quickly to keep their partner from bleeding any more than he already has. Every stick is punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.

Pariah, despite his injuries being minor, exudes an aura of calmness. But his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the knuckles white with tension each time. Despite the pain he feels, he watches Clockwork work with a mix of gratitude and guilt.

“You worry too much, Chime,” Pariah says, his voice low and steady, cutting through the tense atmosphere. “I’ve faced worse than a few cuts and bruises.”

Clockwork doesn’t look up from their task, their brow furrowed in concentration. “Perhaps, but that doesn’t make it any less concerning. You will eventually be the ruler of this realm. You can’t afford to be reckless.”

Pariah’s lips twitch in a wry smile, “Reckless? Me?”

Clockwork finally meets his eyes with a glare. It is meant to be heated, but their crimson eyes tell him of their worry and fear instead.

“I assure you, it was a calculated risk,” He replies, voice tinged with exhaustion. He raises a hand and pushes back their hood so he can cup their cheek without any hindrance. As he does, their messy silver-white hair spills over their shoulders, ending right at their clavicle, “I didn’t know we’d have to flee to the mortal realm.”

Clockwork leans into Pariah’s touch, “You shouldn’t have put yourself in harm’s way like that.” They exhale, closing their eyes briefly as they relish his touch. But just as soon as they are about to relax, they lift their head again and quickly pull the stitch they were working on closed.

As soon as they tie off the stitch, they move to the next continuing their work. Yet, while they work, their movements grow shaky with emotion as they are unable to keep it hidden any longer, “What if something had happened to you?”

Pariah’s gaze softens as he watches Clockwork’s hands tremble slightly. He reaches out with his other hand, gently clasping their wrist and stilling their movements, “Clockwork, you know as well as I do that protecting our realm sometimes requires sacrifices.”

Clockwork’s eyes flicker with frustration, “I understand your intentions, Pariah, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see, hear, or bear.”

Pariah’s grip tightens slightly, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he speaks, “Our duty sometimes demands more than we can give.”

Clockwork frowns and attempts to turn away, but Pariah’s hand keeps them still, “I just wish… I wish there were another way.”

Pariah’s thumb brushes over their cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “We’ll find a way, together. But for now, let’s focus on healing and regrouping. Our realm needs us more than ever.”

Clockwork nods, “I suppose you are right.”

As the conversation lulls, the tensions that once hung over them also seem to dissipate. The chamber settles into a tranquil silence, allowing the atmosphere to soften and quiet. Outside, the night seems to come to life as the song of many crickets and frogs fills the air.

Clockwork returns their attention to Pariah’s injuries, their movements methodical and precise. With each careful touch, the stress that had knotted their brow and shoulders begins to loosen. They immerse themselves in their task as the rhythm of their tending becomes a soothing cadence that fills the space between them.

Pariah, sensing the shift in their mood, lets out a slow breath and relaxes in their partner’s care. Then, after a moment, he says, “This is quite a nice castle, don’t you think?”

“It serves its purpose,” Clockwork replies, pulling another stitch closed.

Pariah winces slightly, then allows a smile to spread across his face, “We don’t have a place to call our own just yet.”

Clockwork glances up at him with a brow raised, “What are you suggesting?”

“What if we replicate this place in the Ghost Zone?” He asks, a fond glint shimmering in his eye.

“You mean a sanctuary where we can retreat when needed?”

“Exactly,” Pariah nods, “But I was thinking of calling something different.”

“A home?” Clockwork murmurs, their eyes distant as they imagine the idea in their mind’s eye. A place of comfort? Peace? Joy? Their expression changes to that of something doubtful. They haven’t had a home in a very long time. Will they like it? Will they enjoy it? Will it last?

“Yes, a home,” Pariah confirms, his voice carrying a hint of longing, “A sanctuary where we can find solace amidst the chaos of our duties.”

Clockwork’s expression melts as they envision themselves living in a place of comfort right by their lover’s side. It almost seems like too much to hope for. They try to look ahead, but nothing is revealed to them. They often forget that they can’t see much of their own future.

“It’s a wonderful thought,” They finally say, their tone betraying their uncertainty, “But I’m not… certain…”

Pariah offers a reassuring smile, “We’ll make it happen. Together, we can create our own haven, a place where we can find peace amidst the turmoil.”

Clockwork returns the smile, a flicker of hope igniting in their eyes. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion or the vulnerability of the moment, but for the first time in a while they allow themselves to believe in the possibility of a home they can call their own. How nice would that be? It warms their Core.

But then a thought strikes them rather abruptly and yanks back down into their fear, “Creating such a place would require a considerable amount of effort and magic.”

Pariah nods, “I’m willing to invest whatever it takes.”

“How so?”

Pariah takes one of Clockwork’s hands into his own. He slips the glove from their hand and lays it to the side. Then, he kisses it, gently, “I will devote everything I have to giving you a place to call home.”

Clockwork’s breath catches in their throat. How can he say something so confidently? How can he say something like that and genuinely mean it?

“You deserve it,” The warrior continues, “You have done so much for everyone else, the least you can have is a home. I will make it happen.”

Something in their core tightens, “I’ve done nothing.”

Pariah smiles, not wishing to argue about the subject, and places his hands on either side of Clockwork’s hips, “I will make it happen.”

How can he say such a thing? How can he promise something so grand? So nice? How can Pariah Dark give Clockwork so much hope? They don’t understand it.

“What of those who follow you?”

Pariah pauses for a moment, thinking, “They will have a place as well— a haven as well— a place where they can feel safe and protected.”

Clockwork gazes up at him with a mix of admiration and concern, “And what of you, Pariah? Will you find solace there as well?”

“I’ll find solace wherever you are, Chime,” He replies, meeting their gaze, “You are my home.”

A tender smile curves Clockwork’s lips as they return their attention to his wounds, their movements gentle and deliberate.

A beat passes before they respond softly, “Then we’ll make it happen, together.”

Pariah sighs, content with the resolve in Clockwork’s voice. A warmth spreads through his core as well. The two of them— they are in this together. Truly. This is his partner— the one he intends to keep company with forever. He vows to do whatever it takes to form a future that his lover can relax in and never worry about anything ever again. He never wants to see them this upset for a second time.

As Clockwork’s nimble fingers continue their delicate work, the collection of their shared desires seems to weave itself into the very fabric of the room and hang in the air like a tangible promise of things to come. Each stitch they make becomes a symbol of their commitment to one another, binding them closer together.

The thought of creating a sanctuary— a home where they can find solace and peace together— fills the chamber with a sense of anticipation. But it’s not just about constructing a physical structure; it’s about building a haven where they can nurture their love and protect each other. The dream for the future comes to life in his mind, Pariah’s determination and Clockwork’s insight make it a perfect balance. They’ll be ready for anything. They’ll be the most powerful ghosts in the Zone. They’ll be the perfect rulers. What more could they ask for?

The hours pass smoothly in the quiet chamber, giving Clockwork the time and focus that they needed to finish cleaning and sewing up Pariah’s wounds. Each injury is now neatly sewn together and most of the shallow ones are already healing into small, ashy-green slivers.

As Clockwork begins to put away their supplies, Pariah sits up straighter and tests his newly healed wounds with a cautious touch. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he feels the familiar strength returning to his body. He then stretches, carefully, feeling the soreness beginning to ebb away. His movements are fluid despite the lingering ache. It pleases him.

Once he finishes stretching, he rises from his seat and steps over to the window to gaze out at the moonlit landscape. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It’s perfect. If he could, he would replicate every little detail he could in the Ghost Zone. He would very much like to give this place to Clockwork. It is perfect for them.

Pariah sighs just as Clockwork joins him. Carefully, Pariah winds an arm around their waist and pulls them closer. Then, they look out that night for a moment in each other’s embrace.

“Thank you, Chime,” He whispers, his voice filled with warmth and affection as he places a kiss on their temple, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Clockwork returns his smile, their own weariness momentarily forgotten in the glow of their accomplishment. “You would do just fine, my dear,” They reply, “But I’m glad I could help.”

With a warm smile, Pariah leans down again, his lips meeting Clockwork’s in a gentle kiss, sealing their shared ambition with a silent vow.

Nothing will separate them. Nothing can separate them. He will unite the Ghost Zone for them.

For as long as Pariah exists in his afterlife, nothing will come between them. He will give Clockwork the home they deserve. He will persevere. He will not let anything stand in his way. He will see to it. He swears to himself. And he’s a man of his word.

He has come this far, he will not lose anything he has worked hard to gain.

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