Archive of Our Own

It started normally, better than normally actually. Cuphead was laying on Boris' chest, hands scratching through his fur in that delightfully mind numbing way that had his tail wagging lazily underneath the both them as he drifted in and out of slumber. Boris felt a small huff of breath from where Cuphead's head was pressed against his throat and he looked down. "You laughing at me?" He muttered, voice scratchy from disuse.

Cuphead's head tilted up, porcelain lips pressing to the underside of his muzzle. "Maybe, what'cha gonna do 'bout it puppy?" It all went wrong when Boris raised his hackles in mock threat and Cuphead's hand came up to trace the curve of his lip, slipping down to press against the point of a canine. The force pushed his mouth open slightly and Cuphead dragged his thumb slowly along the sharp edges of his teeth, pushing down on one of them in an attempt to break fragile skin.

Boris let out a panicked noise somewhere in between a yelp and a whine as he pulled Cuphead's hand away, much to the other's displeasure. "What are you doing?!" He demanded, pushing himself up. With a huff, Cuphead readjusted himself so he was basically sitting in the wolf's lap.

"What's the point of havin' teeth like that if ya don't ever use 'em" He complained with a roll of his eyes, sounding almost like a petulant child as he tried to pry his wrist out of Boris' grasp like he wasn't just trying to slice his finger open. "I was just tryna how easily it'd break through."

Loving Cuphead was deceitful. He would look at you with nothing but love in his eyes, voice dripping with affection as he asked you to plunge a knife into his chest. The only person he'd had for so long was the person he'd killed with and now his idea of love was so intertwined with violence that he couldn't imagine the softness of devotion without the warm rush of blood.

"I don't use them because I don't want people to be hurt!" Boris insisted, gripping Cuphead by the shoulders like he could shake some sense into him. The look of bafflement on his face quickly morphed into some attempt to be comforting that made Boris queasy.

"Yeah but that don't include me." He soothed and Boris wanted to cry. "It's not like I can die, ya don't haf'ta worry 'bout hurtin' me." Boris' grip tightened, a soft whine building in his throat. "'Sides I do worse stuff all the time."

And that was the issue with Cuphead, wasn't it? Thrill seeking pushed to the absolute extreme by the need to capture that same adrenaline rush as when he thought he could die, and Boris always thought he could keep him safe. Nudging him away when he got too close to sharp drops, pulling him away from fights he had caused. Holding him close and silently begging to stop, for just a moment. Boris was trying to help Cuphead, to save him, but maybe that was the problem.

Maybe Cuphead didn't want to be saved.

Cuphead would push worn fingers into festering wounds just to stop them from healing. Because maybe this time the pain will mean something, maybe this death will take away all he has done and all that has been done to him. Maybe this time he will be free from the choice to come back.

Because Boris knew Cuphead didn't want to come back. He had once described what it looked like when he died and the wolf didn't miss the longing in his voice as he described the pearly gates and fiery depths that awaited them all, all except for the twins that is. But as long as Mugman was still around Cuphead would force his way back to the land of the living. And sometimes on quiet nights when he was feeling a particular kind of bitter resentment for the cup and his suicidal tendencies Boris wondered if it was because he hated the idea of Mugman being left by himself or if it was the idea of being completely alone that scared him into coming back.

At some point Boris' head had come to rest against Cuphead's shoulder, he could just about see the spiderweb of cracks that raced down his throat and across his body. Each one a different story of how Cuphead had put his life on the line and so often lost it. Some morbid curiosity sparked in his brain and he was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to demand to be shown, to be told the story behind each one so he could know him better than even the cup's own brother. The thought was quickly pushed down, he knew he couldn't stomach hearing how his had partner died over and over again. Distantly he wondered if this whole relationship some strange form of self harm.

Instead he turned away with a deep sigh, his grip migrating down to hold the other's waist in a painfully gentle grip. Despite himself he glanced up at Cuphead, exposing a look of uncertain regret on his face. An expression so rare that Boris had no choice but to memorize every painful line. He could feel the way Cuphead swallowed, hands twitching in an aborted movement before they settled on his thighs.

Selfishly, Boris missed when Cuphead would hide any hint of emotion behind layers of mania and blood lust. That Cuphead, the one from before they had put in months of painful work to get to know each other, while even more unbearable in his absolute lack of any emotional vulnerability, would never be caught dead this unsure. He would soothe Boris with false words or double down so much that they ended up in a fight so violent that Boris had no choice but to forget his worries.

"It's just that-" He began before pausing, thinking through his words before he started again, this time with an attempt at a comforting smile. "-I mean you know what I used to do. -I still do." He corrected, voice trailing off when he saw how Boris' ears flattened against his skull at the reminder before he cleared his throat, the uncertainty creeping into his voice now. "I'm just sayin' that, I've been hurt worse y'know?" A forced laugh. "I mean people don't tend to be too friendly when they know you're out to get 'em."

Boris always struggled to make peace with the fact that Cuphead was a killer. Once, during an explosive argument, Boris had demanded an explanation as to how he killed so many, why it had all even started. Debtors he'd called them, said they had to die for what they owed and refused to elaborate further. Even when Boris pushed, got loud and angry he refused to say what they owed or who to. Wouldn't even say why the twins were the ones who had to collect. It was only after the cup had stormed off to bleed his feelings away in some shitty bar did Boris think that maybe they had also owed a debt they couldn't repay.

Despite the reluctance to speak Boris didn't believe Cuphead felt bad about the lives he'd taken, he never seemed guilty or too caught up about what he'd done. No, in the rare moments where Boris saw the mask of that cocky grin slip all Boris saw was a bone deep exhaustion, one that no amount of rest could cure. And in those moments Boris could understand why Cuphead would fling himself into danger, even if he had to cause it, and he mourned the relationship they could have had if Cuphead wasn't Cuphead.

Boris didn't know when Cuphead had fallen silent but now, with no rambling backtrack to mask it, he could hear every small sound of life that his partner seemed intent on snuffing out. The steady inhale exhale of breath he had personally heard cease, the absence of which used to serve as an ever present reminder of his guilt. The subtle sounds of porcelain skin clinking against itself and fabric rustling as his hands shook, a small tremor he had noticed on the third night of sharing a room. Cuphead still hasn't told him what happened. If he strained enough he could even hear the rush of warm, familiar blood being pumped through his love's veins, the same blood that he always seemed far too eager to spill.

He was caught up in his own thoughts, so much so that he didn't even notice when one hand began to trail up from Cuphead's waist and down his arm until he was pushing up the fabric of a sleeve and he felt cold porcelain and the steady thrum of a heartbeat against his fingers. A small reassurance that Cuphead was here, that he did come back and hadn't, despite his best efforts, gotten himself killed again. For once Cuphead didn't say anything, no snarky comment about his odd behaviour nor a harsh joke to deflect from any hint of vulnerability. Instead he flexed his wrist, pushing his still pulsing veins further against Boris' fingers.

Still pulsing. Still beating. Still alive. As he probably always will be.

Another sigh, this time out of a belated sort of relief as his hands curled into loose fists to hold onto his partner as if something he could do would keep the idiot out of harms way. Cuphead, to his credit, simply looped his arms around Boris' shoulders, pressing the cool surface of his face against Boris' head. They stayed like that for quite some time, letting the simple sounds of life fill the space left by the absence of words. He could still hear it, the steady thump, thump, thump of Cuphead's heart as it pushed blood through it's unwilling hosts body in vain.

"Why did you have to be like this?" He eventually muttered into the cup's shoulder, breaking the silence with a voice rough with sorrow and an odd sort of mourning for the life he and Cuphead could have had. Cuphead was silent for a long time, hand's coming up to tangle in the fur at Boris' neck. "I think the Celestials made me to be some sort of punishment." He admitted quietly, something almost like guilt in his voice. "To drag good people down with me. Like you, and Mugs." Boris hated the fact that he couldn't come up with a rebuttal.

Loving Cuphead was many things, deceitful was one of them but it was painfully honest too. Because as much as he lamented the way things turned out, Cuphead warned him. Maybe not through words but with his actions. Maybe the fact that the first thing Cuphead asked of him was to kill him should have been more of a warning. He thought at first that maybe he could save him from himself, but good intentions don't matter much when the one you love thinks he's the reason for your damnation.