He’s shabby and swaggering and talking down to your boy. No one talks down to your boy.
You finish shaping your memory bubble; a complex maze, to keep the treasures safe, you will do him proud, that slash of grin and broken-glass voice in the dark, at long last you have found the destiny you were always searching for but never quite knew. And then you walk, quick-footed and careful across the lilypads which shift underneath your feet, and then onto solid ground again, this odd little memory of Mituna’s.
During the course of their conversation, during his flailings and manic taunting and fits, he’s scuttled back so he’s closer to the looming hulk of his guardian, protected. You doubt that he realises he was doing this! The fact that he feels the need to seek protection, that he doesn’t feel safe, makes your skin crawl beneath its paint. The fact that he’d seek protection from anyone or anything that isn’t you makes you want to strike him down with your best chucklevoodoos, pry into that wasted mind of his and claw it to shreds for the crime of not loving you anywhere near enough, how dare he, how could he MOTHERFUCKING DARE.
You smile, sedately.
You never liked Cronus, and you like him now even less, dressed up all alien but still at heart the same, a simpering cowering man who lusts for anyone and everything; he notices you approaching and the cigarette falls from his lips in his surprise, and then he tries to pretend that he wasn’t startled, no, not in the least, not by you, not by Kurloz, goodness no, he’s certainly not GETTING HIS WICKED TERROR ON RIGHT TO HIS UNWORTHY BONES.
You go and stand behind your beloved, and he leans against you contentedly, his twitches and jitters calming; he looks up at you and tries to talk, still frantic and incoherent, and you smile your sweetest stitched smile at him and hold him close easily until he calms and can speak properly again.
“Yeah, I know, I know I should stay away from mind honey,” he mutters, pouting a little, precious thing. “What does it matter? We’re already dead, what does it matter what I do, it makes the world go in so many colours ...”
You nod and smile. You understand about colours.
“Hey, hate to break up the petting party,” Cronus says, “but you do realise I’m right here, yeah?”
Pathetic whimpering drawling useless scum. You grip your beloved’s shoulder so tight he flinches away from you, then says, “Sorry, sorry,” hanging his head, he always feels he has to apologise about every damn thing and you hate it.
Cronus’s mouth twitches into a grin. “Great moirail you are,” he says, “what a pair, the mime and the ret—” He catches himself. “Uhh, loser,” he says instead, with a smug little smirk, obviously congratulating himself on his kindness, his MOTHERFUCKING CONDESCENSION TO SOMEONE WHOSE FACE HE ISN’T FIT TO LOOK UPON.
You let go of Mituna and step forward with a swing of your club; it takes him in the stomach, and he falls to his knees gasping for his breath. You only did this so he was weak enough for you to take control of his mind properly, which you do, easily. Your eyes flash and you slice a hole right through his weak defences and slide smoothly into his mind. Quick and easy, like gutting a fish.
You make him apologise.
You stand above him with your mouth curved into a grin as he kneels, kneels like the wretch he is and says sorry, sorry, sorry, Mituna, sorry, Kurloz, sorry for being such a fucking waste, sorry for existing, sorry for bothering you, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry
You make him say it over and over, and you contemplate, idly, the idea of actually changing him, personality-deep; making him better. Your boy’s pining after him, that much you can tell, and if his heart’s truly flushed for this useless creature you could perhaps make him a little less useless, make him more deserving of Mituna’s affections.
Or you could just go into Mituna’s mind, instead, and make him stop wanting him. That’s harder, though. Mituna’s mind is complex and beautiful and even you have difficulty understanding it, at times. That’s half of why you love him so.
“Kurloz Kurloz Kurloz,” he’s saying, now, and you snap yourself out of your harshwhimsy-haze to look at him inquiringly. He’s all frantic again, as though you weren’t even here, and you feel a twinge of annoyance. After you went to all that trouble to calm him, too. He’s pawing at your arm, anxious, his words jittering with numbers and unpronounceable babble. “Stop it stop it 7TOP IT N9@NG J H)@*H FWHTWH NO STH) UFCK UFCU FKUFUCK FC,” he says, bouncing on the spot, his fangs digging so deep into his lower lip that they draw blood.
You let Cronus go, and he just sort of blinks for a second and then stands up. “What happened?” he says. “I don’t remember ...”
“H3 W7S HURT1Ng yOU he was hurting YOU—” Mituna bursts out, rushing to his side, and you twitch in annoyance and step forward and lay a hand on each of their shoulders to keep them still.
FORGET, you tell them, and they do.
Then you tug Cronus away to reshape his mind a little. In small ways, so Mituna won’t notice, but ways that will better him, all the same. Your love is lucky he has you to look out for him.