Chapter Text
It all began the way the best stories do: with an interrupted coincidence.
It was autumn, and the institute was steeped in that exquisite scent of wet leaves, used paper, and teachers’ promises to postpone the exam until next week. It was just another ordinary day in the life of our friend the octopus.
Nightmare, an adult stuck in orientation classes. He couldn’t find a job after university; his résumé should be fuller, they said. Nonsense, Nightmare replied. Now surrounded by kids under 25, he felt old. Seeing others with more collagen bothered him.
Dry leaves crunched under his shoes. With a bored gaze fixed on the huge clock in the middle of the courtyard, backpack slung over one shoulder, he mentally reviewed the plan for the day. He had decided to leave early—it was Friday. And his face, hardened by routine, was the final touch.
The first period had ended, but he wasn’t physically capable of letting his ass sit through another two hours of sessions on how to speak professionally. So he decided to slip out a bit earlier than usual.
Sneak away before the penultimate class and gain a few hours of freedom. But as he crossed the lobby, he noticed some athletes in front of a display case. He didn’t care; he preferred to focus on his pockets, searching for his keys.
He had never stopped to chat in the lobby; he had always been a solitary bird, unable to anchor himself to anything or anyone. And when some people moved away, they left a smudge behind.
But then he saw him. And his feet rooted to the ground.
There, next to the dusty trophy case, a boy absentmindedly gazed at a rusted plaque. He didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular, as if the world around him was as indifferent as he felt. But it was enough for him to lift his eyes and meet those black ones—along with the tears sliding down his cheeks, reflected in the glass.
Black. Not ordinary black. Not empty black. Not the black associated with sadness or shadow. They were black like a calm universe. Like a night that doesn’t scare, but embraces. Like something you don’t need to understand to want to stay.
That was enough for his escape plan to collapse. Don’t ask why: something simply held him there.
Nightmare felt a tickle in his stomach—not on the skin, the kind that feels like someone reaching a hand into your intestines. The air had become inexplicably dense and warm.
Is this what they call love, Horror? But that boy definitely didn’t look like raw meat.
He forced himself not to crane his neck like a teenager, but it was impossible: something about him had captivated Nightmare. In a clumsy yet sincere impulse, he took a few steps toward him, fumbling for words he didn’t know how to fit together. But unfortunately, his heart was a coward. So he resorted to the perfect plan: run away.
“You’re leaving already?” The white-boned boy turned fully, looking at him with pity as Nightmare tried to back away from such a beautiful being.
“My ass hurts. I’d rather do other things. Anything.”
Nightmare felt like one of those lovestruck fools who say whatever just to keep the conversation going.
The boy smiled—a smile that dismantled all his doubts—and took a few short steps until he stood right in front of him.
“So… how about I give you something to do?” he said, pulling a pen from his pocket.
Before Nightmare could answer, his wrist was gently grabbed, and the tickle of the pen tip against his palm began. He wrote his number. When he finished, he released Nightmare’s wrist, letting him stare at his own hand. Nightmare closed it carefully—those numbers were now his entire world.
He felt like his grandma after winning the lottery three times in a row—like a total champion. But he didn’t want to cash in his “chips” too soon. He wanted more.
“Call me on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I want a smile. You look way too bitter. You seem like a sad poem.”
What triggered the blush was the wink he threw right after those words. Now Nightmare felt that joy, but his little brother wasn’t there to catch the contagion. God, he wanted to beat Dream up for getting into his heart.
That simple exchange led to months of increasingly long and sincere late-night messages. Messages turned into calls. Calls turned into meetups.
“Tell your neighbor that rabbits have two ears and they’re tiny.”
“Why?”
“Rabbits aren’t almost two meters tall and not all of them are white.”
“…Did you try to sneak into my house?”
His silence was answer enough. Nightmare had never been good at memorizing streets or house numbers. He just wanted to visit his “almost-something,” but the damn neighbor ruined everything.
The meetups became endless nights talking about everything and nothing—walking in the rain, lying on cold grass, or those curious calls where both pretended they weren’t as gay as they actually were.
“Nightmare, it’s 3 a.m. Don’t you have inspiration tomorrow?”
“I’ve got some motivational lines.”
“No, not again—”
“‘May the fear of losing never be greater than your desire for… boobs.’”
It didn’t matter if the downstairs neighbors got mad about his late-night exits—if Killer wanted to see him at ungodly hours, Nightmare would go to be by his beloved’s side. He adored those nighttime outings.
They fell in love the way trees do: slowly, deeply, inevitably. Late-night visits, gifts of all kinds, lots and lots of food… he definitely won Killer over by taking him out to eat. He gained weight—to Nightmare’s delight.
Since Nightmare had graduated five years earlier and was only attending the institute for a short refresher course before finding work, seeing Killer in his graduation gown brought back memories. Still lacking his in-laws’ approval, he simply approached, kissed him on the forehead, and handed him a bouquet of echo-flowers that faintly whispered promises. Despite the stares, he never looked at anyone else—Killer was his center, and the arm around that waist said it all.
Killer didn’t care if his parents were watching. He grabbed Nightmare by the nape, pulled him down, and crashed their lips together. That kiss tasted like freedom—like oxygen Nightmare couldn’t stop consuming.
Then came the promises, growing more personal, more intimate, with a future drawing closer. But neither of them seemed to care what that future would hand them—on a golden platter or not.
Finally, after a dinner carefully planned by Nightmare (and a mental prep talk with Reaper to expect anything), he did it. A dinner far from everything, in a quiet, little-visited place. But the champagne, their intertwined fingers, his tentacles wrapping around his partner with that precious love… he said it.
“Could you be my husband? Say yes and I’ll stay.”
“That’s a tempting offer.”
That was a yes.
His world was—and would forever be—“Killer.”
Do you know what it felt like to wrap around him and claim him? Like that tiny piece stuck between your teeth that doesn’t bother you, but the satisfaction of dislodging it or swallowing it is deeply gratifying. The same thing happened with Killer’s virginity.
The wedding was quick. Killer didn’t say no, and Nightmare was happy just to make it happen. But he never counted on Dust being such a nosy bastard—a friend who visited their apartment every chance he got, just because it had a balcony with an ocean view. Perfect for reading.
And the busybody found out, told Horror, Horror told Fell… and so on.
Though both agreed on one thing: it was a mistake to schedule the date with Dust sitting on the balcony sunbathing.
Horror just held the bouquets of roses the others brought, trying to distract himself from Lust’s presence—because one look and his snout would start drooling. Dust was crying on Fell’s shoulder, who complained about how his friend’s tears and snot were ruining his clothes.
Reaper was listing the pros and cons of marriage. Nightmare listened—Reaper was already on his fifth child and had a marriage over ten years strong.
The wedding was the consequence of Killer’s eviction. His parents didn’t approve. He was 19, they said—he had his whole life ahead of him. His belongings in boxes, piled in the backyard like a cruel reminder. Killer just glared at them. Didn’t they understand? He had found the mango to his knife!
His black one arrived shortly after and let him cry against his chest. Nightmare still keeps that sweater—he could never wash out the tear stains. They were imprinted.
But the love they shared seemed unbreakable: the kisses that showed their devotion, their little living-room dance sessions pressing their bodies close, shared meals, their shared fascination with visiting aquariums. When it was just the two of them. And love slipping in between them.
The genuine oxygen Nightmare breathed regularly—it gave him life.
..
They moved to another neighborhood, far from family stares, far from that bad memory—a house they had recently bought with the whim that their children would fill the empty rooms. Nightmare wanted children, enough of them to tie Killer to him for life.
Two months after settling into the house, the news that lit up their lives arrived in the form of two lines on a home pregnancy test: Killer was pregnant. Nightmare celebrated with a wild night, justifying it as a way to secure their future happiness.
As the body changed, they didn’t notice the symptoms at first.
An ankle refused to bend. A painful throb in a shoulder followed a week later. And so it continued. The therapist said they were minor aches, that Killer’s body was simply preparing to carry a weight it wasn’t used to—to atrophy just a little.
And the two of them believed it.
Until Killer couldn’t bend his arm anymore. That alarmed him—he didn’t feel his nerves respond, his tendons had stopped being flexible. Nightmare panicked and got him to the nearest hospital in under 20 minutes, filling out forms however he could. Killer was only four months pregnant, and as a first-time father-to-be, everything hit him bone-deep.
The first medical checkup brought news the couple had never imagined.
The diagnosis arrived: FOP—Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva—a condition as rare as it was devastating, one that turned soft tissue into bone.
Killer’s ecto-skeleton had betrayed him.
..
That medical report, stained with impeccable terminology, made their illusion wobble. Killer, unable to believe his own body was betraying him just as a new heartbeat began to live inside him, felt a vertigo of fear. Stress came first, then tears, then pleas. And Nightmare held him.
Nightmare began staying up at night, researching every medical opinion, hunting for studies that offered even the faintest glimmer of hope.
He clung to Killer’s body, comforting him, wiping his tears.
At first, the hospital was just a temporary stop. That’s what Nightmare thought.
They went for checkups, treatment adjustments, tests that promised hope. But as the months passed, Killer was admitted. That white room with the smell of disinfectant and windows that didn’t open all the way became a prison for Killer… and a maze for him.
Nightmare felt something hardening inside him, because those white corridors, with the sensation of imminent death and false medical promises, only made him close off his heart.
Over time, he stopped showing his love—the caresses on the neck when pain surged after vomiting, the future plans. Every pet name faded after paying the tenth bill. The treatments were expensive, the injections too, and his emotional sanity grew discontent with the path their life had taken.
And Nightmare… no longer slept well.
The bills piled up like little towers of ruin on the table. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. He tried. He tried, even though the invoices said he owed, that payments were due by a certain date.
He went with his beloved to every injection session, tucked him in when he shivered with fever, listening to the rasp of the file against his bones, hearing every moan of pain like an internal alarm that shattered his strength to submit and not interfere. He just wanted to take Killer’s place.
But he no longer smiled.
He worked overtime, refusing to rest, feeding the illusion that money could replace the impossible: Killer’s youth and mobility, the shared caresses without fear of breaking him.
The loneliness of the house was unmatched, the darkness in every corner. The need to feel accompanied became so great that the television stayed on until sleep finally won. Empty rooms, just like their marital bed. The casual calls between them grew long—at one point, twelve hours straight. They gradually shortened over time.
“Did you manage to pay the insurance?”
“Did you get there in time to request the discount?”
“Tomorrow I have to call the lab.”
Hugs became dangerous. Kisses were barely grazes on the forehead. The tone of his voice faded like a candle at the end of its wick.
And he… he stayed.
But not all of him.
He brought flowers, sketchbooks, chocolates that Killer could no longer chew.
He smiled when he walked through the door, but his eyes were no longer the same. Inside, he was withering. He felt trapped between the bills arriving like dirty rain, sleepless nights, and extra jobs that gnawed at his time like hungry dogs.
And, without fully wanting to, his thoughts and needs began to seek oxygen outside that tunnel of hospitals and bank accounts.
..
The miscarriage was spontaneous—one bloody, silent dawn.
The nurses found him in the bathroom, everything in disarray, lying on his side in the middle of it all, letting his tears add to the pool, staining the hands that covered his face, pleading for his husband’s presence. His thighs smeared with blood, his ecto-body wracked with unjust pain.
Nightmare arrived three hours later, his gaze lost as if he had already begun to leave this world. But when he got there, there was nothing left to do.
Not even for the skeleton Nightmare loved.
Every time he entered that room, he saw him lying there, motionless, his gaze lost between morphine and fear. A part of Nightmare recoiled. They no longer talked about future plans, outings, or cravings. They no longer dreamed of trips, houses, or futures. There were only medications, bills to pay, and doctors with dull eyes.
And a dream that turned blank.
And the need to feel loved—like before—arrived.
..
It was the curiosity sparked by the particular name on the huge sign adorning the building—“Coffe-Kitty!”—that drew him inside, to escape and relax from the shitty gifts life kept handing him.
It must have been the smile, or perhaps the slippers the waiter who served him was wearing, that reignited his interest.
He accepted the cookies that came with his order, along with the smile they gifted him.
It was a simple gesture. As human as it was selfish, his reaction: to accept. To accept the warmth, the company, the voice that didn’t speak of diagnoses or pain. It only talked about how the coffee was the best.
In those eyes, Nightmare wasn’t a caregiver or a desperate man. He was just… someone.
And with that small brush of fingers on the counter while trying to hand over the money.
That experience began again.
That simple caress that followed stirred everything up: the tenderness he could no longer give Killer, the comfort he himself pretended not to need, the hugs he could offer without instructions to be gentler. And with all of that, he opened his eyes to the possibility of feeling desired, held, loved again—even if only for an illicit instant.
Exchanged glances turned into stolen midday dinners, messages that lightened the weight of guilt, dates that replaced the ones at the hospital.
No schedule could stop him—no nurses telling him how to hold a frail body.
He tried to justify it by thinking “he would understand,” that “it was just a release,” that “it wasn’t infidelity if he didn’t truly fall in love.”
Bullshit like that.
An invitation to rest, just a walk on the terrace. Then a kiss that tasted like betrayal but also like oxygen.
And though he knew it was unfair, cruel, absurd… he didn’t stop.
That was when his world began to be renamed “Ccino.”
He started dividing his time between Killer’s sterile hospital room and the remaining hours—with Ccino—that turned into days.
He went to see his husband with his soul strangled, with silent guilt, with the sad expression of someone who doesn’t know how to repair what he never intended to break.
The black eyes that once had stopped him in his tracks now watched him pass as if he were no longer there. Not out of resentment, but exhaustion. Out of intuition.
He began arriving late. He focused on payments, insurance paperwork, finding a second job. But he got distracted by other promises, other lips…
That was his excuse: “I’m doing it for him.” But it grew harder and harder to remember what his laughter sounded like. It hurt more and more not to feel anything when he looked at him.
Something that began to happen sadly, regularly, and only got worse.
One week. Two weeks. Then a month.
Killer spent his days staring at the door, waiting for the knob to turn and see him enter with a fake or genuine smile—it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel something besides the bandages wrapping his limbs; he wanted love…
He began sleeping hugging a box wrapped in lilac paper, with a simple bow in the center, checking the bow. He asked the nurses what day it was, how long until a date that made the thin skeleton’s eyes shine.
He never said anything about it; he simply waited to breathe a little oxygen.
And each day his voice grew softer, more distant.
..
On the night of Nightmare’s birthday, Ccino took him to a simple restaurant with warm lights and soft music. He arrived with a tired grimace trying to pass as a smile. Ccino, without a word, appeared at the end of dinner with a cream and red-berry cake, decorated with a crooked candle and a handwritten note: “For the years you haven’t yet lived.”
He sang softly while the other diners applauded. Surprised, he laughed—a frank laugh he hadn’t felt in years. In that instant, he took him in his arms with youthful impulse and lifted him into the air.
Ccino let out a playful scream, legs dangling, the cake trembling on the table.
And in those seconds, he wasn’t seeing Ccino.
In his mind, in the darkest part of his heart, that laugh, that weight in his arms, that image… it was Killer. His love laughing like when they danced in the living room. Him, intact, before the illness. Killer, with bones unmarked by the file or with that gaze that had made him fall in love…
But the mirage shattered when the candle burned out. The moment passed. Ccino leaned on his shoulder, and he looked at the cake with a smile that felt nothing.
He didn’t ask about Killer. He didn’t wonder if he was alone that day.
In that instant, the entire world seemed to stop. The scent of the sponge cake mixed with the ecstasy of betrayal; his heart pumped a strange blend of euphoria and guilt. Ccino laughed, pleased, and he held that laugh like a trophy.
..
Dawn hadn’t finished yet.
Traces of darkness still lingered in the sky, as if the sun refused to light the world one more day. Nightmare lay beside Ccino, his body still warm under the sheets, but his soul absent, restless for no apparent reason.
That was when the phone rang. Not just any melody, but that dry, distant tone used only by unknown numbers at inconvenient hours.
He answered sleepily, with a touch of annoyance.
On the other end, the doctor’s voice needed no preamble.
Killer had passed away in the early hours of the morning.
The words stretched like echoes in an endless tunnel.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t ask “how.” He just listened, face turned toward the ceiling, gaze empty, as if his soul had detached from his body.
Sleeping, clinging to a box he guarded jealously—and apparently none of the people who came to check on him had touched it—he had let them take the box.
There was silence after the announcement. A thick one. A cruel one.
And then came the sound. Not a scream. Not an explosion. But an inner crack, muffled, that only Nightmare felt. As if each rib broke one by one. As if the air had become too heavy to keep existing.
The line stayed open, but he no longer heard. He sat up in bed barefoot, moving forward as if stepping on glass. He didn’t look at Ccino, who slept beside him wrapped in sheets that now seemed foreign, grotesque. He glanced at him for only an instant—not with anger, nor contempt, nor even guilt—but with that absolute void left by shipwrecks.
He dressed with familiar movements, without looking back, without leaving a note, without saying goodbye.
The only thing the hospital gave him was Killer’s belongings: nothing more than a bag full of notebooks and clean clothes, smelling of chlorine… And that box, the last thing he wanted to cling to, had been taken to the lost-and-found storage… and simply got lost among the concrete walls.
What worsened his state was seeing the condition of his body—small extensions of his own bones protruding, file marks on his face, black tears dried on his cheeks and on the pillow…
No one would know if his tears were real or just the viscosity that surrounded him.
From that moment, he never sought Ccino again. Not out of guilt, nor anger, but because his world had become too silent. There were no words to describe the void dragging him from within.
The love for Killer, which he had tried to bury in foreign nights and borrowed gestures, now surged back with the violence of a mute storm.
The idea that he died alone, waiting for an embrace he decided to deny… that he held with his cold hands a gift he never got to deliver… that he died loving him, while he laughed in someone else’s arms…
That was more than pain. It was condemnation.
..
The move was silent, like a grief that no longer needed words. Nightmare didn’t take furniture, paintings, or carefully packed memories.
Only empty suitcases, like his body, and an absence that had become his only real companion.
He left everything behind. Everything, except a worn blue ceramic vase resting on a small table at the end of the hallway. Inside, the ashes of his beloved, carefully sealed under a glass lid.
His tentacles slid cautiously, wrapping around the vase with love.
He feared breaking the only part of the world that still held warmth.
Nightmare’s gaze rested on the vase as he packed his things. For a moment, he hesitated.
He had promised not to tie himself to more memories. He was going to start over, far from everything. Try to control that loneliness or anger… or the tears he didn’t know how to stop.
But he couldn’t. Not without him.
When he was about to leave, door open, hand on the knob, suitcase dragging behind him.
From the back of the house—from that room sealed by sadness, full of comforts, stolen kisses, and even pictures of the two of them, the room where Killer slept before the hospital, before the silence—footsteps were heard. Soft. Almost imperceptible. As if bare feet brushed the floor timidly. As if that silhouette had turned around.
And then. His voice.
“Are you leaving already?”
It wasn’t a voice made of air. It was made of memory. Of desire. Of promise.
He stood still for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, he turned his face toward the dark hallway. And for the first time in months, he smiled.
It wasn’t a full smile, nor a fake one. It was a crack in the mask of his face, a slit through which a spark of tenderness, recognition, resigned joy filtered in.
Without saying anything, he took a step forward, then another, and one more. And without realizing it, he set out to approach the room. The darkness consuming his body, but one that enveloped him with love… with comfort.
If he smiled, perhaps Killer would gift him a few more words.
And just perhaps, he would let him cry in his arms. Like countless times, he had wished to do.