Chapter Text
“Would you tell us a story?”
One dress, yet two white collars. One pair of arms, yet two cups of tea. One torso, yet two different ribbons sitting atop two heads. Pink and blue. Mole or no mole. One body, two people.
Yet their words are the same.
“Would you tell us a story, please?”
A demand disguised as a question. An eyebrow raises at that. Why hide it? Unless… they want it free of charge? Hilarious. As if he’d fall for such cheap tricks. Bold of them to try manipulation.
A smile. The sound of a teacup hitting white ceramic. Without spilling. The red would clash hideously against the pink tablecloth and the offense isn’t great enough to deserve that. Plus, they’re clean-freaks and hate messy eaters. They’d end the tea party then and there.
Nobody wants that. Even if the food (and company) is a bit rotten, the desserts are always a delight.
“Aren’t I the one celebrating?” Twin mouths set into grim lines. Figures “What will you give me?”
Their fingers tap tap tap against the table. Eyes searching the girly and old-fashioned room for something that could be of interest. They pass the photos, the carpet, the logs in the fire and the hands resting atop. The head of the deer mounted on the wall, the desserts already served, the chandelier hanging above them all, nothing seems to be worth the story they want in exchange for.
“What do you want?” They sigh in frustration and finally give up.
“One pot of your valerians, four pots of your lavenders.” Their turn to raise their eyebrows. Their mouths open wide into smiles at the same time. Derision drips from them as crimson drips into the white plate in the middle of their table. Their gazes are putrid enough to rival the rancid smell.
“The silly little child can’t sleep at night?” They sneer “Need mommy and daddy to give you a good night kiss?”
“Wow.” a smooth chuckle. No need to call them hypocrites, deep down they must know “That’s low. Even for your standards.”
A narrowed gaze. His smile turns sharp. If they wanna play, they should accept the price.
“Just for that I’ll add a pot of jasmine.”
They cluck their tongues but let it go. “Normal or with charm?”
“Would I ask if I wanted normal ones?”
“Enough with your sass.” The crinkle their noses and waves their hands dismissively, a gesture too reminiscent of the one who raised them “We want our story. Will you tell it?”
Well, all in all a good deal. The twins are always useful in this regard. A small part of his chest warms up at their eagerness. Child-like and almost innocent, in a way they never can be for any other matter. Can’t blame them for that.
“Fine. Let me tell you about Antonio the Greatest.”
If he were to tell the story of his life, the appropriate thing would be to start from the beginning. Except, he does not remember. A sort of blissful blankness covers the first 6 years of his life in a place he cares not to remember surrounded by people he cares not to picture in his head.
(Perhaps it’s less that he can’t and more that he doesn’t wish to.)
If he were to tell the story of his life, the appropriate thing would be to start from the beginning. Except that it’s non-existent and this is his story, so it’d start more like this:
He’s six and Mom’s hug is warm. They blow blow blow on the candles and he laughs because Dad makes funny faces when he blows. He tells him as much and his Dad smiles.
“Oh really?” his hair is being ruffled and he pouts because he spent a while taming it alongside Mom and now Dad went and ruined all their efforts “I guess I do champ, let me tell you-”
The phone rings in the corner of the room and Dad looks at Mom while raising an eyebrow. Mom raises one back and bounces him on her lap while looking at Dad. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. His black hair already starting to show some gray hairs.
“Guess I’ll tell you about it another time kiddo.” He smiles, giving another hair ruffle before turning around to go take the phone.
Mom kisses his cheek and he turns away to hide the fact he is red as a tomato. His reactions to this normal shows of affection are too embarrassing.
(There’s this fleeting sentiment of novelty and craving every time they do something of the sort. Which is stupid, because both Mom and Dad are extremely touchy so how can it be new? Except he can’t ignore the tinge of desperation in their hugs and eyes. The confusion makes him restless.)
Mom hums and asks him how school has been. He averts her eyes. School isn’t going well, AND SHE KNOWS IT. So why is she asking?
Betrayal, absolute utter betrayal.
He glares, she laughs, and he puffs his cheeks because it’s really not funny. Mom continues laughing. Fine, ignoring her it is. One minute trickles by, then two, then three…
“The other kids are stupid.” he finally mumbles, always easily disturbed by extensive periods of silence and stillness when surrounded by other people.
“Why are they stupid love?”
“They say I’m retarded cause I stutter speaking Japanese. Plus, sometimes I’ll forget when I’m supposed to use kanji or hiragana or katakana when writing.” He buries his face in Mom’s flower blouse, taking deep breaths of her calming, floral scent and frowning as a particular memory comes to mind “My teacher says I speak like a baby and that she can’t believe I passed kindergarten.”
That one had hurt, just a bit. He’d explained that at home they spoke English because it was his mother’s tongue, but the teacher had replied that living in Japan all his life should have given him enough experience in the language anyway. He hadn’t been able to find a reply to that.
He guessed that the statement held some truth. How was he perfectly fluent in English, a language he only spoke at home and with his parents, while he was still struggling his way through Japanese, a language he had been surrounded by since birth? He must really be as stupid as the other kids said.
“What?!” he flinches (he hates sudden loud noises and needles and white walls and large periods of silence where no one moves) and she apologizes. Mom rocks him for a bit while peppering him in delicate kisses and she lowers her voice.
“Love, why didn’t you tell me?”
“S not important.” Her fingers card through his hair and it’s soothing, he snuggles closer to her and closes his eyes. His teacher doesn’t like him either way, what does it matter what she says?
Dad comes back from the phone call with a pale face and a twitchy smile.
“Josie.” he gestures, and Mom is standing up and giving him to Dad and he’s confused but not sad because Dad is also warm and now, he can finish telling him about earlier.
He hits with his tiny fists until Dad pays attention to him and then he asks for the story.
Dad’s voice is strong and bewitching as he retells an event of his childhood in the countryside, in a mansion three times the size of their house, surrounded by well-meaning bodyguards he’d still evaded every chance he got.
His hands tremble and his eyes are scared. As a six-year-old child, that’s what he remembers most.
Once upon a time, on a not so far away land, there lived a boy.
Why does it have to be a boy?
Because, now hush. This boy had lived for a long time inside a house where people ate your thoughts and guards asked you for kisses. One day, he got fed up with it all and ran away.
How?
Not important right now. If you’re good perhaps I’ll tell you another day. The important detail is that the boy ran away. The house was hidden deep inside a forest, so the boy ventured inside it and ran. He ran for hours and hours until his chest started hurting and breathing was like burning.
Elizabeth Dagenhart. Sister as Mom calls her.
“Look how handsome you are!” she ruffles his hair and her eyes twinkle with some unknown emotion he thinks may be joy “He’ll be a heartbreaker when he’s older Josie, just wait and see. Those looks are going to cause you trouble.”
Mom smiles, even if her smile is a bit strained and every once in a while, she’ll grip her arms hard enough to leave bruises. That’s worrisome, he hopes she isn’t feeling nauseous. She once said to him it’s normal to feel a bit sick the first days on a new country. Especially if you ate something. He can see the point; British food is very different from Japanese.
(And yet he finds it somewhat familiar.)
Dad has been a bit green ever since they arrived and had to stay at the hotel due to a case of food poisoning. Dad had been perplexed, saying he’d developed quite the resistant stomach back when he and Mom toured the world. He isn’t sure he believes him, seeing how he was the only one who had a bad reaction to the food.
It’s actually the reason he isn’t here to meet Elizabeth. Or reunite, in Mom’s particular case.
“Your hair is so fluffy!” Elizabeth coos “You must take very good care of it!”
Elizabeth is loud. Louder than Dad. He isn’t yet sure if he likes that. Mom gives him a look and he mumbles out a thanks for the compliment anyway.
They get back to their own talk and Mom seems to relax a lot now that Elizabeth’s interest has shifted away from him. It’s very boring though. He didn’t bring any toys or books, so he’s left just staring at the various plants that decorate the woman’s house. Will Mom let him stand up and explore? He’ll implode from boredom otherwise.
His aunt seems to notice though, because she pauses and asks if they can excuse her for a second before going out the room. He can hear her footsteps going up the stairs. The tap tap tap of her shoes above them.
The room they’re in is the living room, and it is cozy enough, he guesses. The couches are a light blue with golden designs. There are flowers all over the place: In the middle of the table, hanging from the ceiling, in pots sitting on the floor. There aren’t many photos. It smells floral and fresh. It’s different, greener, and bluer where his house is red and golden. He says this out loud and Mom says those are the colors associated with the Akabane family, and it is tradition to use them. He keeps quiet and doesn’t tell her that he’d much prefer the color blue for his room.
He hears the steps approaching the living room again and he tenses up. Uncomfortable for some unknown reason. Elizabeth enters the room, hands hidden behind her back and blue eyes covered by her red locks. He swallows, hard.
She stops in front of him. Stands still. They all wait in silence. He bites his lip and fidgets.
There’s tension in the air and he can’t stop moving because she’s staring and it’s uncomfortable and Mom’s on the other couch so he can’t reach out to hold her hand without being obvious and Elizabeth won’t stop staring and for some reason he really hates getting stared at like that, like he’s an insect on a table and a doctor wants to examine his brain and why does he always think of things like that in these moments and-
Elizabeth laughs.
“Don’t worry kid, I’m not hiding a knife.” She grins at him and presents the object “Here, consider this a nice-to-meet-you gift!”
It’s a rabbit plushie. A golden rabbit plushie. It’s soft and warm and very cute and he smothers his face against it because, as stated before it’s very soft. He stares at it in wonder and recognition before running his hands through familiar golden fabric.
“You can have it, I’m a bit too old for it now. It reminded me of your eyes.” She says, sitting side by side in the couch “They’re really pretty, y’know?”
He hum to avoid answering the question. He’s always found them unnatural. Neither his Dad, whose eyes are a stunning forest green, or his Mom (and now, apparently, his aunt) whose eyes reflect the ocean, have similar eyes. He wonders where they came from.
No one has ever told him his eyes are pretty. Not Mom, not Dad, and the teachers always speak about his red hair when complimenting his good looks. The other kids point at his eyes and call them demon-like. Staring at himself in the mirror, he’s always privately agreed.
“Don’t you find them,” he can’t say scary because Mom is in the room and if she hears that she’ll get sad “…strange?”
His aunt hums and taps her chin.
“Perhaps a bit,” she admits, and he tries to hide his disappointment “but not in a bad way. They’re -do you know the word exotic? Yes? - well they’re exotic. They fit well with your hair.”
He sniffs. Just a bit. It’s the dust, that’s also why his eyes are burning a little.
“Oh, I’m sorry! Did I say something? Shit!” she swears, then her eyes widen as if she just realized you’re not supposed to swear in front of kids “Forget that last word!”
He’s opening his mouth to repeat it, eager to try out this new word that sounds funny and forbidden.
“Don’t!” she covers his mouth with both her hands “Josie I’m so sorry! I swear I didn’t mean to, but you know how I am! Mom used to scold me all the time for ‘swearing like a sailor’ and I’ve calmed down from that, but it slips out at times and-”
There’s a wet chuckle and they both turn to see his Mom smiling fondly with teary eyes. Elizabeth carefully removes her hands from his mouth as they watch this new development in equal amounts of concern and fascination.
“Mom?”
“Josie?”
“Ah, it’s nothing.” She dismisses with a hand-wave “Just, it’s good to see you again Lizzie.”
Elizabeth’s face softens, and her words come out more delicate and genuine than they have all evening with her exaggerated energy. He guesses that was her own way of hiding her own nervousness.
“It’s good to see you too Josie. I missed you.”
By the end of the visit they’re all crying messes hugging each other and Elizabeth gets promoted in his mind to Aunt Lizzie. He has no idea why he’s crying, as he’s not reuniting with anyone, but the tears still flow. Ah whatever, he guesses it’s the general mood of the room.
He wonders why he never met his mother’s twin before.
But you see, this boy was on a mission. Before living in the house of the thought-stealers, he had had a normal family and lived a normal life. Back then, he’d had a black cat with yellow eyes that he loved and cherished very much. Now free of the house, the boy was determined to find the cat, so he roamed the forest and asked every being inside if they’d seen the creature. After much searching, he found Antonio.
Antonio was a very big ant with a very long beard. He had a walking stick to help him stand, his only friend was the Beetlepig, and they both loved blueberries very much. He was also, the last of his kind.
The boy asked Antonio if he had seen his black cat with yellow eyes by any chance. To which Antonio replied: I’m sorry boy, it happens to be the cat was eaten. Chewed and swallowed! The blueberry time passed, and we ate them all. I gave it to my Beetlepig.
The boy broke down crying, for the black cat had been his only friend and hope, and now there was nothing to do but fall into despair.
Crybaby.
Hush. Antonio, unlike you, felt his heart bleed for the lonely boy and told him the digestion process was slow. Perhaps the cat was still alive inside the Beetlepig?
The boy wiped his tears and felt his heart regain strength at this silver of hope. He asked Antonio how to make the Beetlepig vomit his cat. Antonio laughed at his question and said:
‘Vomit? You need to kill him boy!’
He’s seven years old. He’s got a loving Mom, a funny Dad, and an awesome aunt that comes visit every month and whom he visits on school breaks.
He’s also got no friends.
He doesn’t tell Mom or Dad of course; they’ll get sad and angry at the other kids and he doesn’t wanna make a big fuzz about it. They don’t like him, and day by day, he likes them less too. He’s starting to feel a kind of distaste (he’d read the word somewhere and liked it) towards the other kids. And something blacker than anger.
It scares him a bit, so he tells his aunt.
“Hmm, well yeah, school kinda sucks.” He’s sitting in her lap and they’re both watching the sunset while laying comfortably in the hammock outside her house “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”
“Of course not.” He rolls his eyes “You don’t tell her about the other kids either.”
“Seems like a pretty sweet deal to me.” She rests her head and closes her eyes, that familiar devilish grin engraved on her face “Don’t worry too much kid, you’ll find your niche eventually.”
He hums in place of an answer.
“Hey, hey, hey,” His aunt cracks an eye open and ruffles his hair with force, to which he pouts in response “Stop with the long face, trust me, someone will want to be your friend. And until then…”
Her eyes twinkle and she gives him an enigmatic smile.
“Why don’t you check inside the house?”
His eyes widen and he grins (he’s learning a lot of mannerisms, and swear words, from her) before climbing down the hammock and rushing past her door. There is a basket lying innocently on the middle of the living room.
It meows.
If he smiles any wider, he’ll split his face. Of that he is sure.
He opens the basket and finds a cat as black as the deepest night with big, wide yellow eyes. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that he takes less than a second to get him out the basket and hold him close to his chest.
His aunt snorts from the door and he turns around with a disbelieving face.
“Can I have it?”
“Him.” She corrects, finger raised. She closes one eye and cracks another grin “And yeah, think of it as an early birthday present from the most awesome aunt in the world.”
“Did you ask my Mom for permission?”
“Hush!” She frown and puts a hand on her hips “When do we ask for permission?”
“Never!” He cheers, raising a fist to the air.
“I’ve trained you well my nephew. You’ll be a wonderful harbinger of chaos.”
He laughs and laughs and laughs and hold the kitty close to him and hugs him.
He names him Mr. Midnight.
The boy was shocked.
‘How can you ask me to kill your only friend!’ he exclaimed.
‘Even if he is my best and only friend, I am hungry, and I need the meat that’s attached to his bones.’
The boy shook his head, for he could not imagine taking the choice of loneliness over death. Antonio insisted, and reminded him that the time to save his cat from the Beetlepig’s stomach was running out. So the boy steeled his nerves and went in search of a tool that could kill.
He found an axe stuck on a tree. The boy returned to Antonio and, wielding the weapon, sliced the Beetlepig in half. The boy cried again, for he had ended a life and his hands would now forever be stained with the red that dripped from them. He cried even further when, upon moving the corpse and checking its intestines, he found inside not to be his cat, but a rat.
The rat, grateful upon being freed, told him a cat had been chasing after it and, that if the boy wished it so, the animal could lead it to where he had last seen the feline. The boy wiped his tears and steeled his heart, and he told the rat to lead him.
Antonio The Greatest, now Antonio The Lonely, thanked the boy for his services and started feasting on his friend’s cold body. But even as he did so, the tears flowed down his face and he cried loudly.
As the boy walked away, Antonio’s crying would follow him until he left the forest.
The End.
It’s Monday night.
He’s playing with Mr. Midnight and cooing over the way he wriggles his tail as he tries to catch the thread of yarn. At first Mom had frowned and Dad had glared at Aunt Lizzie (Dad never really warmed up to his aunt) but after she’d taken them both aside and said something to them, they got over it and started treating Mr. Midnight as part of the family.
He loves Mr. Midnight. He loves Aunt Lizzie. He loves his parents. He likes this feeling of belonging in his chest. It’s warm.
Thunder strikes.
A shiver runs down his spine and he hugs his cat close. Thunder isn’t unusual but this time it feels different somehow. He feels observed. He hates feeling observed. But he’s alone in his room, so where?
Thunder strikes again, and he lets out a strangled scream.
There in his window. A shadow, except it’s face is a skull and red drips down his eyes, and he has never seen anything smile in such a way before. The air is freezing, the creature comes closer…
R̷̢͍̱͈̖̫̺̋̌͐̽̂͗̾̅̿é̵̺̍͆͋͂̂̚ͅm̶̡̨̌͆̐̓̚o̸͇̺̯̰̪͎̘̒̆̌̌͊̕r̵̡̜͇̩̭̔̈̏̌́̎̈͌͑
A scream.
Mom?
He rushes to his bedroom door, only to remember the creature and look back. It’s gone. He shivers again. He shushes Mr. Midnight’s meows and locks him inside his bedroom.
He’s got a bad feeling about the scream.
The house is dark, as if the electricity had gone out. Except not, because there’s a single, bright light shining from his parent’s room. He recalls the scream and gulps.
It’s probably nothing. It’s silent now after all. Completely silent. Surely if something had happened there’d be more noise? He takes a step backwards.
The creature’s horrible face flashes in his mind.
No, he’s got to make sure. And he’s scared to enter his room again. Maybe Mom will let him sleep in their bed if he tells her? It’ll hurt his pride but right now he doesn’t care. He’s freezing and it feels like it’ll seep into his very soul. He just wants Dad to ruffle his hair and Mom to give him a warm hug.
Just that. And everything will be fine. He’ll be brave again after it. He just needs to see them once and then he can go back to his room.
He walks down the hallway and stops at their semi-open door. He gets closer…
…and closer
…and closer
…and closer
He pushes the door and looks.
H̶͖͛e̸̫̅ ̵̯̕S̵͌͜ ̷̦͝C̷̘͌ ̷͉̈R̵͖̀ ̷͎E̶̳͊ ̸̟̓A̴͚͂ ̶͕̈M̷̤̆ ̴̳͌S̷̢
“You’re a terrible storyteller.” They frown and cross their arms.
A shrug. Not his problem.
“And here I thought you’d like the story.” A grin and a sip. A grimace, the taste is terrible “It’s right up your alley of morbid.”
“The problem is not with the story.” They shake their heads and narrow their eyes “It’s in how you tell it.”
“Oh,” a cat-like smile, eyes closed “what do you mean?”
“Antonio was right. The weakest must die so the strongest can survive.” They recite their personal philosophy as a universal law. To them, it probably is “The boy’s spirit was strengthened by the sacrificing of the Beetlepig. The tale’s a celebration, not a tragedy.”
They give a pointed look. Daring to contradict them.
A hum, followed by another sip, another grimace. Blood never tastes any better, even if served in a teacup and sweetened by sugar. They drink this stuff every day. Poor girls. Explains their bad temper.
“I suppose you’re right.” A sigh and a poke at the meat in the middle. Rotten. When will desserts be served? Their apple pie always tastes divine. Know better than to ask what it’s made of, though.
“Of course we are Karma. We’re older than you.” They cross their arms again and sniff in disdain “Now eat the food, don’t think we haven’t noticed.”
He grumbles and takes a bite of the dripping, bloodied rat in the middle. Worst birthday ever.