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Pure Vanilla wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting when he had gotten into a relationship with a Beast.
It wasn’t like he was expecting anything gentle, or careful, or delicate, or even somewhat dignified. He was fully aware of Shadow Milk’s rather aggressive behaviors long before he had accepted a relationship with him, so a bit of roughness or uncarefulness wasn’t anything surprising. In fact, it was something he was willing to take with open arms at times.
But he certainly couldn’t have ever predicted something so devastating to happen when their entire goal that night was just to enjoy themselves. When their objective—at least in the moment—was to make each other feel good.
Pure Vanilla couldn’t remember everything clearly, but he knew he had been pushed onto his bed by his beloved not too long before. Firm hands that held his waist had traveled to cup his hips, exploring his body in the dim light cast by the chandelier’s weak candles.
The kisses they shared were nothing short of passionate. The faint memory of Shadow Milk’s hair being weaved through his fingers still dully rang throughout Pure Vanilla’s head.
Their mouths had left each other at one point, as the Beast was clearly more focused on bringing his lips elsewhere. He had dotted kisses all over the flushed skin of his neck, his shoulders, and conveniently skipped over to the bottom of his sternum, covered by his bodysuit.
His mouth—of course—went lower. And lower. Eventually reaching right between his legs. The Ancient had slightly parted his thighs, hesitantly, but welcomingly, as he felt the presence of his beloved’s head.
They’d agreed, mutually, to keep the top of Pure Vanilla’s bodysuit intact. It was a boundary and a promise that had remained unbroken. It had been thoughtfully cared about to the best of Shadow Milk’s ability.
He didn’t care about what happened to the bottom half. He had never cared. The top was all he was worried about.
Mainly because the Ancient’s biggest insecurity of all, the absolute bane of his existence, was his chest.
Such a wretched part of him stayed clothed at all times, and if it ever went unclothed, it was never in front of a single soul. Not even himself. No mirrors were ever allowed to perceive him, and Pure Vanilla had barely ever dared to look down during clothing changes or baths.
Anytime his beloved messed around with his bodysuit, he was deathly aware of every miniscule motion of his fingertips, and everywhere they touched. So much so that he had identified and could predict patterns and trails he took, noticing how multiple paths eventually merged into one with time.
So, it was no shock when something felt off about the way Shadow Milk was grabbing the fabric in preparation to rip it away. His grip was too high, his nails were angled incorrectly, and the direction was wrong. Just by the slightest inch.
But it was enough to completely change the way the fabric would rip. With the Beast’s usual intensity and speed, there would be no way in Earthbread that it would expose just his lower half.
Unfortunately, before he could issue a warning, he heard it.
Rrrip.
Such a sound wouldn’t have been an issue normally. Such a sound was common, especially as of recent. But what had happened wasn’t normal. What had happened was terrible.
Not only was his cunt and stomach exposed, but so was his chest. The ripped fabric from just below it had curled, revealing more skin. Too much skin.
He didn’t know just how fast he bolted away. He didn’t know just how quickly he leaped from his bed, probably shoving Shadow Milk to the ground in the process, just to run straight for his bathroom.
He had fiddled with the bathroom door lock after he hurriedly shut it behind him, a memory simultaneously way too fuzzy and way too clear.
And now, he was on the ground with his back pushed against the door, desperately grabbing at the ripped edges of his bodysuit. The fabric kept slipping from between his fingers, his grip not strong enough. It wouldn’t ever be enough.
He tried so hard to pull it down, tried so hard to make it cover his chest again.
…It wouldn’t go down.
It wouldn’t go down.
It wouldn’t go down.
He could hear and feel Shadow Milk knocking on the bathroom door, concerned but still restrained. His voice was muffled. Or maybe it wasn’t, and it was just Pure Vanilla’s mind doing that job. “Vanilla! Why’d you run away? It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
Pure Vanilla didn’t answer.
Hands still haphazardly grabbed at fabric, but to no avail.
…Pure Vanilla had ruined it all. They finally had something routine, finally had something familiar going. And he ruined it all.
All because he couldn’t handle the simple sight of his own body. His disgusting, unlovable body. What a joke. A sick, pathetic joke.
The Beast’s knocking grew stronger. “Pure Vanilla, seriously, what happened? Did I hurt you? Can you please come out so I can look at it?”
Shadow Milk didn’t need to subject himself to the grotesque sight that is Pure Vanilla’s body. He didn’t deserve that. He deserved better. He deserved somebody else. Somebody that wouldn’t break down like a pitiful child because of a mistake.
…A mistake that reopened wounds. Pure Vanilla hadn’t been ready. He wasn’t ready to share such an intimate part of himself just yet. He wasn’t ready to share a part of him even he couldn’t stand to look at.
But it’d been a year and a half since they’d started dating. If he still wasn’t ready now, then when would he be?
Would there be that one fateful day, when he would finally build up the courage to share himself, or would a part of his body forever be stuck in the confines of fabric, never to be seen, acknowledged, or touched?
Something grazed the shell of his ear. Its touch was featherlight, like the breath of a fairy.
Its voice was high, but not shrill. It was breathy, like a breeze in a meadow. Quick but soft. Delicate yet cruel.
Selfish. You ran away just because a part of you that has been with you for years happened to slip? How embarrassing.
Pure Vanilla gulped. There had to be something to cover himself in here.
Unable to stand (his legs were practically useless), he crawled and felt through the darkness of the bathroom, weakly pulling himself along until one hand rested upon the sink cabinet doors.
Shadow Milk couldn’t be quiet. He was still knocking. Still talking. His voice got louder, and eerily more clear. “Vanilla, please, let me help you. Please come out.”
Help? He still really thinks he just gave you a pretty deep scratch, doesn’t he?
…Nothing he could possibly do would help. Such futile pleas would’ve made Pure Vanilla chuckle if he wasn’t actively rummaging through a medkit bag under his sink. Dressings or bandages would have to do. Towels were long ways away, carefully folded in a closet he felt too weak to get to.
His hand grazed against cloth, but he heard something much heavier fall to the bottom of the bag instead.
His hand left the cloth.
He carefully weaved through the other items in the bag, reaching the bottom, only to grab a handle. He slowly pulled it out, and metal dully shone with the faint amount of light that crept through the curtains.
A dagger.
The only useful thing you could’ve found.
Pure Vanilla backed away from the cabinet and tilted it, mindlessly gazing at the dagger like he had just stumbled upon gold.
The blade was curved, pointed, and most importantly, sharp. As sharp as the nails that had caused his hurt.
Shadow Milk’s knocks turned into bangs. With the Ancient facing the door, it felt like his fists were punching straight into his chest instead. He started to yell. Loud. Too loud. Way too loud. “Pure Vanilla! Come out!”
Shut up.
“SHUT UP!”
If Shadow Milk wanted to yell, Pure Vanilla could, too.
The Beast’s banging got louder. Two fists constantly met wood, brutally threatening to break it down.
But he didn’t care. He brought his attention back to the blade.
Do it. It’d be the best thing you would’ve done all night.
He shakily brought the dagger to his forearm.
One swipe.
One swipe was all it took to have copious amounts of blood flow from Pure Vanilla’s arm. One swipe was all it took to make him instinctively drop the dagger in pain, the metal clanging against the marble.
One swipe was all it took to send Pure Vanilla to the ground.
The yell that tore itself through the wood shook Shadow Milk to his core.
It had ceased his unrelenting fists for a moment—just a moment—before they were back to banging.
Pure Vanilla was in there—hurting—all because of an issue he wasn’t even completely sure of. Things were going fine, great even, and then he ran away. The Ancient had beelined for the bathroom, locking himself in there before he could even recover from being pushed to the floor.
And now here he was. On his knees, violently begging for his beloved to let him in, explain, or even just to open the door.
But opening the door didn’t seem like a plausible option. Not after Shadow Milk heard just the faintest, but most devastating sound he could’ve ever heard in the moment.
It sounded like metal. Metal hitting the ground. Like it was dropped.
Shadow Milk’s eyes started to sting. Tears welled up in his eyes, and began to turn his vision blurry. He quickly wiped them away. It wasn’t time to cry. Pure Vanilla was hurt. And he was so, so much more important.
His worry must’ve clouded his thinking process, robbing him of the knowledge of the simple effects of his own powers. He placed his hand on the door lock, trying his hardest to focus on unlocking it and not on whatever he would see whenever the door actually opened.
There was a click.
The door started to slide open.
Shadow Milk couldn’t tell which feeling was stronger: the gut wrenching, stomach turning dread that made him want to throw up, or the pain in his chest that felt like his heart was stabbed, left to bleed out and for the shell to dry out and shatter.
Pure Vanilla was lying on his side, a dagger not too far from his crumpled form. But the part that caught the Beast’s eye first, was the gushing gash on his forearm.
“No,” he whispered. The moment almost felt fake, like he was having a nightmare. One that was way too vivid. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t truly be happening.
But he got closer. Shadow Milk wasn’t waking up. He wasn’t opening his eyes to see the heavenly sight of his beloved’s hair gently illuminated by daylight, inhaling his lovely scent with his arms firmly wrapped around him. No. He kept blinking, only for the same devastating sight to greet him over and over again.
“No… no, no, no, no.” He lifted Pure Vanilla’s head off the ground with one hand, the other reaching down to delicately cradle his arm, just inches below his wound.
Of course, the one type of magic he couldn’t properly harness, was healing magic. If he could, he could’ve healed his beloved. He could’ve made his cut close and heal, like it was never there, and all he would have to do was wipe the blood away.
But he couldn’t. Because the damned Witches decided to give him everything else. They bestowed upon him knowledge, the ability to shapeshift, to manipulate matter, and access to interdimensional realms, but of all of the things he could do, that was the one thing he couldn’t do.
He’d curse them endlessly if he could. Curse them for baking him this way. For putting everything into his dough except the things that mattered. Maybe, long ago, had they put just a touch more care into him, he would’ve been able to heal. He would’ve been able to tend to the love of his life. His other half. The only being who could truly complete him.
…But there was no time to wish. No time to ponder and think about what he could’ve been. Pure Vanilla needed help and he needed it now.
Not too far away from where he now lay, one of the doors to their sink cabinet was thrown open, an open medkit bag sitting there, thoroughly jostled. He gently set Pure Vanilla’s head down before lunging for the bag, his hands instinctively grabbing for gauze pads, gauze roll, and medical tape.
His attempts to cover and properly bandage weren’t exactly unsuccessful, yet they were never good enough. Shaky hands and blurry vision didn’t make it easy to properly place the pad, or wrap his arm with the appropriate amount of firmness.
Eventually—although much later than he had wanted—he had fully covered and wrapped the wound, but there was still gauze left over.
His breath was shallow, getting caught in his throat and choking him as the only solution to his issue lay right on the floor next to him.
One hand kept the gauze in place, while his other tightly gripped the handle of the dagger.
Even though he was trying to help, it felt like he was fitting the role of the perfect villain. The villain who had—without a shadow of a doubt—hurt someone, and was trying to gain their gratitude, only to spit it back in their face later.
…But Shadow Milk didn’t want to do that. Not to Pure Vanilla. Not to his love. Sure, he would’ve done that to anyone else, but Pure Vanilla wasn’t anyone else. He was too perfect to be anyone else.
The Beast quickly cut the gauze, dropping the dagger far away after it had completed its task. As he pressed the outermost layer down to his arm, his mind was cloudy, fogged with other things.
He had hurt him. But he still wasn’t sure how.
Could he have scratched him when he ripped his bodysuit? Normally, the Ancient wouldn’t have complained, but he ran away. How badly could he have messed up for him to run away from him?
His free hand traced against his skin, trying to feel for any possible cuts that seemed just a bit too deep. Soon enough, it stopped right at Pure Vanilla’s chest.
But it wasn’t clothed. It wasn’t kept in its confines, not to be seen, not to be exposed. It was fully vulnerable.
He had uncovered Pure Vanilla’s chest.
He had sworn to never do such a thing. He had promised to keep that part of him safe and protected. He promised to barely even acknowledge it.
That was why he ran away.
Shadow Milk pulled his hand away, a pang of self-disappointment for even touching it directly ringing throughout his body. He picked up the medical tape, opting to just rip it with his teeth. He didn’t dare to even look the same direction as the dagger again.
And as if he weren’t doing terrible enough of a job, right as he was about to apply the tape, Pure Vanilla stirred, his eyelashes fluttering before he immediately started to curl up in pain.
“Hey, hey,” Shadow Milk whispered, gently but firmly holding onto his arm so he could bandage it. “Don’t move too much. I’m trying to fix you up.”
He pressed the tape onto his arm, holding it down probably longer than he needed to as he made sure it stayed in place. When he let go, and it didn’t show any signs of unfurling, he directed his focus back to the Ancient.
Shadow Milk lifted his head into his lap, and he mumbled under his breath as he carded through his hair. “I’m sorry, Vanilla. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
Pure Vanilla didn’t respond verbally. He groaned under his breath, beginning to look downward before the Beast’s hands abruptly stopped him and tilted his head back up.
“Don’t look at it, Nilla. Don’t look at anything. Just close your eyes. Calm down.”
Shadow Milk combed the hair out of his face, and held his hand on his forehead. He frowned. “You’re burning,” he said dejectedly, “Relax. I’m here now. You can calm down.”
The Beast could feel his beloved’s breath slowing in his hold. He hadn’t realized until it went away, but the Ancient wasn’t shaking nearly as much, either.
Eventually, he could hear Pure Vanilla take a deep breath. “Don’t do that again.”
“I promise I won’t. I’ll be more careful.”
The Ancient hummed, stretching his neck to look up at Shadow Milk. “I love you.”
The Beast smiled weakly, a singular tear sliding down his cheek. “I love you, too.”
He leaned down, the shadow of his hair enveloping his beloved’s face in a pitch black curtain. “Let me get you into some clothes, okay?”
After a wordless nod, Shadow Milk scooped him up, letting his head rest against his chest as they left the darkness of the bathroom. Under the weak light of the candles, he set Pure Vanilla down on his bed gently. His index finger tilted his head up once more. “Don’t look down. I’ll get one of your nightgowns.”
Retrieving a clothing item of the Ancient’s was usually a cakewalk. He had snooped around the spacious closet many times before, so he had subconsciously remembered where anything and everything was. But that time around, as he felt through the dark, his mental map disappeared. There was something overwhelmingly heavy on his chest, something he couldn’t place.
It took him forever to find where Pure Vanilla’s nightgown was usually hung up.
When he returned to his beloved, his eyes were closed, but his body didn’t seem calm.
“I hope it’s okay if I just… put your nightgown over this. I don’t know how to fix this right now without…” Shadow Milk trailed off. He couldn’t finish his sentence.
In response to a small nod, he balled up the nightgown, pulling it over his beloved’s head and shuffling the rest of it over his body. He unnecessarily pulled at the ends of the sleeves and the hem of it, making sure they were as low as they could go.
Pure Vanilla’s tired, weak voice broke the silence, just slightly. “Lay down with me, dear. Hug me.”
Shadow Milk didn’t need to be told twice.
When he lay down next to him, and took his body into his arms, he took care to make sure his arm with the wound was carefully positioned between them. He didn’t want to press down on it, Witches forbid he hurt him accidentally even after his attempts at trying to help him.
He could tell when the Ancient fell asleep. But he, on the other hand, couldn’t.
He kept taking glances to Pure Vanilla’s arm as he stared at his beloved.
How had he managed to do it? How had he managed to break the one promise he said he would keep? The one he actually wanted to keep?
How had he managed to fuck up that bad, to mess up and ruin the one thing he thought he could be good at?
Why had he pushed his own other half to do something so dangerous? To practically kill himself with a single blade, all because of a mistake he committed?
The feeling was choking him from the inside out. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t control the flow of tears that streamed down his face.
The sensation of searing hot metal pressed through his chest, digging deeper and deeper until it burned letters onto his heart.
Guilt.
He choked on a sob.
He kept choking. On his tears, on his emotions, on his thoughts, on his words.
“I’m sorry.”
He broke down.
Staccato sobs fought through his throat, and rivers of tears streamed down his cheek, staining the pillow he was lying upon.
He didn’t cry. Not like this. If he had told himself, right after he had broken out of the Silver Tree, that he was sobbing like a toddler over the Cookie he swore he once hated, he probably would’ve killed Pure Vanilla or himself before it ever became a reality.
But it had.
And all Shadow Milk could do was cry.