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He wiped his hands on his apron. The tables were clean, at least. Saturdays were always the worst, with friends and couples alike both deciding that a cat café would be the best prospect— so, of course, leaving the place spotless at night became less of a task and more of a challenge.
But Ccino was finally done. Cats in the back, litter boxes clean, all he had to do now was to lock the entrance, sigh a well-earned sigh, and go to sleep. The idea of trying out his new pillow cases —made of a type of silk that could only be threaded on zero gravity, courtesy of OuterFarm’s commerce— had haunted him ever since they arrived from their interversal delivery.
It was only a matter of time.
Keeping that in mind, he started to whistle. His hand toyed with the rough edges of his many keys before he forced himself to stretch his back, shaking his wrists to get rid of the vague numbing sensation that wiping tables for so long still gave him. He walked, steps slow as he reflexively tried to check for any cats that he may have missed in the store’s closing, and pressed a hand against the glass of the door. Snow cold, awfully refreshing.
His eyes skimmed through the corners, making sure not to miss any of the typical spots he’d found cats in before. He took out his keys, looking down to search for the trustworthy golden shine of the one he was looking for, and, when he found it, he looked up at the glass door.
A cyan eye surrounded by pure shadow looked at him, unblinking.
His keys dropped to the floor with a clank as he jumped back, barely avoiding falling to the floor as his feet suddenly lost footing. His arms moved, frantic. They remained stretched once the coolness of shock wore off.
Nightmare looked at him through the glass, head tilted in a way Ccino had long before started to link to the way a dog would stare at you, affectionately dumb and eager. But Nightmare was Nightmare, and, looking at his edged eye, it was hard to forget the way his shoes looked stomping dust.
His palms smoothed his apron, and Ccino walked forward to open the door, quick and nervous in the way only Nightmare’s aura could make him. When he felt the cold, cavernal cold hit him, Nightmare was still staring at him, curious in the way a cat followed the flight of a moth.
“Greetings,” Nightmare said. His arms were crossed, and Ccino couldn’t help but try to usher him inside, even if he knew by now that the only kind of cold that could bother him was that of the extreme kind. The gesture of his hand did nothing, however, as Nightmare remained as polite as an unwarned guest could be, keeping his distance from the inside of the store without a verbal invitation to allow him in. “I suppose you weren’t hoping for company at these hours.”
“No, no! Don’t worry,” Ccino reassured. Nightmare smirked at him, then, and he knew for a fact that he had caught onto the annoyance that didn’t quite agree on leaving his chest. “You know you’re always welcomed in, Night.”
Cyan met white. Nightmare uncrossed his arms, smoothing his own jacket. Snow fell from the cloth, not quite melted. “As your benefactor, of course.”
“As my friend,” he corrected, biting his cheek when that made Nightmare huff, amused. The first few months, he had been sure that the only joy Nightmare could get was to be taken from people’s suffering, but, by now, he had found that the sources weren’t that limited. Just to make sure of it, he resolved on preparing Nightmare the sourest coffee he could muster. Sugar tended to irritate him, and Ccino dared not risk it. “I’ll make you your usual. Come inside, please. You’re my guest.”
“I want a mocha,” Nightmare said. When Ccino just stared at him, horrified, he added, “I’m aware of what it is. Please. I am craving something sweet.”
Then, Ccino ushered him inside, offering to grab his jacket, but the way Nightmare just side-eyed him made his arms drop, defeated. When he went to the service counter, rounding it to get the filter and other things, Nightmare sat in front of him and waited.
He turned around, giving him a view of his back as he busied himself with the cups. He had already cleaned them for today, and the fact that he had to dirty one of them again annoyed him. The cup was put on the table, followed by a plate of porcelain, and he tried to make his impatience fade. He had to remind himself that Nightmare, rather than not minding it at all, would probably find it appetizing.
The machine started running, and Ccino took a moment to sigh.
Nightmare’s phalanges tapped on the counter, the space between each touch brief and sharp. He straightened his back, but didn’t dare to look back. Instead, Ccino forced himself to talk, light, “So— Um. Rough night?”
“...Nights have been rough,” he answered. “Have they bothered you, Ccino? The usurers, that is.”
The memory of them still made a chill go up his spine. Nightmare had taken care of them, when they first met— but then again, they always had a way to survive. They were bigger than he had once thought they were. Crime went past time and space, after all; a natural consequence of multiversality.
The hum of Nightmare’s voice took him out of his thoughts, and Ccino allowed himself to sigh. Danger was still a thing to look towards, ever so carefully, but he had been lucky. He turned around just so, and smiled, trying to show himself as grateful as he could, even if the aftertaste of something like dread still coated the back of his tongue. “Oh, no. Haven’t heard a meow out of them in some months already.”
If Nightmare felt a particular way about that, he didn’t show it. Instead, he looked to the wall; a bored eye followed the multiple pictures that Ccino had framed to display. Nothing too scandalous, of course, —he had taken the Stars related one when, last visit, Nightmare spent a lot of time just staring at it as if hypnotized— but it did have some popular Outcode figures. No Guardians, but some Mettatons, Mad Mew Mews, and Asgores with a lovely taste for both felines and caffeine. He had wanted to frame up a picture of Nightmare once upon a time, as one would hang a gun in a shop’s wall, but he ultimately decided that his luck would be better off untried; after all, it had already been such an effort to convince Dream to allow all of them to take a picture of the Stars as they ate, barely acquittances as they were. He could only wonder what kind of resistance his counterpart would give.
His wrists ached.
“You must tell me, if they ever try anything once more,” Nightmare said. Ccino turned around, and he found that Nightmare was looking at him, unblinking. A predator’s eye. “This shop belongs to me as well, does it not? Naturally, so does everything inside. I won’t allow them to believe they have a right to anything. Not even you.”
Ccino nodded dumbly, and Nightmare looked away once more. It was interesting to see him unwind; the way he let himself lean against the counter, back losing its straight line. When Ccino saw black palm meet leaking goop, he turned to the coffee machine again, taking the filter just to weigh the amount of grain it gave him. Seeing it as acceptable, he let muscle memory take over. He smoothed the coffee evenly and propped it up to the machine he had already set up.
Milk went inside the cup he had left on the table, and he mixed it with some cacao. Once the machine was done, he took the coffee and dumped it inside. He made sure to mix it well, his arm more than familiar with the movement. He texturized more milk once done, licking his lips as he drew on the dark surface with the paleness of the liquid.
A moon.
Nightmare merely stared down at his mocha when Ccino gave it to him, head still in his hand. When Ccino’s hands felt like sweating, he finally straightened up. He didn’t drink yet, however. Ccino knew he liked his drinks colder, so he didn't say anything regarding that.
“Want— um. Would you like something to eat?” Ccino offered, pointing down to the glass panel of the display case. Refrigerated as it was, —a need only human food possessed, for the pastries made out of pure magic didn't rot no matter how much time passed— everything was ready to serve and eat. “It'd be on the cat house. Anything for a friend.”
“An awful model of business, I hope you're aware.”
Ccino was already moving, however. He reached down, making sure not to strain his back, and looked for anything that would not fight for the position of sweetest on the tongue. Balance was an important thing, after all. He could not give anything less than his maximum effort. “Don't worry. Maybe—” Maybe, a pancake would do. Ccino called the specific preparation by name, questioning, “A Whiskered Heart of Light and Honey?”
“Pardon.”
It would not do. Ccino bit his cheek, and stretching his arm, took a pastry by the plate. “How about a… Dazzling Moonlight Sonata for the Wide Multiverse?”
“...I don't seem to understand.”
Ccino straightened up and placed the plate over the counter. He reached to the side, to get the wooden utensils. Knife, fork, and spoon. “Croissant.”
Nightmare just stared at him, unblinking. He saw the way he squinted his eye at him, just for a moment, before pulling the plate closer to himself, slow and careful. It was hard not to compare it to the movement of a cat before it struck. Awfully calculative.
His head dipped down when Nightmare’s lips pursed down just so, staring down at the croissant as if it had personally wronged him. Something inside Ccino sparked— and cooled, a chill that spread deep inside his spine.
“Is— oh, don't you like it?” Ccino suggested, corners of his mouth twitching nervously when Nightmare didn't look up, expression on his face unchanging. He fought not to get the plate back, unaware if Nightmare would see it as lack of courtesy. “It’s— it’s only filled with jam, so I thought you wouldn't—”
“No. I don't mind it,” Nightmare said. His voice came out rushed, so it was no surprise when he started to cough, closed fist covering his guilty mouth. He lifted his head, and looked to the wall. Still decently framed, possessive with his attention, it looked like it wanted him to lose himself in the faces that were and were not familiar to him. “It just made me remember something.”
He faltered. Not all the tension left him, but it was close. A half, perhaps? “Oh?”
Nightmare didn't look at him, closed hand still hiding his lips, even as there was no sound to be dominated. He set the silence, and, as so, Ccino tried to make his breath even and calm, hands twitching as he forced himself not to clasp them together in familiar soothing.
Finally, he spoke, baritone: “You used to have… a picture, framed. My brother and his entourage.”
It seemed like yesterday when Nightmare came to him, annoyed and sharp-edged with defeat. A pacifist AU with a hopeful outlook; he never had a chance. It had been odd to see him so small, injuries covered by negativity and cloth. Ccino’s mouth twitched up, a bit anxious; he had barely managed to smooth it down to something more tame when he answered, “...Yes. I— ah. Took it down. To show that this place stays neutral.”
“A wise decision.” He said. It took him a second or so, before Nightmare’s hand finally left his mouth. His head tilted, as both hands found their way to the counter, polite. “Publicly allying yourself with anyone with… notable enemies, may put you in danger. Controversial figures that exist out of Universe, particularly.”
Ccino didn't dare question just who would make themselves an enemy of the Stars, if not Nightmare himself. Protectors as they were, opposing them felt stupid in the same way it would to resent the hand that fed you. You could criticize the food, of course, but biting it as it was would be suicidal.
Not that the picture itself was incriminating. After all, Ccino had just asked to capture it as their food was finally served; a ritual of the shop that he acquired ever since the Multiverse break had leveled just so that seeing anyone with his brother's face didn't shock him to tremors. Same faces, different people… it was hard not to want to collect, and compare. A client’s picture. Nothing much different than that of a fan’s plea for a signed photo, or a particularly boring collection of colorful stamps.
When Nightmare looked at him, Ccino smiled, peaceful and docile like cut grass. His calm expression didn’t twitch when Nightmare spoke, “I have allies of my own, I hope you're aware.”
Was Ccino one of them?
With that question in mind, Ccino tilted his head. Attentive, he nodded, waiting for Nightmare to elaborate— and leaned forward just so, side eyeing the corners for a moment as if expecting a cat to lie there in wait. Looking back at him, —his owner and savior— Ccino made sure to keep his eyes round and shiny. “...Yes?”
Nightmare's mouth twitched once more, and Ccino kept his expression unchanging. The feeling of all of him rattling by the face of his soul was all too familiar, so the effort wasn't particularly great. Even so, by the way the cyan eye of his scanned him from up to down, and then the other way around, he knew that Nightmare could already somewhat scent his fear.
A dark hand covered Nightmare's mouth once more, and Ccino saw him cough. His attention back on the wall, Nightmare made something that could only be interpreted as a shrug. “...How much do you know, Ccino? Of Ink, from the Stars, I mean.”
Ccino blinked, and his mind was quick to draw multiple memories of Nightmare. It wasn't quite often, for when he was upset he was pretty vague about anything that had to do with his battles, but he tended to ease up on words when drunk with overwhelming victory. It wasn't often, not quite, but he remembered a few things or so. He knew who Ink was, of course, but so did most multiverse-aware people. It was hard not to think of it as a test, and as such, he looked away in thought. One of his hands went up to prop up his chin.
“He’s… uhm. Someone against expansion,” Ccino started, slow. Nightmare didn't say anything towards that, so he allowed himself to continue. “No, he's more of a… radical anti-expansionist? Someone against… multiversal travel, interversal colonies. A kind of— uh. Activist. I assume.”
Nightmare looked at him. He blinked, slow and controlled. His hand did a gesture, something similar to a sweep.
Ah. Proceed.
He swallowed. His throat felt particularly dry, the feeling only seeming to worsen when Nightmare proceeded to stare. He fought to think of more to say. “He’s also… Dream's… ally? Friend? He comes when a Destruction Event happens. And he— well. He can… stop them. Most of the times? But I’ve heard that, lately…”
“What was of his triumphs doesn't matter to me. Why, I’ve taken to assisting him,” Nightmare said, then. “An alliance between the two of us. I thought— I thought you were to know, if you ever saw him and needed help that I wouldn't be able to give you at the time. Tell him you're familiar with the after dark, and that you request his services. He will understand your importance to me, and, hopefully, aid you.”
The wall was once more stared at. Nightmare’s face turned just so that he couldn't quite see his pupil. His mouth, however, was very clear to him. It was hard to mistake the turn of his mouth as anything else but frustration. “What else, Ccino?”
“He’s— uhm. I’m sorry, I didn't quite catch that.”
“What do you make of him?” Nightmare said. He looked back at Ccino, the same annoyed, frustrated turn of his mouth still on his lips. “Beyond his role. Tell me of his traits— physical, of course. I do not expect you to know him personally. Not more than I dare to say I do now, at least.”
A blink. Ccino tilted his head to the side. Then the other. “He's… a skeleton? Big— stain? Beauty mark? On his cheek. Uh— dress? Brown skirt…?”
“They are pants— tucked in overalls, actually, but don't let me stop you now.”
“Big… broom,” Ccino stammered. His hands moved to his neck, trying to conjure the memory of him more solidly. “Scarf… orange scarf? Brown…?—” Nightmare side eyed him. “— and… sash! Sash. He has a sash too, with… little jars? Thin jars.”
“How objective you are, Ccino,” Nightmare said, after a moment passed without him being able to summon more words. Now frowning, he looked pensive. Ccino saw him finally reach down for the wooden knife, and he had to bring his hands up to cradle one another to calm his racing soul. That was, until he saw him reach for the fork as well. A sigh. “He’s… how would you describe his eyes?”
“They've— uh. Got shapes?” Ccino tried. “Colors? They're pretty… cool. I guess.”
Nightmare stabbed the croissant with the sharp edges of his fork. When he cut a piece with a single cut of his knife, it bled strawberry jam red. His cyan eye stalked the paleness of Ccino’s face. “Cool.”
“...Yes,” he squeaked. Those were his words, and he was to stand by them. From what he had heard, the King of Negativity valued honesty over all things. But he wasn't as sure of Nightmare, the person. He had never dared to try to lie to him beyond some insinuations that didn’t quite follow the cold truth; it seemed stupid to risk it now. “They’re— it must take a lot of magic to keep them changing shape, color? So quickly, too. It's very— ah. Impressive.”
Nightmare hummed, squinting his eye for a moment or so. He brought up a piece of his croissant up to his mouth, small, and chewed on it tactfully while Ccino watched. A moment.
Then he went for the mocha, and Ccino saw the exact time when the sugar hit. He didn't like it, not from what Ccino saw,— no, when he was in a good mood, he didn't attempt anything sweet— but Ccino has long since learned that he had kind of a masochist streak when stressed. Even then, no matter how many times he saw it, it was still unsettling to see his expression torn in a type of disgust he didn't hold for the sound of magic ripping to dust.
He saw him cough sharply, the motions of it somewhat similar to how a cat would try to puke a fur ball. But then it was over, factions smoothed once more. When Ccino offered him a napkin, Nightmare took it, cleaned his lips, and proceeded to fold the dirty paper in a neat triangle. It was something he had seen of Dream before, and the knowledge that they were —or, once were, at least— identical twins felt ever so real.
The cup was put down on the plate, and Nightmare looked away. Not to the wall, but to the ceiling. Then, he looked back at Ccino, who had remained staring with the utmost patient expression he could muster. Frown, downturned mouth. His eye flicked to the wall, then to him. It was hard not to try to follow his view, anxious with the idea that he was forgetting something.
“How about… the turn of his cheekbones,” Nightmare said then, low. He straightened on his chair, expression faltering before he frowned once again, revitalized. “Ink’s face, that is. How would you… catalogue it, Ccino?”
He squinted his eyes. “He's… a skeleton? A Sans?”
“That I am aware of, Ccino,” Nightmare huffed. He went back to toy with his pastry, fork and knife collaborating to dirty the plate with jam. He didn't eat again. “His… his face. Would you consider it… fair?”
“Fair,” Ccino echoed, blankly. “It's— he's got… the black spot on his cheek? I wouldn't know whether to consider that… fair?”
Something on the air felt oppressive in a way he could only describe as dominating— just for a moment or so, before Nightmare blinked. He looked at Ccino, who suddenly felt as if he had lost the capability of falling. Or unlocking his knees. Or breathing whatsoever. “...Ah, you're referring to something lacking in stains. No, no. Not quite.”
“Ah.”
“My apologies. Polysemantics, you see,” Nightmare said, small and clear in something he could only describe as polite embarrassment. Whatever was remaining of the feeling that could only hint at catastrophe was gone, light and fluffy like summer cloud. “How about… appealing?”
Ccino stared at him, helplessly wordless. Nightmare's mouth twitched just so, and he continued speaking, “...Attractive. Alluring.”
“...Come again?”
“Is his— Are his… factions—” Nightmare repeated, voice failing him as his volume faltered with each new word. Uncomfortable, he swayed just so from one side to the other. “—appealing, to one’s view? A man’s view, that is.”
He must be dreaming. “...Like. Sexually?”
“Objectively,” Nightmare said. If Ccino leaned closer just so, he swore he could see a hint of cyan trailing his face. A hand covered his face, and he coughed again, as such, his voice came out quite muffled, “In matters of the eye. Does he inspire you… anything?”
“Night, you’re asking if I find him hot?”
“Objectively, Ccino,” he repeated, a tiger’s disgruntled grunt. Nonetheless, Ccino could very well see how the color of his magic deepened on his face. “As— As a man who does not personally know him. Is he attractive to you? Appearance-wise.”
Ccino opened his mouth, then closed it. “...Maybe? Yes? I mean— the eyes are very… uhm. You know.”
He saw Nightmare turn away once more, eye unwilling to meet him. For a moment, he thought he had hallucinated the whole conversation; the silence stretched, tense and silver-sharp. But the blush was there, deep cyan, and Nightmare still looked uncharacteristically ashamed. The wall caught his attention again, and he thought that perhaps the reason he had wanted to see the picture with that kind of longing was not because of his brother’s appearance, but the smiling figure beside him.
“You— uh,” Ccino tried, tone gentle in the way he could only summon when speaking to a feral cat, “...Find him attractive, yourself?”
Nightmare made something of a growl, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked right and down to his plate once more. His fork carried another piece of croissant, which he chewed once he brought it up to his mouth. A swallow, and Nightmare cleaned himself with his triangle of a napkin. It sounded like defeat when he finally spoke, “...You said it yourself, haven’t you? He has beautiful eyes.”
Huh, he was still blushing.
Sensing that it wouldn't be very wise to do any sudden movement or comment now, —not with the threat of violence tied neatly around his neck— Ccino sighed, quietly, and allowed Nightmare to warm his throat with the coffee he had served him. The same flavour, he contained his disgusted expression a bit better when he sipped. There was bitterness that Ccino only knew from alcohol when Nightmare added, however, “It could… well, it is only natural. He must know what he does to… men. Must thrill on it, even. Fault does not lie on me.”
“...Ink?” Ccino tested, unsure whether they talked about it. The memory of Ink —the loud disposition that quieted down the moment Ccino came close enough to stop being a prop, or, more often, the way he whistled to get his attention instead of just raising a hand and patiently waiting for his attention— filled the blank of his mind. There was nothing too revealing about him, nor his clothes, from what he remembered. Except, perhaps, the lack of proper shoes. As he didn't know him, he could not advocate for his character. “I don’t think he— uh. He doesn’t look the type for catting around…?”
“Just look at him, Ccino,” Nightmare huffed. “His tucked-in overalls. How… calculated.”
Then, Nightmare ate another bite of his croissant and sighed. Ccino looked at it happening from the front, still unsure whether this was real life or an effect of his lack of sleep. Bitter. “His… gloves. What kind of monster only hides a single finger, if not to… attempt to provoke such feelings? I was unaware that such a strategic display of bone could cause that kind of effect on people, and yet…”
“It’s… It’s only natural to like some things like that, yes,” Ccino tentatively agreed, lips twitching when Nightmare merely shook his head. He had to be mindful of this; confusion aside, it was clear that he was getting agitated. He covered his mouth and coughed. “So— the attractiveness thing. It’s a problem for you, because of the… ally situation.”
“It is clearly an effort to destabilize me.” Nightmare was back to smushing the croissant into tiny, bloody pieces. The frown on his face never quite left it. “While our accord was made… in a relatively greater benefit reaping for his cause, I can admit that it was not thought of to altruistically aid him. His mind is sharper than you may believe; it wouldn’t surprise me that he’s aware of that fact.”
“...So. You’re saying he, uh— is seducing you,” Ccino said, slow, “As a sort of… vendetta?”
It wasn’t a verbal answer, but the gesture Nightmare made with his shoulders was enough of a response as it was. He let go of the fork at some point, leaving it beside his plate as he grabbed the spoon to try and salvage the mess he had made of perfectly edible French cuisine. With a respectable amount of it on hand, he brought himself a bite and chewed.
“Or— he’s doing it to get a benefit,” he enunciated, mouth moving big and clear so as not to leave any word to interpretation, “Which one?”
Nightmare rolled his eye, and his spoon started to aid his efforts on the task to transform whatever was left of his food into a homogenous pink paste. He frowned just so when he looked down at what he had made of his poor croissant. “It is clearly targeted, but a spider’s web can reach quite far. It wouldn't surprise me if I was not the only one with this particular… issue.”
“...That doesn't answer anything?”
“He’s using his assets on me, Ccino,” he scoffed. “Using his… physical traits in such a way; it is clear that he desires something of me.”
It was hard to picture Ink wanting something that badly, seeing as his main asset for getting it was dazzling him with an oddly designed pair of gloves and a wrongly worn overall. Ccino didn't say that, however. Instead, he breathed in the air that permeated his café, and let himself drown in the caramel scent that never quite left the air. He opened his mouth, then closed it. The wall was very attractive all of, sudden. “...Are you sure?”
“Pardon.”
“I mean. Night, come on. It’s not— uh. Maybe he just fits your type?” Ccino said, focusing on the many pictures that decorated the wall of his café. He refused to look back, unsure and unwilling to see what kind of expression Nightmare would make back. “He is… uh. Somewhat good-looking? Kinda a cool cat? I think? But it’s not something he’s, uhm, clearly trying to weaponize?”
“His ankles show very vividly beneath his socks,” Nightmare stated. If Ccino focused just so, he could hear the bitterness leaking. “I can see their silhouette whenever he crosses his legs— which has not been a practice of his until recently. Doesn’t that show a degree of intentionality? It wasn’t something I noticed until our Alliance became more of a solid thing, you see. Perhaps, he wanted to have a taste of the persona beyond my role before deciding to strike with his charm’s full potential. Or, maybe, he perceived my… moderate liking to his sharper edges and deemed me weak of mind.”
Ah, our sweet Angel of the Underground. “So he is your type.”
“I do not have types, Ccino.” A cat’s yowl came to mind; he didn’t dare to think too deeply of the comparison. His hands joined one another as if in prayer. “I find the idea of fawning on and staring to be below me. It is savage and uncouth for the clear mind. Disgusting at such a level that I cannot give it a proper name as to avoid solidifying it further into existence.”
“...But you do find him hot?”
“Naturally,” he said. A moment or so passed before Nightmare elaborated, tersely, “Not by anything else but a conscious effort of his making, of course. I’ve lived without any of these… improper desires for far more than your lifespan; it is clear that this is something schemed.”
There was no convincing him, it appeared. Ccino finally turned to look at him, his own cheek bitten, and found that Nightmare, too, had decided that the best course of action to be followed was to avoid the chance of their eyes meeting. He looked tense, silhouette tight and curved. His coffee was surely cold by now, too. It inspired something like pity, light, and flowy in the bottom of his ribcage.
The situation felt pretty clear to him. As such, he mentally apologized to Ink for the sacrifice he would bestow upon him. Although he supposed it would be karma for all the times Ink had called him with a whistle, like he was a dog. “...Maybe he just has a crush on you?”
Nightmare stilled just so. He didn’t turn around, but it wasn’t hard to see the way he twitched, as if consciously preventing the movement from being. Dry ice, he said, “Pardon?”
“Like— you know. Maybe you feel like he’s changed because now he’s— uh. Making a proper effort. Try to woo you, bells on. Because he has…” Ccino swallowed when Nightmare finally tilted his head to look at him, cyan eye following the movement of his hands. He separated his palms, and gestured, big and wide. “...a fixation! On you. A crush. That’s why it would feel intentional.”
“Why.”
“Because you’re… uh. Smart. A top cat. Funny,” Ccino said. A bit of sweat started to fall from his skull when Nightmare just stared at him, pupil sharp and attentive. “You two got… closer-ish, because of the Alliance, yes? Maybe he saw something good in you when he started to spend more time with you while you two weren’t… rivals. Enemies.”
Confused, Nightmare frowned at him, mouth twitching ever so slightly. “You know what I was made of, Ccino. My existence is undesirable on a visceral level. Do you not feel it? Do you not see it, the kind of creature I was born as?”
That was a bit harsh. Ccino remembered when Nightmare’s distaste for entering without a proper invitation, and fixation on politeness made him believe he was a vampire. And, even now, he wasn’t quite sure that it wasn’t the case. But there was a difference between unlikeability by nature and by behavior alone. Regardless of how many nightmares it had given Ccino to see his merciless ways, he was still his savior. Did it make him a bad person, for him not to care about what Nightmare was beyond how he treated him?
“I do,” Ccino admitted, ripping the tense silence that had permeated the air like rigid cloth. “But we all— uh. We all have our little quirks. I’m a furry, myself.”
Nightmare squinted his eye at him, confused. He tilted his head to one side, then the other. After that, he looked to the wall once more. “And what if— he cannot see beyond such… little quirks, as you've named them? If, under the hypothetical scenario, I decided to… take advantage of this fixation he has on me, only to find that I’ve been mistaken about his feelings. It would be time I would never recover.”
The implicit things; Ccino could read them. He couldn’t lie and said the idea of Nightmare being rejected and the world having to receive the bruise didn’t worry him. “You can read… people’s feelings, can’t you? You can always... uh. Do an emotional check.”
“You’ll find that some people’s hearts are harder to penetrate than others.”
“Then you can… have faith. I guess,” Ccino said, unwilling to step back now. “If he’s got a crush, you just have to— uh. Make sure to deepen his feelings? Make the deal harder to reject. Write him something, sweet-talk him… uh. Scheme back. Woo him. Get him some fish. Impress him! Dress well, get a suit or— I don't know. Maybe a peacot?"
Nightmare hummed at that. When he looked back at Ccino, it was only for a moment. He reached for the cold coffee, still on the counter. More to himself than anything, he said, “Treat it as a business deal, I see.”
“I mean. He is your ally. It makes sense if you want to act on your— uh. His feelings. Catch him neatly and take advantage of his… weakness of the heart?”
“He has no heart, Ccino,” Nightmare said. The warm tone in his voice felt particularly weird, much more so when it was followed by a wistful curl of his lips. “He is alive, however. He speaks and feels. I assume he must not be immune to such trickery.”
The expression on his face faltered, however. Nightmare added, tone souring, “...But, if it fails…—”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Ccino said, perking up. He wiped his hands on his apron, seeing as his palms were becoming somewhat sweaty. “Like, uh— genuinely? Isn’t he at a disadvantage for… uh. The fact that the Stars don’t know about the fact that he’s teaming up with you, their enemy? You could always blackmail him if he gets too catty. That's a thing you can do.”
“Such a cold disposition to have. It is no wonder you’ve taken well to working alongside me,” Nightmare said. It almost sounded like praise, if Ccino ignored the undertones. He saw him tilt his head to one side, and close his only eye in thought. “Ah, but you see, Ink has a gift for the sharper words of our tongue, once you’ve managed to unsettle him. He would… hm. In the scenario— the hypothetical one, that is, where I would… play alongside the idea of us in a romantic relationship, and I failed to read him enough that he would reject me, uncaring of the possible repercussions…”
Ccino braced himself for the bitterness.
“He would, probably… mock me for my confession. Laugh at me, even,” Nightmare said, thoughtful. He frowned just slightly, and the sight of it would be terrifying if not for the way Ccino could see the ever so slightly deepening of his cheeks’ cyan and the unbothered upwards curl of his lips. “Depending on our physical position, he could take advantage of my emotional weakness and push me to the ground. And— ridicule me some more. And—”
Okay. He couldn’t do this anymore.
“Anyways— better not to think of the worst case scenario!” Ccino chirped, trying to ignore the way Nightmare perked up, as if shoved awake. “Don’t bristle your fur just yet. This… uh. This can always be something… more planned? Feelings aren’t that brief, so it would be better if you thought of the method more deeply.”
He blinked at him. Ccino didn’t think too deeply of the way Nightmare immediately reached for the cup of coffee, downing it in one go just to cough in instant regret. “...Of course.”
“I’ll be cheering you on,” Ccino said. “You’re— uhm. My friend. So I hope it works out for you.”
There was a moment of silence, as Nightmare just stared at him. But, before he could get worried that his choice of words had not been the right ones to use, Nightmare nodded. His eye met Ccino’s, cyan against white. And then he looked down, to finish his croissant.
“...I assume that’s what we are, yes.”
They didn’t speak until the moment when Nightmare stood up and left.