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chernabogs · 1 month

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Threnody

Inc: Malleus x Reader, with a lil bit of Lilia parenting Warnings: Existential crisis, anxiety mentions, allusions to death, dabbling in insecurity, post-blot coping WC: 2.9k Summary: There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within. Part 1

The gasps of spring’s last moments found closure under summer’s blade as she sliced through the tolerable weather into that of stifling, uncomfortable heat. Despite the way it made his skin itch beneath his uniform, or the way it left an aroma of sweat and humidity on those he surrounded himself with, Malleus was apt to linger on the Isle of Sages for slightly longer than necessary this time. Of course, Housewardens were always the last to leave anyway—someone had to make sure the dorm rooms were cleared out and prepared for the coming fall.

Last to leave, first to arrive.

Even then, there was more motivation than the years before for him not to depart so hastily back to the cooler, darker halls of Black Scale Palace for all of three months. Motivation which was presently situated on one of the couches of the Diasomnia lounge, basking in the fresh air from the open windows as Malleus arranged the last of the disarrayed cushions to his liking.

Yours had come to be a strange relationship in the aftermath of his uncomfortable realization post-overblot. He had bit his tongue like a man cursed and ensured that you had not caught wind of the idle thoughts turning in his mind as he had observed you, so patient and so giving, sitting next to the cot he had been delegated to in that medical ward.

Your idle chatter had been efficient at keeping periods of silence from stretching for too long. Those periods of silence would have been the trigger to make him shoot off his mouth at you, ejecting his revelations like a psalm that no one was ever meant to read.

… He wanted you. He wanted you, so much so that it ached in his body …

Such thoughts were akin to ones that a man in torment would have, writhing between the battle of want and learned conservativeness.

He had admittedly avoided you for a week upon being released. His excuses were mainly that he wished to focus on the reparations duly owed to everyone that had been caught in the prison of his insecurities. Internationally, he had a script written for him by some of the more political of Briar Valley, apologizing for his actions and ensuring he was taking the steps to never fracture again. Privately, he fumbled over words in the dark to the three he had hurt the most, his voice breaking as fingers twisted the hems of his sleeves. He had been more nervous asking forgiveness from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia than he felt speaking to an international stage.

He had not asked for forgiveness from you, despite the fact that you and Grim had been on the forefront of this conflict, alongside the Shroud brothers and STYX. Your presence by his bedside had felt like absolution already granted, and so to plead for it would be a waste of fragile breath in the end.

“Have you marred the cushion enough?” A teasing tone snaps him sharply from his ruminations as he pauses, his mind sluggishly returning to the present. He holds the couch cushion in his hand, its form warped from the original due to his constant pushing and remodelling. Malleus clears his throat before dropping it unceremoniously and nudging it with his knee.

“It was due for some rearrangement.” His voice is less light as he assesses the rest of the dorm before his gaze drags itself back to you. The sunlight dapples across your skin as you watch him, the faint smirk on your lips doing little to hide the tiredness that rests in your eyes. Like him, you too have fought battles this year. It was selfish to bemoan his own hells when you have been in levels far deeper.

“Sometimes you seem more meticulous than Riddle. I should be thankful I don’t need to memorize a rule book for Diasomnia as well.” You still continue to poke fun even as you observe him with a sharp stare. This is a look he has grown familiar with since his overblot. Perhaps born of concern, or perhaps born of paranoia, but you have been dissecting every comment he’s made as of late in a more clinical fashion.

Malleus does not deign to give you a reply as he drifts around the lounge, readjusting candles or shifting books ever so slightly on the table. He wouldn’t say he’s overly anal about how things operate, but he does appreciate a sense of order. He has dealt with enough chaos this past year that the thought of more feels like a weight on his back. It’s when he enters his third lap of the room that you speak up again.

“Malleus.” His name slips from your lips like a lure, causing his attention to move from the lounge to your form once more. The smirk is absent from your lips as a sterner expression rest on your face. He still enjoys the sight of it. Smiling, stern, or despairing—he struggles to find flaws in your complexion. “Is there something on your mind? You seem quite restless.”

That terrible impulse to speak true rears its ugly head once more as deeper thoughts bubble up to his tongue. Want, want, want, want—

His upper lip curls into an expression he doesn’t mean to give—disgust—and he see’s the consequence of this by the hurt that flashes in your eyes. He turns to face away as an ugly feeling embraces his body.

... You cannot speak with them, or hold them, or tell them how much they mean to you ...

“Nothing, Prefect. I’m merely thinking about what still needs to be done.”

_______________________________________________

There is trivial difference between storms of a Fae’s misery and those of a Fae’s joy—both are adorned in catastrophe for those caught within. The skies above are a roiling mass of grey as the scent of rain perfumes the air. Malleus observes it with fraught silence as he taps painted nails along the windowsill. That ugly feeling is still wrapping its arms around his body. He has showered several times, scrubbing his skin until it was raw in an attempt to remove the heat and the unseen slickness that is holding him hostage. The failure to do so has set him in a foul mood—one that the entire world can now sense.

This can be easily written off as a last spring storm, intending to make the season’s death a performative one. At least, those who have not been alive for several hundred years would think so.

He can feel a gaze on the back of his neck for a while before he finally rolls his eyes and decides to address the elephant in the room.

Or, more accurately, the bat.

“If you intend to surprise me, you’re doing a poor job at it,” Malleus mutters wryly as he finally looks back to the shadowy corner. Red eyes glint in delight before being accompanied by a white smile as Lilia moves to stand by his side.

“I was trying to surmise if I would be allowed to approach, or if you’d try to fry me with a lightning bolt first.” Lilia clasps his hands behind his back as he leans forward to look at the skies above. His expression is quite relaxed for someone fully aware of the turmoil going on in the man next to him. Lilia’s brush with death in the recent months had caused him to be more open-minded to the possibility. “You’re going to make move out day a very unenjoyable experience if you keep this up.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Malleus’ voice is dry as he taps his nails again, his attention fixating on the skies. The ugly feeling churns alongside the clouds above and for a moment it makes him feel satisfied to see a physical reflection of his state.

“Malleus.” There’s a sharper, more paternalistic tone now behind Lilia’s words. Malleus can feel the disapproval rolling off of him the longer they stand here in a stubborn silence. In the aftermath of the blot, Malleus had agreed to be more communicative of his moods to his family, and so it’s with a reluctant grunt that he speaks again.

“I don’t feel good.” His words are just as sharp as Lilia’s as his expression darkens. “I don’t know why.”

“Have you visited the medical ward?” Lilia’s hand flits out to touch Malleus’ forehead, as though checking to see if he’s feverish. The gesture causes the prince to scowl and move his head back. “Oh, come now, don’t get moody with me. I’m concerned.”

“Is it concern, or do you just wish to fuss over me?” He grumbles back as he bats his guardian’s hand away. “I haven’t visited the medical ward, no. I’m not too sure if there’s cause to do so.”

“Then at least tell me what you’re experiencing. Perhaps I can provide some insight.”

Lilia would be the most probable to give some sort of answer. Malleus knew the cause already, but his denial of the fact makes him speak up regardless. “I feel... unclean. Hot. Restless. There is a twisting sense of anxiety in my stomach that has made sleep quite evasive as of late, and it only is growing with each passing day. It’s as though I’m afraid of something—but I have yet to discover what.”

Lilia frowns as he looks from the window to Malleus. There’s a seriousness to him that comes from those many, many years of experience. “Is that so? And is there something you think of that seems to make this feeling grow?”

Malleus’ jaw clenches at the question as memories briefly flash in his mind. Sunlight dappling on skin, lips curled in a faint smirk, and idle chatter at a hospital bedside.

“Malleus?” Lilia’s voice is softer this time. Malleus knows that in this moment, he is playing traitor to his own thoughts. He looks to his guardian, and his silence is all the answer the other man needs.

“Am I ill?” He asks, and it’s when Lilia’s expression becomes one of faint sympathy that the ugly feeling becomes clearer.

“... no, not ill.”

Lilia’s repetition of the same answer he gave Malleus so long ago feels like cruel irony in this moment. Malleus barks out a laugh before waving dismissively at the other, who takes his cue to vanish away.

Not ill, no. But foolish, most certainly.

_______________________________________________

Ramshackle is no longer a dorm of ruins. The school year and your tender care has given it new life, something that many may have thought would never occur. No longer can he hear floorboards rotting or cement cracking under the weight of time. Although he mourns the loss of such precious tribute to the end, the prospect of rebirth is invigorating all the same.

He draws to a stop by the iron gates and takes a deep breath, looking to the dorm in silence until he see’s a figure step out and stand on the porch, waiting for him.

He does not make you walk to him this time.

Malleus’ hand grasps that iron gate and forces it open so that he may step through. He walks with purpose towards the porch where you stand, a mug of something in your hand as you watch him in the dying light. Birds sing their last songs and grasshoppers begin their own chorus as he stops just at the edge of the steps and looks to you appraisingly.

“Are you ready to retire?” He asks.

“Depends. What brings you to my home tonight?” You counter, smirking wryly from over the rim of your mug. That expression makes his nails dig into his palm behind his back as he clears his throat. He feels more nervous standing before you now than he felt speaking to an international stage.

How funny.

“Walk with me.” The words come out more as a demand than a question, and for a moment he balks, thinking that the authority in his tone may have just cost him an opportunity. But then you take a sip of your drink before setting it down on the porch’s banister.

“Please?” You hum, and Malleus clenches his jaw, looking to you with an unwavering gaze.

“Please.”

_______________________________________________

The nights silence, often welcoming, now feels as though he’s standing on a stage before an audience held in rapt attention. The two of you walk silently down your usual route as his mind turns and tosses his thoughts like a restless sea. He wishes to know if you feel a similar turmoil to what he presently does—and yet you are moving in perfect ease by his side.

“... and I can tell you, he wanted to make another contract with Azul over this. He was making faces at the man the entire time we were in the Lounge and Floyd looked ready to drag him to the backrooms.” You’re chattering away about your two other friends as you walk. He finds the situation grimly humorous. He’s having a crisis, and you’re filling him in on how ridiculous the antics of your companions are.

“Is that so?” Malleus murmurs vaguely, if only to keep you speaking, if only to keep hearing your voice. The two of you continue on your route as he remains in a trance like state.

No, not ill.

Lilia’s words are an omen hanging over his head. His guardian knows, and although Lilia is very skilled at keeping secrets, the fact that another is involved in this only makes his anxiety grow. He looks to you briefly. There’s a time limit left on how long you will remain by his side, both for tonight and for the future. You may return home, or you may embark on some grand adventure around the world, drinking in all the sights that Twisted Wonderland has to offer while he’s forced to remain in a palace on his own.

Everyone misses the ones they love when they leave us.

His grandmother’s comment in the mausoleum also comes to the forefront of his mind as he ruminates on this. He will miss you, and that’s an uncomfortable fact. He will miss you, and he cannot place if this is because of genuine care or because he’s so goddamn terrified of ending up on his own, that he cannot come to terms with the loss of someone by his side.

He doesn’t even register the two of you coming to sit on a bench by the main street, doesn’t even register how empty it is. He doesn’t register anything at all until he feels the sensation of your warm hand on his and it pulls him so harshly from his thoughts that he fears he may have whiplash.

“Hey?” You’re looking at him, and it seems that at some point you had stopped talking about your friends, stopped talking about your day. There’s concern in your eyes and it’s such a warm feeling, to be worried about, but for some reason it makes Malleus want to shrink back into the shadows even more. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem like you’ve been in a whole different place this entire walk.”

No. He wants to say. No, actually. According to my guardian I am not ill, and yet the very prospect of watching your form grow smaller on the coast of this Isle as I return to the Valley is one that fills me with such abysmal fear that I cannot even comprehend it. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I do know that you are the centre of this all.

You will die. So will I, in the end, but yet it’s this childish fear of seeing you fade away while I still remain that I cannot seem to get past.

Please, show me how to get past. Let me know, so that I may know you.

The words that had fought so hard to escape him so far now shrivel on his tongue as he looks to you. Your gaze flickers around his face, focuses on his lips, and it’s that action that makes a bolt of heat shoot through him. But before that bolt can ignite to something more, the ugly feeling wraps its hand around his throat and wrenches his head back. He jerks his face away and stands from the bench, his body stiff as he clears his throat.

“No, I think I may be coming down with something. It would be best to head back.” Even his words feel fabricated—traitorous! —as he speaks them aloud. This is not what he wishes to do. He wishes to thread his fingers through your hair, to pull you in and to lose himself within you until he can no longer differentiate where he ends, and you may begin. He wants to taste your words before they leave and know your thoughts before they’re spoken. He wants you, so much so and it aches and—

“Malleus,” you begin again, moving to go to his side, but he raises a hand to you sharply.

“Now.” He chokes out before setting off down the path, uncaring to see if you’re truly following or not. His mind is in turmoil and his body feels as though he has no control over it any longer. All that lingers now is the way your gaze went to his lips and the silly, hopeful thoughts such an action provoked.

Please.

#twst x reader #malleus draconia #twst malleus #ok i promise i'll give u a nice conclusion but there is a BUILD UP #the man is like an onion we got layers we gotta pull #the beautiful crisis between what you were raised believing and what you desire #OUAGH #the tension of want and control #malleus has several crisis in my stories and i love it all

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