Chapter Text
His hands were shaking. Not hard enough to shake any petals loose from the boo-quet of roses in his fist, thankfully, but it was still mortifying to notice. Whisp’s voice, entirely too calm if you asked him, rang out from his jittering iCoffin screen, “Do it again, like we practised.”
“Ugh, hypnosis was so much easier,” Kieran hissed, quiet enough that only she could hear, before clearing his throat.
Okay, like they practiced well into the light.
“Why, yes, hello there, Draculaura,” he began, going over the mental script Whisp helped him refine as he dodged and ducked in between the other students crowding the hallway. He pulled forth confidence, charisma, in his voice, like pulling a well worn suit from his extensive closet. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve recently been turnin’ over a new grave, as it were, and was hopin’ ta do the same with you--”
He could practically smell the distrust radiating off the monsters around him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled under the weight of their gaze, but every time he looked away from his iCoffin, they all seemed more preoccupied with their bags and locker and each other than with him. Draculaura was standing by her locker on the other side of the hallway, and with a growing pit in his stomach, he silently wished Whisp were there with him and not in her lamp.
He gripped the flowers tighter in his shaking fist, suddenly feeling small and stupid holding them. The boo-quet had seemed like a good idea when he got it, a nice way to express condolences and support for Draculaura -- between her father’s death and her new responsibilities from taking up his stead, he had impulsively thought she could use a friend.
…Even if she already had many friends. Ones that had already proven their loyalty and support in the past.
Whatever, he could still take her to a boo-vie or something so she could forget her troubles for a few hours at least -- he knows that the TwiHard films are back in theatres for an anniversary event, and anything with Elissabat is to die for.
Whisp and Mrs. Goblin’s support had been everything to him when he had been at his lowest, he should try to pay it forward.
“--A-and, you know, actually be friends,” he could feel himself losing the plot of what he was saying, his cool, collected persona slipping from his fingertips and he pushed on, “I want to be friends with you is what I’m sayin’. Uh…”
Whisp was shaking her head on his screen. “While the sentiment is super sweet, you have got to get it together, KV,” she said, sounding almost amused. “What’s with the nerves anyway? It's not like you’re going to get knocked into the Pit of Eternal Body Odor again--”
Kieran cut her off, not wanting the reminder of the consequences of his past actions. “I’ve only ever made one friend the real way, Whisp, and it was you, so forgive me for being a little--”
Slam!
And all at once, he was on the ground. His nose and forehead ached, and everything in his hands was now littered around him. With his eyes squeezed shut, he could hear a couple winces, and one very unhelpful “RIP,” though no laughter at least (his wounded pride probably wouldn’t survive that, even if he deserved it).
“--...tetchy,” he finished, somewhat lamely.
“Aaaaaand that’s my cue! Good luck, beastie! You got this,” Whisp called out from his dropped iCoffin before her audio cut off, signally she had ended their video call.
“Oh, Valentine! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!” a voice above him said apologetically.
Cracking his eye open, he saw standing above him, peaking around the locker he must have blindly run into, the vampire he had been seeking out -- the girl (one of too many) he’d stupidly hurt in such unforgivable ways, all in a desperate attempt to survive that never even felt right.
Ever present guilt rose in his throat like bile before he even fully registered who was standing above him. He cursed himself for even thinking this was a good idea.
“Ah-- Are you all right,” Draculaura asked. She extended her hand out to help him back up.
He sprang to his feet, boo-quet thrust out in front of him like it could shield him from-- well, everything he’s ever done wrong. In a single, panicked breath, he said, “WouldyouliketobefriendsI’msorryforeverything--”
He stopped himself.
“Uh, I mean--” Kieran cleared his throat and hastily donned his familiar, confident persona with a drawl, “Darlin’ Draculaura, would you do me the honor of accompanyin’ me to a show so we may try to rekindle our--” He verbally tripped, and it's like a bucket of muddy ice water washes over him. He wasn’t putting on a generic cool guy persona, he realized. He had gone on autopilot, slipping into his old role of Valentine, the suave romantic that you could totally 100% trust, he won’t break your heart and drain you dry until you were an emotional husk, perish the thought!
Gross. Disgusting, he shouted at himself.
“--er, our friendship?” he tried to save it.
Draculaura just stood there, staring blankly at the boo-quet, which he was mortified to realize was in complete disarray now.
“Ah,” she said, entirely too much kindness coloring her voice, “Valentine, I’m sorry, but I just-- I can’t.”
…Well. Should’ve seen that one coming.
And why should she want his friendship, he thought bitterly. She didn’t even need it, and he had nothing to offer other than bad memories. Even his past attempts at atonement, like the Fraidy Hawkins dance, had just ruined things.
She was saying something about a “--dead languages quiz coming up, and I’ve barely studied my pig latin -- fearleader tryouts -- presentation due -- I don’t really have time to fang out….” She really was too kind, giving him gentle excuses instead of telling him to find another pit to jump into like she probably wanted to.
He figured he owed it to her to match her energy, so with a plastered on smile, he said, “Ah, well, it's no matter, my dear, really.” For the sake of appearances, he choked out, “Perhaps some other time?”
She doesn’t even take the boo-quet.
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He didn’t deserve the kindness.
“Valentine.”
He didn’t deserve forgiveness.
“Valentine.”
He probably didn’t even deserve Whisp or the animal shelter or any of it--
A paper waved in front of his face, snapping him out of the impending spiral. Right. He was in class.
“Uh, thanks--” He reached for it absently, before registering the hand holding it: green, with numerous rings and painted nails. A hand he’s spaced out many times looking at, longing to hold onto. A hand that belonged to the one and only-- “Spelldon.”
Great. Amazing. Look at him: starting his school week having his friendship rejected by his ex, and now, as if the universe wanted to mock him, here’s his crush; the one who would never (and, if the witch knew what was good for him, should never) return his feelings.
Spelldon Cauldronello, with his many piercings and perfect coiled streaked hair and punkrock-alt looks and, well, male gender was galaxies away from anyone Kieran Valentine had ever even attempted to date before. He was giving Kieran a wry, carefree smirk, the paper held between them.
Kieran hastily took it.
“Lap dragon worksheet,” Spelldon explained, and oh, how horribly wonderful his voice was. His intonation might seem flat to some, indifferent, but Kieran could pick up the undertones of peace and amusement it carried, even if Spelldon was one of the harder monsters to read overall. Spelldon went through life with a quiet confidence, carefree in ways Kieran had spent years on his unlife pretending to be. “We’re supposed to finish it by the end of class.”
Another kindness he didn’t deserve. While lap dragons were basic Biteology to Kieran, the tedium of trying to fill out the worksheet from scratch before the bell rang might just be enough to make him tear his hair out.
“You looked like you weren’t paying attention,” Spelldon teased.
Kieran flustered, realizing he’d been so caught up in his own head he hadn’t even realized Spelldon had been watching him. He sputtered out, “I was so paying attention! Lap dragons! Great! Got it!” Was his face burning red? It felt like his face was burning red. Vampires generally don’t blush easily, but Spelldon had an embarrassing effect on him, curse him.
Spelldon was still watching him, leaning back in his seat into Kieran’s space. Plucking up one of the tragic roses from the sad remains of the boo-quet from Kieran’s desk, he asked, “What’s with the rose garden anyway?”
Curse him, curse this entire stupid school. Kieran let his head fall onto his desk with a thunk, hiding his face. “Nothing. Nothing, it doesn't matter. It’s not proof of my failure or anything.”
“Pretty proof,” is all Spelldon said in reply.
The ghost of Mrs. Goblin’s voice appeared in his head telling him he was being a bit dramatic. He mentally waved it away, telling it he had every right to be “dramatic,” thank you. If she wanted to have an opinion, she should have stuck around.
After a moment, Spelldon asked, of all things, “Can I have one?”
Kieran huffed. “Sure. I don’t know why you’d want it, though. It's gonna be dead in a few days.” Turning his face to the side, he added, “Like my soul.”
His mental Mrs. Goblin tsked at him. Where was Whisp? She appreciated a little melodrama every now and then.
Spelldon had fully turned his chair to Kieran’s desk by now. Looking around, it seemed most of the class had paired off, talking in groups over the worksheet. They at least had some semblance of privacy in the din. “Anything I could help with?”
“I doubt it,” Kieran muttered.
Spelldon, waved the rose at him, a clear go on in the gesture. Kieran leaned back in his chair, running a hand down the side of his face.
The thing about Spelldon was that he didn’t understand the Valentine thing, and this was both a blessing and a curse. Kieran’s sure that someone has warned him about his spotted past by now, since they’ve talked in the hallways and texted about homework a few times, but for whatever reason he just doesn’t seem to care. His hooded eyes just watched Kieran, patiently.
Its… easy, too easy to talk to Spelldon sometimes, not having to navigate the warriness even the most forgiving monster carries around him. Almost without meaning to, Kieran finds himself opening up about this morning -- missing Whisp’s presence, humiliating himself by running into that locker, Draculaura. Not in so many details, but still more than he’d willingly share with most of their classmates (not that any of their classmates would ask).
“...You know, you’d think I’d be better at emotions! I’m an emotional vampire! But noooooooooo, what has my love for Draculaura brought me?” he ranted. Truthfully, he didn’t even benefit from manipulating innocent ghouls for a food supply, having spent most of his existence on the verge of starvation anyway because he didn’t even understand how his powers worked. Quietly, he sometimes wondered just how his existence would’ve been different if he had been a normal vampire. If he would have just been a better person, or if he would have still hurt those around him. “Nothing but pain and suffering--”
Spelldon interrupted him. “You still love Draculaura?”
What a weird question. Doesn’t everybody? “Well, yes! Of course!” he answers anyway. “As a friend!”
They had a history, at least. Kieran was frankly neutral on humans, honestly not having the mental bandwidth to care one way or the other about the Monster Claws the Monster Council was enforcing now, but he still shuddered when remembering the vampire hunters that had forced his and Draculaura’s families to flee way back when. Plus, well, even if most of their interactions were forced on his part, it wasn’t because of anything she did, and he knows there was a time where she genuinely cared for him. Not many people do.
Spelldon was still watching him, face blank now. There was something heavy about his eyes, something Kieran couldn’t quite read, but they definitely didn’t seem happy.
He felt almost compelled to quietly confess, “...I kinda figured out that I don’t, ah, like-like ghouls… in that way…”
“Oh!” Spelldon’s face didn’t shift much, but his tone shifted back into that light-tease as he replied, “...Like-like--”
“You know what I mean!” Kieran huffed. He wasn’t hiding it, necessarily -- his mother was firmly in a does not currently need to know coffin and Whisp was the only he went into detail about how hard it was to actually accept this about himself (which meant she was all too aware of his ridiculous little crush), but Monster High itself was pretty accepting of all sexualities and genders. He doubted the actual monsters in the school would care, though he got the feeling they would all prefer he not do anything related to romance with any gender, not that he could blame them.
Honestly, the realization had just been another thing to be mad at himself over, another thing to lay awake thinking about -- if he had just figured it out sooner, would he have hurt less people? Or would his track record of broken hearts look the same, just with different names?
Spelldon leaned further into his space, a strange spark in his lavender eyes. The black rose looked all too natural in his hand.
Unable to look at the beautiful witch any longer, he turned his eyes down to the slightly crumbled worksheet Spelldon had handed him. Enough of this, he thought as he looked over the answers (it seemed mostly right, just based on his first hand experience with lap dragons, but a couple answers did seem a little overly complicated). He wished someone else would just reach into his chest and tear his heart out, leaving him hollow. Wave a wand, do a magic spell. Anything. Shoot, if only he still had those wishes from Whisp. It would be better than this constant, overwhelming agony he had to carry. “Anyway, if I have to feel one more heart-related thing, I’m going to explode--”
Wait.
Magic.
Kieran jerked upright in his seat, something occurring to him.
“Hey, hey, Spell,” the realization leaving him in a daze, “You’re a magician, right?”
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“This is a terrible idea.”
“A potion to stop me from feeling love is not a terrible idea!” Kieran snapped, “In fact, it sounds like an absolutely perfect idea!”
They were walking through the library, thankfully mostly deserted during lunch break. This was possibly the most unhappy Kieran had ever seen Spelldon. The witch’s face was hard and shoulders tense, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.
It’ll be worth it, Kieran told himself as he leaned against the bookshelf they stopped in front of.
“Besides,” he said, “you said you’d help me.”
“I did,” Spelldon conceded, reaching for one of the books above Kieran’s head. “But, I’m still telling you, it's a bad idea.”
Standing this close, their height difference was stark, Spelldon nearly half a head taller -- after blurred lifetimes of chasing short ghouls because that’s what he thought he was supposed to do, it would figure that Kieran’s type would be a boy taller than him. Whisp had teased him relentlessly about that fact when he accidentally let it slip during a fang-time call.
“Sure, sure, bad idea, got it--” Kieran took the flustered feeling of standing this close to Spelldon, alongside the vague guilt over asking for his help in the first place, and shoved them both way down inside his aching heart.
Looking up, he thought he saw the word “potion” written on the spine of the book Spelldon was pulling out. “Ah, a tome on potions! Perfect!”
A potion would probably be much more permanent than a magician’s enchantment, something harder to break. As long as no one brewed an antidote (if there was one), Kieran would be permanently changed. Brilliant, he thought with no surprise. Spelldon was always one of the smarter monsters in their year.
In a flash, Spelldon ripped the tome from the shelf, clutching it to his chest. He suddenly looked almost… nervous.
Ah, a forbidden tome, Kieran guessed. It made sense -- any book with potions this powerful would probably be restricted.
Spelldon gave him a long look, one that Kieran forced himself not to break, before carefully flipping open the book, half hunching over it. He was clutching the cover with his hands, probably just in case there was an unseen specter lurking around that would tell on them if they saw.
“...The Cold Hearts Concoction requires several ingredients,” he finally said, looking at Kieran warily from the corner of his eye. “It’ll take us all week to brew.”
“And when I drink it,” Kieran asked slowly, “I won’t feel anything anymore?”
“Not a thing.”
Perfect.
No more guilt, no more embarrassment, no more mooning over cute-but-unobtainable witches. No more hurting anyone else.
Excitement swelled up within him as he leaned forward, trying to get a look at the page over Spelldon’s shoulder. Spelldon immediately clutched the tome to his chest.
“What do we need,” he asked.
Spelldon was pointedly avoiding his eye now, and Kieran felt that like a stake to the heart.
Push it down. Just one more week of-- this, he told himself.