Chapter Text

Chapter 30b:

Sun couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, his red finger tips clacking together with a dull sound. In front of him stood his love, the Princess, with concern painting her optics a beautiful colour.

The apprehension in his core painted him an opposing, ugly tint. Dread pooled into his senses, filling his fuel lines with stagnant water. His mask furrowed into a horrible crease, dismay reflecting clearly through his optics.

He was terrified, but this needed to be done .

It was the only way he’d have forever with her.

The feeling of her dainty hands stilled his tremors, the soft sensation of satin coating his shakes like a soothing balm. He looked into her open, resplendent mask, and resigned himself to her beauty. He couldn’t live without her. He couldn’t bear to live in a world where she wasn’t real .

The realisation that his love, his exultant joy, was fake threatened to tear him apart from the inside. All their memories, all their shared caresses and laughter, were nothing more than a sham. The source of his love, his reason for being, crashed and shattered against the empty landscape of this reality.

He felt angry.

He felt furious.

He felt empty –Sun wasn’t aware it was possible to feel so many things at once, each contradicting the other. 

Every conscious moment brought more painful memories back to him, reminding him of the utter falseness of his relationship. He’d fallen in love with a sham. Whatever cables and gears that functioned as his heart were in ruins.

Sun watched as the Princess leaned down, pressing her delicate forehead to the place where their hands connected. Red fingertips threaded through deep shiny satin, and a crested jewel touched his knuckles. Through their proximity, he felt the Handler within the Princess breathe, and he fought not to recoil with shame.

“I know you’re scared,” came her calm, musical voice. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

Sun felt like sobbing, the reality of his imminent actions shadowing his thoughts. He wasn’t built with the ability to cry. There would be no way to escape the feelings the horrible necessity of his actions would bring about.

Her rays sparkled in the low light, the generator fuelling only the bare minimum of bulbs to conserve power during the outage. Sun thought she looked all the more resplendent in the dim light, the din catching every sparkle of her mask, alighting her in silver shimmers. She looked like an ethereal creature, not of this earth. She looked every inch a ruler, every inch Sun’s love. A fey princess of a fairytale land.

But she wasn’t real. And Sun was going to change that.

He couldn’t get his vocaliser to activate, the words stuck in his voicebox. You’ll be fine , he wanted to say. It will be over quickly . 

But his sounds were silent, his hands still trembling underneath the Princess’s delicate digits. He wanted to feel disgust with the knowledge that there were wet, human hands piloting the metal endoskeleton, but Sun only felt disgust within himself. It would be a brief pain , he reasoned, this is the best and fastest way .

He loathed the fact that despite his abhorrent thoughts, the Princess (and Handler by proxy) was none the wiser. They still treated him with the utmost care, concern etched into every glimmering sparkle. There was no wariness in their posture, only a gentle regard to his state of body and mind. To watch this innocent creature, so full of trust and wonder, die to bring his love to life? Sun felt like his hands were already covered in blood and he hadn’t even done anything yet.

FazCo had done an impeccable job hiding their true revelation from the world, hidden amongst the robotic acclaims and record breaking profits. It was a wonder they hadn’t revealed it sooner, their solution to immortality hidden inside the proof of the existence of souls and their ability to be trapped inside an animatronic shell. 

It was horrifying, the details Sun unearthed while researching the only potential means of securing his happiness. Children had died, been murdered and stuffed into suits or so he’d read, and been born anew wearing the faces of his predecessors. Guests, young lords and ladies, that would never return home to share in the memories of their happy times at FazCo affiliated franchises.

Children and adults alike had allegedly been dying and animating suits since the 80’s, if Sun’s references were to be believed. Resulting in dozens of deaths and dozens of animated corpses. Some even inhabiting the same shell! The details would be too much to bear, if they didn’t provide Sun with the answer to his problem, and didn't give him the courage he needed.

Broken down into simple facts, his task seemed easy enough. 

Coax the Handler back into the Princess costume, check .

Convince them to exit onto the Royal platform with him, check .

Fall to their death and animate the Princess endo, therefore making his love real, next on his list .

The task seemed so simple in his headspace, the emotion core detaching in order to make decisions more manageable. With all of his systems back online, the task seemed infinitely more daunting, hardly the simple checklist his processor had designed for him. His core throbbed in pain with the utter wrongness of what he was about to do.

Despite all the equations, despite the fact it was the right thing to do , it was still difficult. Sun could never paint himself a murderer, nevermind the fact to the creature wearing his lover’s mask. He was programmed to entertain , to bring smiles to small children and guests of all sizes. He wasn’t meant to paint his hands red with the guilt of his coming actions. Despite the joy it would bring, his choice would still bring about suffering.

As his hands continued to rattle, he could hear the tell-tale thumping of the Handler’s heart, buried deep within the Princess’s chest behind a wall of metal. Distantly, Sun felt incredibly stupid that he had never noticed it before, never made the connection despite all the memories of their close proximity. The truth of his love felt like a slap to the face, a cold shock to his internals.

How many times had he held the Princess, spun her in his arms and pressed their masks together? How many times had he held her torso, whether flying with her in the air or twirling her in his arms?

How had he never realised? Sun never felt more foolish than he did in this very moment. The more he concentrated, the more sounds he could hear, trickling out from within the Princess’s internal confines.

The soft exhalation of breath.

The whirr of pulleys controlled by muscle rather than electricity.

The gentle creaking of bones.

The sound of veins pumping necessary blood to organs that shouldn’t even be there.

Sun felt so much disgust, he was full to the brim. He felt dirty inside and out, the sensation of the Princess’s hands causing rivulets of sour electricity to pulse through his cables. He felt unworthy to even touch her, his fingertips already stained with the violence they were capable of.

He had to do this. He had to.

Sun knew he was capable of violence, never entertaining the idea that he was above using his strength for the safety and protection of others. He’d used violence before, of course, but always for the Princess’s benefit. Defending his regent from brigands, such as the Knights, and using physical intimidation to get the results he needed to protect her.

How disgusting that he’d unknowingly harmed his Princess by harming the Handler by proxy. How vile that he’d harmed the very being he swore to protect above all costs.

Sun could barely bring himself to look at their clenched hands, wanting nothing more than to rip his soiled digits out from the Princess’s dainty grip. He was repugnant, loathsome, abominable…

But she loved him anyway.

And deep down Sun knew she would forgive him.

With all the effort he could muster, Sun took a small step forward, gently pushing the Handler inside the endo towards the edge of the platform. The bell at the end of his slipper rang quietly, muffled by the surrounding skirts, and Sun paused to judge his love’s reaction.

She still showed no concern other than for his sake, and Sun could feel a smile beneath her mask. Courage building, he took another step, and another.

They passed the throne, bypassing the symbol of the kingdom with barely more than a passing glance. The Princess hummed a soft tune under her breath, a happy melody that dug its claws into Sun’s core and refused to let go.

“You helped me love it up here again,” she breathed, damning herself. “Heights, I mean. I was never scared of them before, but you helped me be brave again.”

The cables in Sun’s voicebox clenched, static pulsing from within.

“I know you’re afraid,” hands squeezed gently, “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to help you be brave too.”

Dry, static crackles erupted from his vocaliser, threatening to spew sparks with how tight the cables felt. Apologies stuck behind his voicebox. He still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Being afraid is okay, it’s natural. Well, maybe not natural for you, but I promise it’s normal. We’ll find out what went wrong and fix it, I promise. I’ll be with you every step of the way, holding your hand.”

Gears stuttered and jammed within his chest piece, delicate pieces of machinery snagging and malfunctioning. He jerked, unable to stop himself, and the Princess didn’t even flinch. She squeezed his hands tighter in response.

“I love you Sun. I’m not going to leave you.”

Sun felt his teeth creak with the force of his clenching. How could she, despite everything, still treat him so kindly? When he was about to harm the only person he ever loved?

He faced his Princess, and the Pit, and summoned the vestiges of his courage to answer her.

_______________

Moon raced through the corridors, barely glancing back at the Knight’s exclamations and questions. 

He didn’t want to believe it, but the villain had a point. 

Moon had been witness to Sun harming the Handler. If he found out that his Princess and the Handler were the same, Moon couldn’t trust that his brother would react positively.

Sure, Sun loved all the lords and ladies that came to the Castle, the little ones especially, but he loved them in a detached, unromantic way. Humans were different from them, and in an odd way Sun considered them lesser . Moon had observed in the months of their activation that Sun treated humans differently than he treated his brother and the rest of the animatronics, regarding them as dirtier, wetter, squishier. All observations that Moon had turned a blind optic to, as it meant that Sun would never be a competitor for the Handler’s affections.

How wrong he was. Incorrect on all accounts.

There had only been one incident (two, his traitorous memory supplied, if one counted the incident on the platform that started it all) where Sun had shown real aggression towards the Handler. The first time could almost be forgotten, given that Moon was much the same at the time, his own regard of humans not yet changed, but whereas Moon had altered his perspective, Sun had not . 

Sun had harmed the Handler before. It was entirely possible he would do it again.

Sun still treated humans as beings wholly different from them. It mattered little to Moon since he was included in Sun’s little world, but only started feeling a little odd when the Handler became involved in the romantic scenario.

Things had changed once Sun had come to the conclusion that the Handler occupied a bigger part of the Princess than they initially realised (how foolish of him for believing such a theory as fact so quickly) and Sun started treating the Handler with a touch more respect. 

Moon knew it was for his sake that Sun was expanding his worldview to include the Handler, but he never considered that it could have been anything more than surface level. Moon had been entirely preoccupied with wooing his Songbird, finding only a few moments to truly consider the breadth of what the future could hold.

He raced through the hallways, the echo of his own footsteps in the dark following him.

He had to be the one to tell Sun the truth.

He needed to confirm the Handler’s safety.

Sun’s location ping situated him in the arena, a common area to find him dawdling after hours. That information alone wasn’t the cause of concern.

The fact that the Handler’s last passkey entry had been the Tower, was .

Now with the Tower included in their permitted access entry, Moon could see the arena in its entirety. But it also meant that there was nowhere that Sun didn’t have access to, and nowhere safe for the Handler to hide if Sun accidentally realised the truth.

Their respective locations were too close for comfort, Moon could only pray that his concerns were false.

_______________

Sun was unsure how long they’d been up on the platform. She was still, gently grasping at his hands, unafraid of the deadly drop behind her. Endlessly patient, even when faced with her doom.

He had to do it, it was so simple. Just call the wire and let her believe they were taking flight. 

But her grasp was welded into his own, despite the gentle grip. He could no more undo it than he could disconnect his own fuel cables, an impossible feat.

She was so soft with him, so cautious. Her touch felt like an iron brand, or a welder’s torch. Her touch brought him to life, and his would take hers away.

Like a phoenix , the dark reasoning in his processor supplied, born again from the ruin .

Her haunting words trailed off when he did not respond, his vocaliser dead in his chestplate. He could only spit out more static, a thousand apologies hidden behind the crackle of noise.

He wanted to say sorry.

He wanted to sob.

He wanted the pain to be over.

So he willed his accursed feet to take one more step further, titling his mask ever so slightly upward towards the rigging. In an agonisingly slow movement, the wire descended, and clicked mercilessly upon his back.

The Princess’s bright voice beamed at him. “Oh, would flying help you feel better?” she chirped, damning herself to his whims.

Sun could only squeeze her hands tighter, his mouth a grim line.

Oh, please forgive me , his traitorous mind whispered, I promise this is for the best .

He felt mute to the rest of the world, focusing only on the renegade thumping of the Handler’s heart. He could feel no touch but the Princess, and he could see nothing but her.

Sun wanted to hear her sing again, hear her lovely voice. But he felt undeserved. For what love could bring about such anguish, what pain could be worth all this?

Sun felt his wires twist inside him. His core processor felt like a mess of dead-end code messing up his social parameters. Involuntarily, he could hear his own internal fans revving up in speed.

The Handler was so close, he could feel the metal on the Princess’s faceplate warm from their breath. They looked at him with such intensity, their optics so near he could imagine seeing his own image reflected inside them. The sight was revolting.

Were they playing with him, playing along so long as they were the victor? What was their purpose? How did this all start? How was the winner chosen? Loose code bounced around his processor with no satisfactory answer. It confused and pained him.

The Handler refused to look away, never once obscuring their vision, suddenly totally focused on Sun's faceplate in front of them. They refused to look away, almost daring him to follow through with his actions. Their form completely relaxed, full of trust. 

Static broke out from his breaking voicebox, a brief but harsh, rattling sob escaping. Cracks of his own anguished voice leaked through, echoing loudly throughout the arena.

His hands shook so badly they rang the bell at her neck.

His bell.

Their bell.

And all at once his fear came crashing down upon him.

He couldn’t do this.

He was too weak to secure their happiness.

With an anger aimed solely at himself, he ripped the ribbon from her frail neck, pulling the fabric so furiously it tore. A shocked gasp escaped the Handler behind the Princess, and their hands leapt from their conjoined hands to their naked collar.

Quiet, sad whispers from the Handler fell upon deaf audials, begging for explanation and coated in fear. He wrenched the bell away and threw it behind him, not even bothering to cast it out of sight.

Sun was a coward who couldn’t even secure his own happiness. He wasn’t deserving of his Princess’s love. So he shoved his loving token away from him, away from her, and cast his heart into the pit.

In a broken heap, he collapsed, metal parts barely sentient falling into a pile at his lover’s feet. He couldn’t do this to Moon . Not when his brother loved the Handler so much . He couldn’t commit such an atrocity, even for all the future happiness in the world.

Sun was a jester, meant to brighten the day of every guest that walked through the Castle halls. He wasn’t meant to snuff the light of his brother’s only love. Only in his cowardice was he truly a clown.

Tearless wails resounded in the walls of the arena, stretching on endlessly. Sun wasn’t designed with the ability to weep, but his cries echoed in the stands, the carpet, the throne. He cried, shouting so strongly that he felt cables within himself snap and recoil, shooting sparks of pain inside his internal cavity. He cried on the floor of the royal platform, where he had no right to be. The Castle would be better without him, for failing at his one and only duty to the crown.

He couldn’t feel the gentle, worried touches of the Handler beneath the Princess visage, nor his brother’s terrified shout from deep below. Sun cried until his body was brittle, his systems failing, and then he knew only darkness. 

_______________

For a heartbeat, Moon felt like the world was ending.

He pushed open the arena curtains with harried force, the fabric curling into his claws. His body entered the expansive space at the same moment his optics focused on two shapes high above on the platform, the familiar silhouettes of the Princess and his brother bringing an eerie chill to his internal cables.

The position they were in was unsafe , wordlessly painting Sun’s intentions. Moon couldn’t see his brother’s expression from this far away, and he could no more stop his frantic shout than he could stop his feet from running.

Sun was going to kill them . And Moon wouldn’t be able to save them in time.

Moon’s static laced scream reverberated through the air, catching on the numerous silver suns that reflected his panic back at him. Sun had engaged the wire. His prior command took precedence over Moon’s. There would be no catching the Songbird when they fell.

The Handler donning the Princess did not turn at his shout, their focus entirely on his brother. Moon felt the world slow as he dreaded the fate that was unfurling to welcome his one and only love. He felt his futility when he saw Sun move, knowing the inevitable drop that would undoubtedly follow.

But instead of the Handler’s scream, he heard his brother’s sorrowful wail.

Moon watched as Sun dropped to his knees, sobbing into the skirts of the Princess’s dress. Moon had never heard such a sound from his brother before, one so full of despair and hopelessness. It caused his audials to ache, the reverberation so loud that it threatened to damage his audio inputs. It sounded like the cry of a broken heart, and without another moment, Moon rushed towards the Tower.

It was only when he ascended the staircase that the sound went silent.

_______________

You feel like you’re missing something very important. Like you have a puzzle in front of you, but you don’t understand what you’re seeing. The edges are frayed, incomplete, and the picture is blurry. A box of improperly fitted pieces, scattered and random and not belonging to the same image. There’s no reference to base the pieces off of, the original box lost somewhere to the fractals of memory. There aren’t enough pieces to allow you to fully comprehend what you’re seeing, the pieces scattered and ill-fitting.

This is different from Sun’s recent lapse. This is a full system crash. 

Moon’s arms wrap around you and pull you away from the edge (when did you get so close?), stepping around his brother like he’s nothing more than a customer’s forgotten coat. He barely casts his brother a glance, even turning his face away with a bitter expression, fully ignoring his brother’s motionless plight.

His focus is on you, entirely on you, and he pulls at your sleeves with a desperation that haunts his optics. Moon looks half-crazed with worry, relief, intensity. His expression is sick with relief, sick with joy.

You’re missing something important.

He tugs you into the Tower, leaving his brother on the ground, pushing you behind his tall frame as if his body was the only barrier between you and a starving beast.

Sun’s no beast. What on earth is happening?

When he tore the bell away, you felt a crushing despair. Was this his way of breaking up with you? What had you done wrong?

You’d begged, pleaded for some reason as to why he rescinded his token, finding no reasoning behind his actions or any words of explanation. Instead, his silence had devolved into cries, and the sound of his sadness and your confusion swallowed your brain whole. You watched his optics darken before your eyes, and felt the hands gripping your skirts go slack. He fell like a lead balloon at your feet.

You’re missing something important.

There was always something nagging at you, when it came to your jester loves. Something that you felt you could never truly understand, a factor that you chalked up to their robotic nature being so different from your own. An errant thought that didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time.

But seeing Sun collapse on the ground like that, after letting out such a heart-breaking wail, seeing how Moon is fully ignoring his brother in what appears to be your defence…

You’re missing something important.

Moon is touching you, hands worrying over your arms, your shoulders. Confusing comfort, baffling words.

“Did he hurt you?”

Your neck feels empty with a spectral ache where Sun had torn the symbol of your love. You’d barely had it for a whole shift, but the loss of the bell leaves behind a hollow sadness. It leaks a black hole into your guts.

Your throat feels simultaneously empty and seized. You find it hard to breathe, your eyes locked on the slumped shape of Sun on the floor. The door of the Tower closes slowly, blocking him from view.

What’s happening? You want to scream. What’s going on?

But your throat clenches, and your lungs suffocate. 

With wild, shaking hands you wrench the mask off your face, eager and desperate for clean air. The fastening ties fall apart easily, your hands thankfully practised. You don’t care how sweaty and confused you look underneath, you won’t help anyone if you can’t breathe .

Your eyes are glued to the door where Sun lays beyond, your periphery a blurred vision of Moon’s expression.

He looks briefly ill, like he’s seen something new and shocking. Like a fish sucking on a lemon or a teenager watching their first horror movie. It pulls your attention away, just briefly.

Quick, gasping breaths bring the air back to your lungs. You feel cold, and shaky. Your veins pump with adrenaline, your skin covered in a cold sheen of sweat.

You hadn’t realised how close you’d been to the edge, how quickly Sun’s emotions had shifted from fear to anger. You were afraid, but not for yourself. You were afraid for him. Whatever was happening, you don’t understand .

Moon holds you tightly, taking a brief static moment before wrapping his long arms around you. You’re caught in the folds of his cowl, the tiny silver bells chiming quietly against your endo. He shakes like a man who almost lost everything. You don’t understand.

His words are unintelligible, merging syllables together so fast that you cannot understand them. He’s muttering words that don’t make sense, confessions and apologies rolled into one. But you don’t get it, don’t understand the relevance of it all.

You’re missing something important.

His words are clear, but make no sense. Why would Sun try to kill you? Did he just break up with you? Was there some sort of virus making them act this way? Why is Moon apologising about something that he didn’t know?

Your brain is so frazzled with worry and exhaustion that you don’t notice Moon’s motion to place you on the couch, leaving you limp amongst the cushions.

You lay here with Sun a mere hour ago. 

Moon whispers that he’ll return, and caresses your cheek as you pass. His touch lingers, burns cold against your skin. His words bounce about your skull, ringing with confusion and not finding purchase.

You almost died? That doesn’t sound right.

Your eyes focus forward, staring into space. At the edges of your vision you can vaguely hear the sound of one of your lovers detaching the wire from your other lover (former lover?) and descend down into the arena with the wire reattached. 

A blurry image in your mind’s eye of Moon carrying Sun seems almost comedic–the darker brother containing the brighter brother in a cage of arms and legs. Sun isn’t moving. You’re worried that was the last you’ll ever see of him.

But you can do nothing but stare forward, your muscles dead around your bones. 

The Princess’s endoskeleton wraps around your body like a cold metal embrace, and you pray to the void for clarity.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31:

They won’t let you leave.

After Moon had moved Sun off the platform, you have no idea where he was taken. Was he brought to Parts and Service to be decommissioned? Did Moon do something to him? There are so many questions bouncing around in your brain that it makes it difficult to sit down and think properly. Your body is a mere shell with your heart battering desperately at your ribs from the inside.

Sometime outside your notice, Moon appears to have gotten quite chummy with the Knights, a far cry from what you’d previously observed. It’s clear the Knights are watching over you at his suggestion, rarely leaving your sight and hovering around the clock to keep you under surveillance. They stand like sentries, poised to act while discussing certain topics out of earshot.

You’re in your usual clothes that you wear under the costume, comfortable fabrics that are now drenched in cold sweat. The Princess endo sits innocuously on the mannequin across the Tower room.

The lady Knights have even organised a sleepover to distract you from your dark thoughts. They wrap you up in a soft but secure hold, bringing spare fabric and soft toys from the merchandise booths to create a faux slumber-party environment. The blankets burrow you into a false sense of security, their girlish chatter easy and casual. Neither Lady Wolf nor Lady Chica mentioned the jester brothers, frequently coaxing you out of your hollow body to push snacks into your hands or ask unimportant questions. You numbly accept them and try to make sense of it all.

The girl’s care is touching, even as you fight the constant urge to run off and find Sun. Your body refuses to move, no matter how much you try.

Why are they doing this? Don’t they see that there are more important things to do than this? 

Your empty carcass feels like a prison surrounding your body, the shock of your near-death experience still carving out a hole in your body. You feel brittle, unsure of yourself, and you still don’t have closure.

You’ve caught little bits of clarity from the topics that the girls steer away from and Moon’s behaviour after Sun’s bizarre system crash, your mind mercilessly honed on any piece of potentially useful information while your body is motionless. Sun was going to kill you, apparently, but you can’t for the life of you understand why .

What would your death solve? What would push Sun to make such a decision when you loved each other so much? What could have pushed him into such a corner, where the only option was your demise? Everything about Sun’s actions were a big question mark to you, his behaviour confounding. 

You’re missing something important. And nobody is explaining what it is.

It’s infuriating, the building exasperation that grows under your skin the more the Knights avoid the topic you strive to understand. Sun is a taboo topic, but to be fair you haven’t been able to scrounge up more than a few words since Moon pulled you away from the edge.

Shock doesn’t sit well with you, you’re learning. As much as your mind can comprehend and blatantly disregard a near-death situation, your body is far less forgiving. Trauma sits like a weighted anvil over the husk of your body and refuses to budge. You can’t get your eyes to focus let alone muster up the energy to move.

Heartbreak and a near-death experience make for a deadly combo.

So you play nice with the Knights, even with the dim hollowness that you feel. You muster up short, clipped answers to their inconsequential questions. Their concerned optics are met with a dull stare. You manage small bites of bland tasting food. Lady Wolf looks frustrated while Lady Chica only twitters about nervously. The Tower is a prison, and they are your jailers.

“Everything will be fine, honey,” Chica’s tender voice grounds you in the void of your jail cell, “you’ll see. We’re here for you, sweetheart, no matter what.” Her cold gauntlets feel like ice against your skin. Heat is one of the few things that the emergency generators of the Castle didn’t value as a necessity. But it doesn’t matter, you feel numb anyway.

Roxy fluffs an enormous plush of herself next to you on the small sitting couch. Its green high ponytail brushes against your neck. You have no idea what time it is. She turns to bundle fabric around your shoulders tighter, staving off the chill. It feels like a heavy weight keeping you pinned. Spare fabric for the arena curtain perhaps. A makeshift shock blanket.

“We’re here to keep you safe, nothing will get through me .” Her bravado gives you no comfort, but your tongue is dead with retorts in your mouth, “Nothing will get through my watch.”

You respond with more silence, words and thoughts swirling like a whirlpool in your brain. They act like they’re protecting you from a terrible evil, but it’s just Sun . Sun, who just earlier today gave you a bell in place of a ring.

A phantom chime rings in your mind, you have no idea where the bell went. Is it still on the platform where Sun threw it? There’s no way the girls will let you leave, so there’s no way to confirm if it’s still there. And you can’t trust that they’ll give it back if you send them to retrieve it.

Is it even still yours anymore?

You don’t even have the strength to cry about it, such a small, inconsequential thing. The tears dry behind your eyes, stubborn and aching. There are too many thoughts whirling in your head to even try and find something to cry about. You just want to know the truth .

The girls speak amongst themselves even without your input, always leaving an opening in the conversation to include you should you feel the need. Their attention feels like an itchy blanket on your frayed nerves, and guilt pulls at your edges.

Was it your fault somehow? Moon had spoken briefly about something that ‘ he didn’t know ’, but whatever that something is feels unknown to you. It feels like you're the only one in the dark, and the rest of the Castle is leading you along on a long, long leash.

Your mouth is parched, your skin freezing despite the heavy curtain blanket. What you would give for a hot cup of tea, the chamomile in your thermos long cold from this morning’s batch. There’s a few spare teabags in your bag that you keep in a ziploc for emergencies, but there’s little chance the girls will let you downstairs to access the kettle in the kitchenette. 

Food lies half eaten in your hands, untouched save for small nibbles and open wrappers. All of it cold, bland, and unappetising in your mouth. You don’t even have enough cognitive ability to register what it is.

Roxy probably wouldn’t even be able to fit through the door, your tired mind deliriously supplies, with her wide pauldrons and high helmet ponytail. Lady Chica could probably fit, since Sir Bonnie was able to, but the delicate mechanism of the kettle might be beyond her capabilities. The visual makes you want to laugh, but your face and body are stubbornly frozen.

Everytime you blink, a small amount of clarity ebbs in and out of you, your body empty. The Princess costume stands like a phantom presence in the room, both Knights flagrantly ignoring the sparkling shape.

Their gaze and the Princess endo exist like repelling magnets–optics wandering but snapping away at the last second. Each time their optics linger on it a touch longer, their gaze shifting to and from the glittering fabrics like guilty witnesses to a petty crime. It adds an extra layer of confusion to your already flummoxed brain, making your limbs feel like lead. Somehow the Princess costume is a part of this puzzle.

It’s difficult to tell how much time has passed. Your brain feels supercharged with confusion while your body sinks deeper into an exhaustive shut-down. The girls notice you drooping and whisper that you should get some rest. Even as your eyes close, your thoughts refuse to let you relax.

You know you look haggard, you feel haggard, but your eyes burn underneath your eyelids. Your limbs are lead, no amount of internal screaming can get you to so much as twitch.

You can’t sleep, you won’t sleep. Your thoughts buzz with confusion and you doubt you’ll ever sleep again. 

The lack of adequate rest concerns Lady Chica more than it concerns Lady Wolf. You can imagine the worry on her faceplate, her optics ringing with distress. Time continues on, and you can hear Roxy try to calm her companion down. 

The emptiness feels all-encompassing, neverending–your body a black pit for your mind to swallow whole. Worry spreads like a contagion. Even animatronics are not immune.

Unspecific rustles and murmurs echo throughout the Tower, your brain too incoherent to decipher the sources of sound. Metal clangs quietly, fabric rustles, hinges squeak–all drowning out in the din.

An unusually loud clang forces your exhaustive body into a flinch, sending the first synapses of recent movement shooting through your nervous system. Your eyes open to an empty Tower, but your body surges forward with an opportunity.

Bones creak from shock-filled disuse, your head pounding. There’s no time to waste, you have to get out of here .

You shoot to your feet, forgoing your shoes altogether. You pull open the stairwell door with haste and begin to rush down the steps, only to be blinded by the bright orange armour of Sir Fredbear and Bonnie in tow. Your heart sinks in your chest at the sight.

Fredbear’s optics are sad as he ushers you back up the stairs, your mouth dry but downturn in an angry line. Bonnie’s words are placid behind him, adding extra weight and an extra obstacle to your escape.

Energy comes back in a rush, the frustration feeding your adrenal gland. The shock is wearing off, being replaced by more active emotions. Aggression hides behind your clenched teeth.

They mean well, the Knights, you can’t deny that they’re doing what they think is best. But keeping you in the Tower where they think you’ll be safe is going against everything your mind is screaming at you to do something about. You can’t shake the feeling that if you don’t do something now , you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

You don’t say a word to the couple. Anger simmers behind your eyes, but you cast your gaze away lest you reveal yourself. A plan begins to form in the recesses of your mind, slowly but surely. Your jaw hurts from how hard you’re clenching.

Whether by previously discussed crew change or a shift in plans, your girlish sleepover changes over to a couple’s silent therapy session. Sir Fredbear and Sir Bonnie sit cross-legged on the floor at your feet, holding each other’s hands in a way that makes your heart ache. You see them in your blurry periphery, giving them an ill-deserved cold shoulder. 

It hurts you to do this, but making them think that you’re angry with them is the only way your plan works. And you are angry with them, to a degree. They’ve been keeping secrets for who knows how long.

They are your silent guards for the remainder of the night. Like stone effigies they communicate silently through shrewd glances and knowing looks. It heats your frozen blood a few degrees, fuelling your desperation by the slow trickle. The plan blooms in the icy frigidity of your brain, waiting to be executed.

The pair’s camaraderie would be charming if it didn’t make your heart hurt so much. To see Sir Fredbear and Bonnie rely on each other churns your empty stomach, making you wish you could turn to look at them and beg them to tell you the truth.

Moon is still nowhere to be found. The thought burns that you have no idea where Sun is, or if he’s even alright. The Knights are keeping Sun from you, and Moon by proxy. You don’t know who to trust anymore.

You just want to know what’s going on, the sinking feeling growing by the moment. Bonnie, of all your coworkers, seems like he’d be the one to answer your queries if asked, but one look at his expression when he walked in the Tower and you know that’s not an option.

They are as gargoyles on the floor before you, alert and protective. You want answers, and you know intrinsically they’re protecting you from whatever those answers are . 

So you slump, feigning an exhaustive sleep. Your acting skills coming in clutch for the hundredth time, the adrenaline in your blood keeps you awake despite the ache in your bones. Awareness blossoms beneath your dark eyelids, and the role of a lifetime truly begins. You need to stay awake while they think you’re asleep. They can’t have gotten a full charge today, what with everything that happened.

For a long while there isn’t a single sound, your heart beating back to life inside your chest. You wait for an indeterminate amount of time, ears perked for the smallest noise that could mean your sentries have left. You need them to leave the Tower before you can escape, to run and find out wherever they’re keeping Sun. Wait for the shift to change and make your move.

A creak of metal brings your attention back to yourself, your ruse working a little too well and you jolt, unintentionally bringing your consciousness back from the realms of sleep. Sir Fredbear must have interpreted your movement as a shiver, for you hear his murmured voice in the Tower, muttering something about retrieving more blankets. Amidst the creaking sounds of metal and the soft clanks of armoured boots, a door hinge creaks and soon your plan will begin its next phase.

You’ll get out of here, falsely imprisoned under the guise of good-will. 

When you dare to open your eyes, the room is empty. Your guards are nowhere to be seen, but you can’t be sure when they’ll return. You don’t waste any time, barely giving the Princess costume a second look, before darting out of the Tower and down the stairs for the second time, hurried and followed by your pounding heart.

There’s no orange shape on the stairs this time, nor any sound of metal Knights moving around. So far, the coast is clear, and your resolve spurs you into action.

The arena blurs around you, the speed and the shadows warming your cold blood. It’s freezing. You can see your steaming breath in the dark air, and the steady pulse of your pumping arms and legs brings the slightest bit of warmth to your hollow shell.

You make it as far as the arena curtains before you’re suddenly lifted off the ground, a hard metal exterior grabbing you with unrelenting arms and causing your brain to stutter in panic. Sharp metal pokes into your sides, your mind briefly whiting out in fear, before your hands meet cold fur, and you stop thrashing to face your captor. 

Monty’s helm is still in place, his expression unreadable and his grip unforgiving. He holds you with iron gauntlets, his handspan wrapping all the way around your torso. The Invader places you atop his shoulder like an unruly child, minding the spikes, nestling you into the warm furs of his cape, and turns his heel to return to the Tower.

You’re spastic with adrenaline, your quick and efficient capture firing into every synapse of your grey matter. Getting caught already is humiliating, and you struggle desperately trying to get free, unafraid of the short drop.

Monty growls low, admonishing. “Takin’ flight a little early, aren't cha birdie?”

You scream at him, the primitive frustration blocking sensible words from your gullet. Struggling harder, it only succeeds in Monty pressing his hold of you harder, reproachful as a tired parent.

“Yeah yeah,” he grumbles, his pace unhurried with his weighted steps, “We expected this y’know–knew you’d do something stupid. For someone hired for a specific set of skills, y’sure make some bad choices, huh?”

A responding growl dies in your throat, frustration building. You’re cold, you’re confused, you’re angry . Everyone is making decisions for you without asking, and it’s getting old. You want to believe that they’re doing what they think is best for you, but all those polite thoughts are buried under a mountain of resentment.

“ Augh , just let me go !” your first words are shouted in anger behind bared teeth.

“No can do, little bird, yer not goin’ anywhere until we know it’s safe.”

“I’m a grown-ass person, you can’t tell me what to do!” 

Monty rumbles good naturedly underneath you and it makes the fire of embarrassment in your guts burn hotter. Your fingers are like ice, each furious contact of scrabbling hands against his armour feeling like cold fire. It burns into your skin like needles.

“We can if it’s a matter of safety. ‘n right now, it definitely ain’t safe.” His boots clank against the first stair of the Tower staircase, all of your hard work being erased with every slow step.

You scream, the metal surrounding you ringing. “Would somebody just tell me what’s going on ?”

To your chagrin, your unrestrained vocal shriek does nothing to stop the Invader from stomping up the stairs. He probably put you on mute or something, some robotic perk that no doubt comes in handy when the guests are a touch too rowdy.

Exhaustion creeps back into your bones as the curtain falls out of view. The enclosed staircase walls dampens the light even more, plunging you into darkness before Monty opens the Tower door. He plunks you down back onto the couch, right back where you started , but his heavy arm holds you down like a weighted seatbelt.

“Now you listen to me , birdie.” His voice has a note of annoyance that makes you scowl at him. “You almost died tonight, y’hear me? That clown was gonna kill ya and it’s a miracle yer still alive. Now sit tight and stay put or else .”

It feels admonishing, infuriating to be treated like this. You’re not a child, you’re not one of his little fanboys that follow him around after every show. Everyone keeps spouting ‘you almost died ’ this, and ‘ we almost lost you ’ that, but you’re still here ! Surely that counts for something.

“ Let me go !” you shout back at him, consistently struggling against his hold. The longer you wait the more you’re sure something’s happened to Sun. Your worry for him supersedes your inherent Canadian politeness. Steely, stubborn eyes glare at the slats of his crocodilian helmet, and the steel gauntlets vibrate your ribcage.

“ Stay down !” he shouts, his villain persona tickling your bones with the first trickle of fear. He’s big and intimidating, but you’ve never been afraid of him before. His backlit form is a frightening silhouette, all spikes and harsh angles. For the first time, it dawns on you that he was designed to look like a villain, and strike fear into the hearts of the audience. You feel the same fear as the audience now.

Your body is hardly working at its best, your mind addled with dreadful thoughts. He’s huge and if he decided to hurt you, there’s nothing you could do to stop him. You shiver, but not from the cold.

You stop struggling and begin to tremble in his hold. Tears prick the sides of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.

He huffs, the metal plates reverberating. For a moment he merely pauses, studying your face intently, before relaxing his grip on your ribcage. Bruises old and new throb under the lax weight.

“See? Yer scared of me, and you should be.” he rumbles softly, anger biting despite his soft tone. His tone is an old pain, weary and aching. A single, frustrated tear makes its way down your cheek. 

“Y’see those holes in my pauldron up there? Those were made by the nicer of yer two clowns. Now imagine fer a minute what the other one could’a done to ya.”

Your eyes flicker up curiously, snagging on the harsh, uneven divots in his armour. True to his word, there are four identical holes on each pauldron, evenly spaced and undeniably finger shaped. The longer you look the more you notice a litany of even scratches, spaced similarly and all over the place.

Moon did that? Why? 

Monty breathes heavily, your furrowed brow acting as a mute question. His posture is still tense and poised for action, but there’s a weariness that sits heavy in his armour.

“Don’tcha get it birdie? We’re dangerous. Different from you. I could hurt you right now and it would be easier than flexin’ my pinkie.”

He squeezes gently, as if proving a point. A wave of fear crashes over you and you can feel your face flush.

The grip loosens and relaxes. “I’m not gonna say that I don’t understand why you’re doin’ what you’re doing, what I am gonna say is that I think it’s a stupid idea. Runnin’ straight to the clown that tried to kill you ain’t smart, and it definitely ain’t safe.”

“It’s not your job to keep me safe!” You huff, voice trembling.

“Like it or not, we’re yer Knights, which means we’re in charge of protectin’ ya. That’s not gonna change, no matter how much you try and fight it.” He taps the crown of his helmet, eliciting a hollow sound. “The code’s in there and has been since the beginning. The Knights protect the Regent, the laws of the Kingdom.”

“But you’re not a Knight!” You shout at him, your voice gaining power with logic, “And I’m not a real Regent! This isn’t even a real kingdom!”

The Green Knight shakes his helm, ruffling the furs at his shoulders. “Code don’t work like that, little bird. Even the villain has something he fights to protect.”

You grab ahold of his gauntlet, pushing with all your might. The cold metal freezes your already cold skin, leaving icy pinpricks in its wake. “You’re not making any sense!” you want to sob, a tightness forms in your throat, “Just let me go, let me talk to him!”

Monty flexes his hand around your abdomen, causing you to briefly freeze in fear of pain. A warning. 

“You don’t seem to understand that all of this falls apart without you. Don’t you get it? Without a functioning Regent, this whole place gets scrapped .”

You push harder against the gauntlet, renewed. Your legs squirm underneath the weight, kicking wherever they can reach. “Then they’ll hire a new Princess, what does it matter? I’m not important.”

“ You are !” He shouts, metal vibrating at a frequency that hurts your bones. “They won’t hire someone after you–you were too perfect for this role. If this production goes south, then we all go down with the ship. And for us, that means out in the garbage .”

Your jaw is slack at his speculation. FazCo wouldn’t get rid of half a dozen state of the art animatronics if your performance failed. That would be a huge waste of profit.

“If something happens to you, something bad , then the implications would shut us down for good. This facility is too new, the uppers wouldn’t risk bad press for something this recent. The fastest solution would be t’ shut the whole thing down quick, and sweep it under the rug.”

Your kicking and struggling abates a bit, channelling energy into listening more intently. 

“I’m tryin’ to make you see sense , you little idiot. If you won’t see reason for your own sake, at least try and see why your safety affects the rest of us.”

A hard frown glints in the reflective metal of Monty’s helmet. It blinks back at you underneath fiery eyes.

“We almost lost ya today, got really close. And you won’t even open your eyes and see fear when it’s starin’ you in the face.”

Your heartbeat hammers in your chest. The villain’s words don’t answer your all-encompassing confusing question. They seek to bury the truth underneath other, distracting truths.

For a few beats you wait, allowing him to say more if he needs to. His optics burn you from underneath the slats of his helm.

When you catch your breath, your speaking voice is low and hoarse from screaming.

“Monty. What’s going on? Tell me the truth.”

Metal wheezes before you realise the sound is coming from inside the Invader. Static spits into the silent air and it reminds you of the frustration you’re feeling inside yourself. The weight of his gauntlet stiffens with resolve.

“Yer all idiots,” comes his baffling answer.

Flames of anger lick up your cranium, fury building amidst the other burning emotions.

He feels you tense underneath him, ready to retaliate, but he interrupts your movement with elaboration.

“Fer the record, I never thought it was a good idea, watchin’ you and those clowns tiptoe around each other all ignorant. It wasn’t until the rabbit told us how dangerous their tendencies were that I clued in.” He gestures up to the scratches in his armour, the evidence of violence.

You’re silent, waiting for him to continue.

“The other’s thought it was a better idea to keep watch, stay out of it. It was funny for them, at the start, with how much the clowns were trippin’ over you without even knowing what we already knew.”

Your brows furrow. There it was again, that feeling of confusion. What did the Knights know that the Jesters didn’t?

“But I didn’t think it was funny. None o’ them were thinking ahead at what might happen when the truth got out, whether they’d react positively or like…” He trails off.

“Like what?” comes your quiet voice.

“Like what happened today.” replies the sad rumble of your antagonist.

You want to tear your hair out. “ Augh , what does today have to do with anything?”

Monty’s teeth clench somewhere underneath his helmet. You can hear them grating, possibly chewing shards of metal into the empty space inside his mask.

“‘Cause today is when they found out you an’ the Princess were the same.”

A beat.

Two beats.

Then a harsh laugh escapes you, brittle and incredulous. It’s so abrupt that it spittles a little on Monty’s helm, marring the shiny metal. Your bones rattle under his hand.

“That’s stupid logic. You all knew I was hired as the Princess when I first started, it’s just common sense.”

“This company ain’t great about common sense, birdie. You should’a realised that by now.”

His response isn’t at all like you expect, the tone weary and exhausted, like he’s been holding on to this information for a long time.

It couldn’t be true, can it? The primary staff of this establishment are all highly intelligent robots with access to your employee files. They all knew you were hired as a performer for the Princess, your resume picked out by a robot for goodness’ sake.

But your laughter dies off as you realise Monty isn’t laughing with you. His gauntlet is uncomfortable, but not more uncomfortable than the realisation that dawns on you like the sun over the horizon.

“You didn’t know?” you whisper quietly, soft enough to not spooky yourself.

“None of us did. Not until ya took your mask off in front of Bonnie.”

Memories flash across your mindscape. The fall, the performances, the flights. The lights darken in your surrounding vision as you’re lost in recall.

“ None of you?” your words quieter than a breath.

Monty shakes his helm.

Tremors make their way up your spine, harsh enough to shake the Invader’s armour. 

“B-but Bonnie told you, h-he told all of you didn’t he?” The brothers too ? your mind deliriously whispers. But the Invader’s silence tells all.

The pieces slot into place, the picture suddenly whole.

The jesters, your boyfriends , had no idea you were playing both parts. Their coldness, which you had chalked up to time split evenly between them, made perfect sense with this new information. More and more pieces fell into place, beaming newly understood data directly into your skull.

The dawn of realisation gives you a headache, your body leaning back into the couch, slumping against the oversize Roxy plush. Adrenaline leaks out of you and onto the floor, leaving you a rubbery lump of flesh amidst the cushions.

Synapses fire as you struggle to compute all the facts, piecing them together like shards of a broken vase. It is only now that Monty releases his hold on you, leaning back and straightening to his full height.

One thought makes its way to the front of your mind, bringing forth a spring of leaking tears out of your eyes.

“So when Sun found out…f-found out it was me, he hated me so much that he wanted to kill me?”

Sobs begin to quake, starting from your diaphragm and shooting up to your shoulders. Your cheeks are already wet as you begin to wail, the circumstantial evidence of your worthlessness on full display.

Sun’s revulsion, his chilly demeanour towards you, was so strong that his only option when he found out you were you was to murder you . He hated you enough to try and kill you. Love became hate at the drop of a hat, and the thought of being with you was enough to spur him to end you.

You can feel your body shaking around you, the sobbing growing worse as the tightness builds and spills inside your chest. A disappointment. A sham. Ill-fitting. Fake. The deep well of pain where you’re faced with the reality that someone you love hates you.

The shaking increases, your cries growing stronger. The world fades around you amidst the cloud of despair, and distantly you long for the soothing void of numbness once again. Anything to detract from the pain.

Monty shakes you more fervently, but it only makes your cry harder.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: 

Moon usually liked silence. 

During opening hours, the Castle was a loud, cacophonous place, bursting with guests flitting from one end to the other. Children screamed and laughed, parents conversed at a higher volume to cut across the din, and the sounds of footsteps, fabrics, and festivities pressed into every layer of the false stone that lined the walls. It was a noisy, busy place that made Moon grateful for small moments of peace. 

Moon was made to entertain. With his trusty lute and an internal library full of music, he revelled in the silences that his instrument could cut through. The quiet moments where instead of disorganised raucous, he could fill the space with soft notes cleansing the space of disarray. 

He didn’t hate the guests for their boisterous anarchy–he knew that it was because of them that he was even online at all. People, humans, came from near and far to watch Castle Faz’s grand performance, and he was content knowing he was a part of that. He could stand the noise and clutter because without them, he wouldn’t even be here. None of them would be. 

Sun was made to be the more front-facing personality–an exuberant figure with a large smile that washed the harshness of the day away. Bright reds and yellows that lit up a darkened room. Children would crowd him, laughing and pulling at his sleeves, and Sun would laugh with them. Parents trusted him with their children, eyeing his blunt fingertips and plush, cheerful rays. Created with children in mind, Sun was a FazCo staple. 

Moon shouldn’t have trusted him with the Handler.  

Moon was grateful that he didn’t have to be quite as hands-on. With his darker colours and the added pressure of his latent security features, he doubled as security personnel for their Regent, sticking to the shadows and unafraid to flash sharp teeth at any that would wander too close. 

The Princess that was also his love.  

The spotlight was more comfortable when it was shared, the dual MC duty falling to the Royal Attendant Brothers. If he ever had to do it alone, the pressure might prove uncomfortable. He was grateful that ever since he was brought online, he never had to perform alone. 

How could he ever look at his brother again?  

Music was his reprieve, his salvation, his balm. The notes that sprung from Moon’s clawed fingertips echoed the same notes that sprung from his emotional core. When he was idle, the music was equally aimless, lacking proper tune and flitting from one genre to the next. When he was happy, the notes were light and flitting, trilling sweetly and softer than a kiss. When he was anxious, they were strung quickly and sharp, sour twangs melded into coarse organization. When he was angry, the strings threatened to break . 

The music was silent now. Moon couldn’t even bear to hold the lute to hear what it had to tell him–have it speak the truth that lay within his chest plate. 

The same hands that plucked the strings of his beloved instrument held the unmoving frame of his brother, descending slowly down into the depths of the Castle. Into the dark, where Sun could be kept away from the Handler, where they’d be safe from his brother’s madness. 

Moon felt that same madness creep up inside his processor, the confusion and delirium of Sun’s attempt altering his thought’s journey. Would he have done the same? Were their similarities more than what Moon had previously imagined? Did the same madness exist within Moon’s code, or was Sun’s choice somehow manipulated? Was Moon capable of the same violence, the same cruelty?  

The hallways dripped in darkness as he descended, feeling the claws atop his fingertips now more than ever. They may not have ever been born, but they were brothers–as similar as twins, borne of each other’s image. One didn’t exist without the other. 

That would change soon.  

His own footsteps echoed behind him, the haunting dungeon door glinting in the dim light. Small, reflective plates of metal captured the limited brightness of the generator lights, small eyes of yellow amidst the dark door. 

He entered the dungeon without a sound. 

Sun’s bells rang in wretched harmony, the ruff of his brother’s costume bunching and shaking some of his silver bells. Moon wanted to grit his teeth and yell at him, but he continued in silence instead. 

At the back of the dungeon, in the farthest part away from any light, Moon lay his brother down on the unfinished concrete floor. Chimes rang in protest, and his gears churned in suppressed anxiety. 

He had to know. He had to know why Sun did it.  

His answer wouldn’t change anything, his choice– his attempt damning enough, but Moon needed to know. 

He turned his brother to the side, manoeuvring the faceplate so that the soft rays dug into the ground. The flat shape of their faceplate made it difficult to keep upright with a single hand, but Moon made do.  

Even in pitch darkness Moon could feel the nearly invisible seam of velcro that covered the rear of Sun’s faceplate. Moon’s hat could be removed for maintenance and cleaning, the clasps holding his costume in place hidden under other layers of fabric, but Sun’s were a bit trickier to remove.  

For easier maintenance, a flap had been designed into the costume for access to the back panel. In the event of an emergency shut-down or a system reboot, a small pin-hole button existed to be pressed for an emergency manual start up. 

Moon knew this because he, too, had the same emergency start up button. 

What would normally take a pin or a specialty instrument, Moon merely pressed the tip of his claw through the divot as far as it would go, feeling the button depress. With a heartbeat he didn’t have, he held it for three seconds and promptly released, stepping back onto his haunches. 

Red optics lit up his brother’s form in a dim glow, wide and furious in the dark. He waited impatiently for the beginning signs of activation. 

A soft whirring cut through the heavy silence from deep within Sun’s chest plate, the sound of gears turning and preliminary operations. Within seconds, the internal fans activated, a few clicks and gentle beeps signalled the processor functionality. Lastly white optics flashed brightly in the dark, facing the ground and slowly lifting his head to face livid red. 

Moon knew his expression reflected how he felt deep inside. 

Sun’s white optics only stared at his brother in silence, the guilty air choking the oxygen they didn’t need from the dusty dungeon air. 

The lunar brother dug his claws into the rough-hewn concrete, his voice box burning with unspoken questions and accusations. His fans revved in anger–a harsh, painful whirring ringing out. Sun knew he was guilty, and Moon knew he’d never forgive him. 

“ Why .” Moon spat. Not a question, the word ejected like a demand. Sun knew exactly what he was referring to. 

“How long have you known?” Sun’s voice was soft as a whisper and twice as afraid. 

“Answer the question, why did you try to kill them ?” 

Sun’s optics were impossibly wide, blazing in the dark. They illuminated the bleak surroundings in an unholy glow. The truth came out dazed and dreamlike, as if speaking the words didn’t make the horrors real.  

“They weren’t like us, but they could have been . We would have had forever if I…” 

Moon lunged forward, knocking Sun onto his back, claws piercing the fabric of his cowl. They collided hard atop the concrete, his brother limp in his grasp. 

“ How would that have solved anything ?” 

As the brightness of Sun’s optics burned in the dark, Moon’s light sensors kicked in to overdrive from the harsh contrast between light and dark. If not for the lumens illuminating his brother’s optics, Sun’s ragdoll posture made him feel dead to the world. 

“FazCo…This company has many secrets. There were others in the past…children...Stuffed into suits and killed and somehow brought back …!” 

The white was wide, crazed and incredulous. His brother’s words moreso. 

Moon dug his claws in so hard he felt it pierce fabric through to the metal underneath. Sun didn’t flinch. His usual sunny exuberance was empty in his body. 

He slammed his brother into the floor, both sets of bells ringing in madness. “ That’s your excuse? You nearly murdered them for some crime this company may or may not have committed? You would have ended their life on a speculation ?” 

Sun’s optics were blazing, unfocused. “I would have.” he whispered, cold and quiet and dead. “If I was braver, I would have.” 

Moon could only gaze down in shock at his brother, his grip loosening with horror. 

“Do you regret it?” Moon whispered, fearing the answer. 

Sun’s bright optics flickered, plunging the dungeon into a brief shutter of darkness. “...only that I wasn’t brave enough.” 

Moon shoved off of him, disgusted, getting to his feet in a growled huff. His hands, the same hands that held his brother and the Handler and his instrument, felt dirty. He felt unclean. 

“Then you leave me no choice.” Moon hissed, backing towards the door. Bells rang fruitlessly at the tips of his feet, echoing morosely in the black. Sun remained lifeless on the floor, optics gazing upwards, illuminating the ceiling. 

“You’ve proven to be a danger to guests and staff alike, so you’ll remain here until I send for Upper Management to collect you. You’re too dangerous to be free-roaming. They’ll decide what to do with you.” 

The words hurt Moon, knotting the cables in his chest. 

“I’ll write a report of your crimes, and then I’ll be rid of you.” The declaration reverberated in the din, oozing like a festering wound. Moon waited for Sun’s response, but none came. 

Sun said nothing, his gaze lifeless, so Moon shut the dungeon door. He said no words to defend himself, no reasoning that could sway Moon’s decision. Sun was guilty, and he would suffer the consequences of his actions. 

He pulled a nearby bar, not trusting the generator system to hold his brother in place. The dungeon would be put to real use for the first time since the Castle’s conception–it would serve as his brother’s prison until he was decommissioned. And with a heavy heart and heavier hands, he ensured Sun wouldn’t be able to leave. 

_______________ 

You’ve slept, but you’re not sure for how long. It’s less of a sleep and more of a mandatory unconsciousness, your body having apparently given in to its exhaustion before your mind was coherent enough to realise what was happening. 

It’s your phone that wakes you. A ruthless ringtone blares through the Tower, reverberating throughout your skull like it’s made of brittle glass. Your mouth is sandy as you answer it. 

“H-hello?”  

“Oh good you’re awake. Listen, due to the weather the Castle’s going to be closed today. You don’t need to come in.” 

Cindy’s voice exits the speaker like molten caffeine, her energy level leagues above your own. She sounds so normal, how can anyone be normal after what happened? 

“What?” you blearily reply. 

“It might be closed until later this week if the storm keeps up, I’ll be sure to keep you updated. Oh, and did you remember to turn off the generator when you left yesterday? There’s no reason for it to be running if the Castle is closed.”  

She continues on like a running freight train, unflinching in her path and not waiting for your reply. “And this doesn’t count as holiday pay, just in case you were wondering. Inclement weather was covered in section 14 of your contract, take a look if you don’t believe me.” 

“No,” you yawn, jaw cracking audibly. Your eyes are crusted shut from dry tears and swollen lids. “That’s fine. No worries.” 

“Just think of this like a vacation, and be ready to move by Thursday at the latest. The storm’s supposed to die off by then.” 

Your body unconsciously flinches at the word ‘die’, but your voice luckily doesn’t give you away. “Stay safe Cindy, I’ll hear from you later.” 

“Ta-tah!” the line clicks and the time glows brightly in front of your eyes. 

6:46am. 

Definitely not enough sleep considering the hour you went to sleep, or how you went to sleep in the first place. Your body feels like more like a torture device than the prison it did earlier, your mind as delicate as newly shattered glass. 

The new day brings new horrors and new opportunities. 

The curtain fabric turned blanket falls off you and pools onto the floor, the Roxy plush that honourably served as your pillow squashed and nearly unrecognisable as a mimic of your friend. The air is somehow colder than it was last night, your exhaustion no doubt lending a hand in that regard, but the curtain did its job to stave off the majority of hypothermic symptoms. 

Your fingers grow slowly numb in the exposed frigid air, your breath doing little to coax the warmth back into them. A quick glance around the Tower grounds you in reality, both your bag and scarf and coat exactly where you left them before everything fell apart. 

At the very least it will keep you warmer, the thin jacket adding a minute layer of insulation despite its well-worn and harsh usage. You can afford a new coat now, a nice one , if you decide to keep your job here. 

Will you decide to stay?  

Icy fingers slip on your boots, the padding squeezing your frosty toes painfully. You didn’t even feel how cold they were, numb and nearly immobile. It hurts to put your weight on them, but you don’t have much of a choice. 

The generator lights are still on. Which means the power is still out. The dimness of the lighting fixtures burning a hole in your brain–that means the locks are still offline. That means the animatronics are still disconnected from the server. 

Hesitantly you reach towards the platform door, the sparkling accents looking like they’re covered in a layer of glittering frost. The metal handle burns your equally icy hand, making you flinch, but you turn it nonetheless. A loud creak squeezes out of the frigid hinge, and you freeze, waiting for consequences. 

Nobody approaches the Tower. No one knows you’re awake. 

There are no Knightly sentries, or guarding Invaders. You’re alone, and all is quiet. 

The platform is as silent as a grave, your darkened throne watching your every move. You’re out here for a reason, and it thumps against your heart like an animal in the throes of death. 

The royal platform is always dark before the performances to draw the audience’s eye towards the centre of the arena where the spectacle unfolds. It’s a design element that the artists had put their brilliance into–making the platform dark but sparkle with lights whenever the spotlight hits it. It exists as a way for the occupants of the platform to remain out of sight until necessary, giving an element of surprise with a little added flair when the lights hit the platform just right.. 

You’re searching for a different dazzle, a different sparkle. Amidst the dark carpeting, you spy a hint of ill-fitting colour, a flash of gold in an otherwise platinum and chrome palette. 

The red ribbon glows against the dark rug on the very edge of the silver sun motif. It glitters back at you with sinful promises and an endless pit of love. 

You kneel, knees cracking, and take the bell into your chilled fingers. It rings just as dreamily as it did yesterday morning when you first received it. It’s weight and colour and shine all the same, despite everything. 

You walk back to the Tower door holding it in your hands that emit no warmth nor cold–the bell is exactly the same temperature as you. Two freezing, lifeless husks with a penchant for music. Hands as cold as metal. 

The twin flowers blink back at you from the Tower vanity as you step through the threshold, similar and yet so different for one another. One metal and flawed, changed in design from its very conception. The other frozen in a state of wilting, almost preserved in the cold. 

You leave them where they are untouched. One quick sweep of the room for anything you’ve forgotten pulls your impatience taut like a string, and you leave the Tower behind with numb, pained steps. 

Squeaking boots echo down the stairwell and grow muffled as you enter the more open space of the arena. Carpet makes way for the curtain that falls away with no kindly Knight ushering you back to the Tower, and the atrium soon unfolds before you bereft of any familiar faces. 

It feels like you’re leaving. 

Your eyes drag over to the dias where your second throne lies, memories spilling through your cerebellum like a frosty tidal wave. Good times were had there, laughter and smiles hidden behind masks. Your feet bring you to the edge like a puppet being led by strings. 

Cold hands reach out to touch the glorified chair, contrasting silver against your angry red fingers. The carved wood grain whorls beneath your reverent touch, fingertips catching on the grain. 

“You’re leaving. That’s probably for the best.” 

Empty eyes turn around and face your love, descending from his favoured place atop the rafters. 

You knew this, yet you didn’t look up. 

His red optics rake over your body, bundled tight with your trusty bag in tow. The bell feels like a forbidden weight in the bag despite its light load. Your scarf hangs loosely around your neck. 

You know what he sees when he looks at you, pity and concern flashing in his gaze. He’s relieved to see you go, but not before you say your piece. 

“Yeah,” you say numbly. There’s no improvement in your voice quality from your brief call with Cindy earlier. It’s still raspy and horrible. 

He doesn’t take a step forward, his hands flexing at his sides. He looks either afraid, or guilty. It makes your heart pang. 

Silence stands between you. Your breath doesn’t even have enough warmth to make a cloud as you breathe. You doubt Moon even notices, his pupils scouring your body for any damage, any imperfection. 

The silence grates on whatever’s left of your nerves. 

“Where did you take him?” 

His optics flash up to your face. Your expression is as frozen as you feel. 

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Moon replies. 

“But he didn’t–” 

“But he was going to !” he shouts. 

“ But he didn’t !” your voice echoes, loudly repeating over and over against the false stone facade.  

Your hands clench at your sides so hard they feel like they’re about to shatter.  

“He didn’t do it,” you murmur, voice low. There’s a fire burning behind your eyelids. It feels like it could melt you from the inside. “You were there, he didn’t do it.” 

Moon’s hands are crowding you, the feeling familiar but still completely different. They rest atop your shoulders and try to rub a modicum of heat through the fabric of your coat. It does nothing. 

“He was going to try and turn you into one of us.” 

Your eyebrows furrow. “What, a jester?” 

His laugh is quiet and brittle. “No, an animatronic . He found some theory that if you died in the suit then you’d be reborn as the Princess.” 

You blink incredulously, the fire behind your eyes banking. That was what Sun believed? That’s definitely not what you expected. 

Thoughts flurry inside your skull at the thought, but Moon isn’t done talking. 

“-you have to stay away for a while, at least until everything’s settled. Make up some excuse that you can’t come in, anything’s fine, Upper Management will be busy so they’ll approve it without any trouble.” his hands begin to usher you towards the door, pushing and gripping with an unusual amount of force. You can feel him trembling despite the layers of contact. 

The outside world is white with snow, the glass of the entrance covered with a layer of frost. The wind is howling angrily beyond the doors, and Moon’s desperate optics urge you forward. 

“It’ll be safer for you at home, I don’t know how but I’ll try to contact you to let you know when it’s safe.” his gaze is everywhere except your face, flashing red like an emergency beacon. 

“Hey,” you whisper, drawing his attention with a gentle sound, frustration rapidly cooling and being replaced by desperate affection. Your heart leaks out your mouth before you can stop it, “I love you.” 

He chokes at your words, static ripping from his voicebox. Clawed hands grip into the fabric of your jacket, and one of you shudders. You’re not sure who. You can feel the pin-pricks of his claws reach past the inner layer of insulation.  

The nicer of your two clowns , Monty had said. The claws that could cleave you to pieces. Claws that are shaking. 

His lip trembles. “I….I–!” but he turns his faceplate before he finishes the thought, his bells at the taper ringing. Hands push you towards the door.  

“I’m sorry for everything.” 

The wind drowns out your response, the snowflakes immediately cutting into your exposed cheeks. The doors of the Castle close before you, and your navy shadow vanishes behind frozen glass.  

The blizzard screams at you to find shelter quickly, to run to the bus stop and huddle there until salvation arrives. The look on Moon’s faceplate haunts your mind. 

You can’t leave now, not knowing what’s going to happen. It feels too uncertain, too much like a story without an ending. 

And besides, you have a better idea. 

_______________ 

The wind threatens to erase every thought from your mind, replacing it with the sole human need to find shelter. It urges you to leave, go home and huddle under your duvet until the storm passes. A phantom cup of chamomile tea ghosts your hands. 

No. What you actually need is another way into the Castle. 

Moon thinks you’ve left and gone home. That’s exactly what you want him to think. Especially after dropping Sun’s nonsensical reasoning into your lap, you’re convinced more than anything that you need to talk with Sun. Really talk with him, and get his full side of the story. 

Is this a wise idea? Probably not. 

Is looking for another entrance to the Castle in the middle of a storm a good idea? Double no. 

But the sound of Sun’s sorrowful wail before he shut down haunts your eardrums. Even the deafening whistle of freezing winds does little to block the sound from your memory. 

You have to get in there and talk to him, even if no one will help you. 

Even being outside for a few scant minutes, you begin to feel the chill in a lethally concerning fashion. You were cold inside the castle, but you remember it now as indescribably warmer in comparison. Your body sends out signs of dangerous temperature damage–reminding you just how flimsy your ‘winter’ coat really is. For a March storm, winter is really giving it one last big hurrah. 

Your fingers have turned from an angry red to a frightening white. They curl painfully, clenched and shaking. Attempting to unfurl them is a slow process, the mental command sluggish against the cold. The blood in your extremities is frozen in your veins. 

You need to get back inside. Unseen. And quickly . 

Castle Faz used to be a different establishment, right? Before it went out of business and was bought out by FazCo. Some Medieval themed event hall or something like that. It was already going under when you were growing up, but you remember hearing that it had real horses in it at some point. 

Horses meant exterior paddocks. Paddocks meant there had to be a re-entry point near the stables–provided that FazCo hadn’t boarded them up completely when they took over. If your hunch is correct, it’s your best chance at getting back in. 

During your many shifts at the Castle, you passed over the moat from the bus stop to admire the parapets and flags that adorned the exterior of the Castle. Its dome-like centrepiece constantly drew your attention with its curved facade, and from there the structure spread out to accommodate the many rooms and expansive arena that was housed inside. 

But off to the right of the Castle was a smaller, shorter building. With your hands cupped over your mouth, you make your way there and pray that your theory is correct. 

You’ve never entered the Castle through any entrance other than the front and side staff entrance. With the power down, there will be no sensor to give away your position to any of the robotic occupants. If you can get there still conscious, that is. 

The snow assaults your face like needles, making you regret forgetting to bundle your scarf. It sits loosely tied around your neck, hardening from the sleet and frozen air. It’s lustre is lost in the unforgiving wind. Your hands don’t have the dexterity to tie it properly anymore. 

Your boots stumble off the paved walkway and onto the snowdrift. The snow reaches past your knees and soaks your pants, piling frigid snow melt into your boots. But you trudge on, your toes feeling closer to glass than flesh with every step you take. 

Dead and frozen branches line the exterior of the Castle, lending the appearance of thorns. There’s no Princess to save in this castle , your mind finds delirious warmth in levity, your thoughts finding escapism comforting, but if you can save a jester, then that feels enough like a fairytale to you . 

A gale picks up as you pass a corner, your destination growing closer with every step. It punches the air out of your lungs, making you gasp in the frozen particles. Your chest is choked, unable to find breath, but you force your legs to move anyway. 

Your eyelashes freeze and obscure your vision, the blinding white making you squint, barely able to see. A steadying hand catches your near-tumble into the snow, extremities screaming. You’re almost there. Just a bit farther. 

Your vision darkens at the edges, sending dangerous signals of hypothermia to your brain. A sharp desperate breath makes its way into your lungs, bringing with it sacred oxygen and it’s many properties. It fuels you a bit further. You can last just a bit longer. 

Numbness is a familiar feeling. Last night you were numb to the world, your brain silent but buzzing in shock. The numbness you feel now feels opposite, painful and sluggish, juxtaposed with the determination to see this through. Sun is waiting for you. He has no one else. 

From the small space between your clenched eyelids you can see a door, partially obscured by a dizzyingly high pile of snow. It reinvigorates you, your boots ploughing forward with resolve. The goal sets your heart ablaze. 

Frozen hands touch the push bar, and heave forward with all your might. Relief floods your brain with welcome chemicals as you fall into the space, unfinished concrete scraping your palms as you hit the floor. You barely feel it, the frenzy to escape the wind zapping over your thoughts like a shock of adrenaline. 

The door whistles behind you, blowing sparkling flakes into the room. With a kick, you shut it, and the world goes silent. 

The immediate lack of wind makes your cheeks burn with cold- the outer layer of skin feeling numb and thin as tissue paper. Your fingers begin to throb with a more fervent pain, not from the ground, but from the hot blood trying to pulse its way back through your frozen blood vessels. 

Your ears–oh god your ears –feel like they’re about to fall off, sending waves of pain pulsating throughout your skull. It feels like the worst migraine known to man, with internal and external pain. You can do nothing but clutch the sides of your head with your equally frozen hands and press the pain inward, hoping that the contact will warm you faster. Painful screams die behind clenched teeth–you can’t afford to make a sound and alert anyone of your re-entry. The contrasting heat and frigidity courses through your body in agonising waves, and you can do little but wait for it to stop. 

You curl into a ball on the rough concrete floor, whimpering softly. You did it, you made it back in. Now you just have to find out where they’ve put Sun. 

The sound of a footstep echoes in the chamber, causing you to freeze. Memories of your deft capture hours ago echo in your mind. Dread pools inside your senses. Were you found already?  

A beat. Two beats. No voice, or exclamation of what you’re doing here is heard. 

You manage to crane your head upwards towards the sound, your chin scraping the floor. The chamber is dim, with cracks of light leaking through weak points in the walls. 

You spy a shine of light that shifts with movement. A step echoes again, and a shape becomes clear. 

The chrome show horse, the automaton that performs at the start of the show, looms in the distance like a silver shadow. The steps you heard were its heavy hoof beats, its large head turned and clearly facing your direction. 

With delirious panic coating your brain, you realise there’s nowhere to go. 

You shoot to your feet as fast as you’re able, the snow on your boots crunching on both the inside and outside. A quick experimental wiggle of your toes confirms that they’re still attached, but the discomfort grows the longer you wear them. 

The clockwork horse eyes you with interest, its silver optics flashing in the low light. You’re ready to move if need be, but as your brain settles from the panic, you observe that it doesn’t seem aggressive. Unlike the danger of an actual horse, you might be safer here with this creature, despite its gargantuan size. 

Soft gears click and grind, the internals of the horse humming throughout the stable. It’s a safe guess that FazCo cut as many corners as possible when it came to refurbishing this establishment, turning the flesh and blood horse stable into the chrome and steel horse stable. You feel quite lucky that your estimation was correct. 

It approaches with heavy hoofbeats that rattle the small grains embedded in the concrete. You want to back up, but the only way out of range is back outside. You’re not going to allow your recent success to slip through your fingers. 

The horse stands at over double your height, with the head alone rivalling your entire body in size. It’s wider than your entire wingspan, dwarfing you in its presence. The horses of the Castle were never something that you had to interact with directly with your job as the Princess, your brain scrambling to remember any useful information from the manual you read when you first started as it nears. 

The gargantuan head leans down as your body panics, stopping just shy of your face. You feel the air between you warm in proximity, making your eyes widen with wonder. The shiny metal exterior of the horse belies a cold exterior, but you can already feel that this horse is running warmer than you are currently. 

With a timid hand, you reach up to drag your fingers gently across the snout, finding bravery in your search for warmth. A soft wicker vibrates under your hand, the touch first bitingly cold before it soothes into a gentle warmth. You can’t help your hands from flattening, desperate for any reprieve from the cold. 

You can see the tail of the creature attaches to a long charging cable that stretches onward and disappears somewhere into the ceiling. An ingenious design, but you don’t think harder than that as you press your numb cheeks into the heating metal. The gentle sensation brings hope fluttering back to your chest, your pains briefly forgotten. The innocent, friendly contact brings tears to your eyes. 

Staying there, soaking up residual heat, you feel emboldened by your mission. There was never anything to fear in Castle Faz.  

A door at the far end of the stable blinks into your vision. The chill has been chased away as much as you can stand, but the itch to find Sun burns under your skin. The contrast between your heated blood and the cold sitting atop your skin gives you an eerie sense of clarity, confidence boosting your morale. 

With a grateful smile you give the gargantuan beast one last pat, your warming skin bemoaning the loss of warmth. The chill creeps back like a virus, but remains surface level and doesn’t delve deeper. The horse’s silent gaze feels like it’s cheering you on, and you nod back, heading for the door. 

It opens to one of the many dark corridors of the Castle, impossible to tell which direction is your goal. Your best bet is to wander until you find something that looks familiar, the hallways wide enough to accommodate the Knight’s and the Knight’s horse’s large stature. 

At your feet, small sparkles glint. At first you think it might be frost or snow, but it bunches in clusters that don’t melt. Sand , your mind supplies. You must be near the Pit. 

Small dustings of sand line the corridor to your left, coming to a junction where the path splits. Curtains can be seen in the distance in one direction, and darkness in the other. Seeing no solution in the Pit, you traverse down the alternate dim path. 

You wander in the dark for an uncertain amount of time, keeping your senses peeled for any sound that could be your hunters or quarry. The hallways seem liminal and endless, all looking the same in the low light. Mustering up the courage to open a few doors that you pass, you find nothing but storage supply rooms and disorganised piles of merchandise. 

On and on you go, feeling more like a mouse in a maze than a Princess in her Castle. The lack of any StaffBot presence makes you think that they must all be charging to conserve power. The occasional glow of generator lights illuminating your path every few feet. 

The doors all open easily, without need of a keycard or authorization code. The hinges are silent, fresh with disuse–it’s clear that not many find their way down here. 

The hallways begin to slope downward, turning into gentle ramps that facilitate ease for the wheels of the hive of Staffbots. You rarely find stairs in the Castle, most of the facility being wheelchair friendly, with the exception of your Tower stairwell that you’re very familiar with. 

Your mind remains focused with a singular goal: find Sun. He didn’t hurt you even when he wanted to. It might be dangerous, but you’ll place your trust in him just this once. 

You love him too, after all. 

Down one of the endlessly repeating corridors, something grabs your attention. It isn’t a person, or an animatronic shape that you recognize. Instead, it’s the shape of something unexpected that you didn’t see in any of the other hallways. 

There’s a door at the end of the slope, wedged shut with a piece of steel rebar. The bar is wedged under the handle like it’s keeping something out… 

Or someone in . 

You dart towards the door, your first real clue that you might have found him. With a kick from your snow boots, jostling the numb toes inside painfully, you manage to move the bar and get the door open. 

Darkness creeps out from inside the room. 

A trickle of fear makes its way down your spine. You remember this place. The Dungeon. 

Your memories of this place are coated in a thick layer of confusion, and a healthy amount of anxiety. You were locked in here for hours last time (it was an accident, wasn’t it?) and the inky shadows pull your pulse to a quicker pace. 

It’s completely enshrouded as you walk past the threshold, your heart pounding in your ears. Your boots squelch with melted snow, marking darkened footprints onto the rough floor. 

You can’t see, your eyes still adjusting to this level of darkness. There isn’t a single light to be seen. You can’t even see if you’re alone down here. 

But it doesn’t matter, because the occupant makes himself known anyway. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

Your breath rattles in your chest. Sun . 

White optics illuminate in the dark, shining like stars. They tower above you a ways off like a beacon. You fight the urge to run to him, keeping your reddened fingers clenched with anticipation. 

“I was looking for you.” you reply numbly. What else can you say? 

His usual cheer is absent. He looks like a lighthouse in the dark. 

You take a step forward, flinching when his optics flicker towards your sound. Another step forward, and he hisses with contempt. 

“Stay back .” you’ve never heard him so angry. Never aimed at you. 

You ignore him and take another step forward, noting how his optics lean away in opposition to his words. He doesn’t want you near. You’re not giving him a choice. 

“Moon told me what you were trying to do.” you speak into the dark, watching Sun’s optics widen and then narrow. 

“And? You’re quite stupid to come here knowing that. Don’t you have any self-preservation?” 

You laugh an incredulous sound, “Didn’t you learn that about me when I first started? You threw me off the platform, Sun. And I stayed anyway.” 

His optics flicker like a binary star. You trudge forward. 

“I could still hurt you.”  

Those words make you pause, his optics illuminating a dark corner of the dungeon. He doesn’t look at you. 

“Will you?” you dare. 

The burning gaze turns back to you, flickering amidst the black. “I want to.” 

You stop a few feet in front of him at his response, the distance where you have to start craning your head upwards to see him properly. His illuminated eyes catch the airborne particles of your warm breath. 

“Then why didn’t you?”

Bells shake harshly, his clenched fists shaking. Sun doesn’t respond, so you challenge further. Chasing angry words and explanations. 

“You wanted to kill me , Sun. Was it because you hated me? You hated everything about me so much that I disgust you?” your voice rises with your rage, pooling foreign warmth down your gullet. “You liked me enough when you thought I was the Princess, do you hate me now?” 

Static crackles in the space between you, urging you to press harder into the weeping wound and hear the truth. 

You take another foolish step forward, erasing the remaining distance between you. It feels confrontational, it feels like you’re in power. 

It’s stupid–brazen to act like this. Monty drilled into your skull that any of the animatronics here can hurt you easily . Sun’s come the closest and has proven to be a wild card time and time again. 

You press on, the fire inside fuelling your idiotic bravery. 

“Tell me you hate me.” 

His optics flicker. “I hate you.” 

You smile in the dark. “I knew it.” you take another step forward, and closed the gap with one final movement. 

Reaching forward blindly, you feel for Sun’s hands, the bells at his wrists, the ribbons. They shake under your grip, giving you all the information you need. 

You smile sweetly at him, rage vanishing. You gaze into the optics of someone you love. 

“You’re a bad liar, Sun.” 

More static. A flinch rings his wrist bell at your words and touch. 

“I was going to hurt you.” His voice wobbles. “I’m not lying–” It’s less than a whisper. 

“But you didn’t.” you pull him closer, tugging at his hand.  

“Your optics flicker when you lie.” Your arms wrap around his waist. He’s shaking all over. 

He shakes so hard he feels like he’s coming undone. “I would have done it.” 

You shush him, “But you didn’t .” your tone rings with finality, and forgiveness. He crumples in your gentle grasp like a glass house of cards. 

Familiar, quieter sobs spill out of his metal body. His bells ring in sorrowful harmony.  

Music trickles into your brain like warm summer rain. You can ignore the cold in the air, the chill in your hands. Sun doesn’t move to hold you back, shaking with repressed sobs and bowing at the waist like a protective canopy. His optics shutter and flicker at the edges of your vision. 

You can feel his fear, his hesitation, his sorrow. He can’t cry like humans do, but it appears he was programmed with enough emotion to do something to reprieve the heavy emotions. It ebbs out of him like snow melt in the darkness of the dungeon, washing over you like waves. You power through, finding stability in the shaking hands of the jester you hold. You smile into his abdomen as he weeps. 

You pull him down gently, needing to reach more of your crumbling love than just his lower half. He complies without much force, unconsciously seeking comfort even as the emotions well inside him and threaten to take over. 

A hum begins in your throat, music dancing along your tongue. The sound makes Sun cry harder, his hands finally clutching at your shoulders with fearful softness. 

The tune spins and twirls in cold dungeon air, the darkness lending more power to sound with your limited senses. You can feel Sun, you can hear him, but without his optics to illuminate the space, you’re blind in the dark. 

The music gains strength, rough lyrics pushing past the backs of your teeth. Simple vocalisations, no real words, carry the melody from your heart and past your chest into the space between you. La la la la . 

The strain of melody repeats, silently urging your broken companion for a duet. Sing , your mind whispers, sing with me . 

An age ago Sun had misconstrued your acting lines as truth, confessing his love to you in the dark of this very dungeon. A song of love should be performed in private , he had said, echoing your own words. Your heart skips a beat as you fervently hope he remembers. 

Your vocalisations rebound in the inky blackness, bringing with it an air of warmth and comfort. Sun shakes and his sobs ebb, but he clutches at you all the same like a lifeboat out in stormy seas. 

You can barely feel the rest of your body, cold and exhausted by the events of the past 24 hours. Every second that ticks onward feels like a hundred, and you pray, pray that Sun sings back with you. Every trill falls short without accompaniment. 

It’s quiet when you hear it, making you almost miss the sound entirely. Unlike a human, Sun’s voice box doesn’t vibrate in preparation of sound. There’s no deep diaphragm breath, no heave of muscles–so when he sings, it just happens . 

It’s nearly silent, so shy, but it sounds like forgiveness and gratefulness and comfort and love love love . His programming is clearly aimed towards some kind of musicality, his music stuttering and green, but it’s beautiful .  

It eases your heartache, chases the chill from your bones. It fills you with joy, happiness, and relief. You press your singing smile into the warm panels of his abdomen, and your heart soars. Your duet brings warmth back to your heart. 

Even with your eyes closed, you can see the stars of his eyes, shining in the darkness and singing in harmony. Even as his voice stutters and sobs, he knows that you’ve forgiven him, even if he hasn’t forgiven himself. That will take time, ready and willing to undertake the challenge. 

You have him back, and you’ll never let him go again. 

_______________ 

He can feel her, the Princess , now stronger than ever. Inside the squishy prison of the Handler, the Princess makes herself known in the trills of music that spill out of the Handler’s mouth. They captivate him in a spell-song, weaving a beautiful tapestry of their love in the dark. 

This was his love. He can feel her , even though she looks and feels different. He feels as though he could nearly reach past the Handler’s soft exterior and pull her into the light. 

But she’s here, in a different form, in a different skin. Her real form , if he allows his processor to bypass the practised revulsion. He sees her now, truly, as she always was–As they always were. 

The Handler. His Princess made flesh. The beating heart of song. 

He laments the loss of his fairytale love, the grounding reality of what was . What he almost did. The loss of this . 

The Handler’s small body is cold, their hands around his waist even moreso. They feel almost akin to the Princess’s hands with their inhuman chill, but the ghost of vapour in the air belies the living, breathing true cause. 

They were cold to the touch–unnaturally so. The Castle was far from adequately heated in the depths of the dungeon, less so with the generator’s limited power output. They were freezing , but they went and sought him out anyway. Cold as they were, they were coated in a blanket of saintly forgiveness. 

Wet boot prints meant that they were outside sometime recently, given the still-melting state of the snow atop the toes of the boots. 

They sang anyway, chasing away the chill in a way only humans could, with the power of song. They reached past their human limitations and reached through programmed logic and grabbed his heart with both hands. He could have killed them. If he had, he would have missed this. 

So he held his soft and shaking love, spinning his own voice in tune with theirs, unaccustomed and yet recognizing the feeling swelling in his chestplate, the familiar thrum of love coursing through his cables. 

He was never more grateful for his own cowardice. He could have lost this. 

His sweet, small, little love. 

Bursting at the seams with music and forgiveness. Patient and soft and wet and so unbearably human . 

With all the grace of a fairytale princess, Sun could finally see the true heart of his love shine through, the echoes of his former love change and evolve into something new and beautiful. He felt his love take root in new soil, growing and blooming into a flower that he recognized with every line of code. The Princess was here. His love was here. It wouldn’t be forever, but it would be beautiful as long as it lasted. 

Forever, and yet not that long at all. 

Happily ever after. 

_______________ 

You lead him out of the dark with cold hands and a warm heart. There’s not a single doubt in your mind who placed the beam under the handle, trapping Sun inside.  

It must have hurt for him to do it– to his brother that he loved so much. You can imagine the pain that he must’ve felt making that decision, and you’re energised in the knowledge you can set things to rights. 

Your multiple near-death experiences make you feel invincible, the red tipped hand gripped tight in your own adds to your determination like a battery. You’re unstoppable. Your body quivers with ceaseless triumph. 

Sun looks afraid, a crouched ball of concern and anxiousness. His bells shake with a frigid tremor before you remember that he can’t feel the cold as you do. Your hand is a lifeline, his optics shining bright upon them. You won’t let go for the world, and you know neither will he. 

You take the hallway upwards leaving the dungeon behind you. There’s no turning back, no regrets now, and the sound of bells sound triumphant in your ears. 

Almost perfect.  

Hurried but steady feet drag you towards your silver belled love, confessions and questions burning behind your teeth. The hallways turn to split pathways that lead to doorways leading to alcoves. The Castle brightens gradually as you ascend, the dull lights humming with electricity. Your eyes dart upwards wherever you can spot rafters. A muffled but frustrated curse dies under your breath. 

Sun shakes you out of your thoughts with a gentle squeeze. You turn, not pausing your gait, and note his bent posture and the limp state of his ruffles. 

He looks like hell. You probably do too. 

“Uhh…I don’t mean to pry but…what are we doing?” 

“We’re looking for your brother.” 

A jolt shoots through Sun’s arm and up yours. The singular bell at his wrist rings with alarm. Its pair is tucked safely in your bag, frayed ribbon and all. 

“And you think that’s a wise idea?” 

You scrunch your brow, “Of course. We have to set things straight.” 

He laughs weakly, pulling oh so gently backward on your arm, getting you to slow. 

“Now you see, sweetheart,” he starts, the nervousness in his voice making itself known, “the last thing Moon said to me was that he was going to decommission me. Rather, he was going to write a report and send it to Upper Management to do it.” 

You scoff in response, the threat empty, “Fat lot that’ll do without my statement.”  

Your heart pangs knowing that couldn’t have been an easy thing for Sun to hear Moon say. They’ve been through so much because of you, and it’s within your power to finally set things right. If you had more energy you’d put more eloquence into your words, but if you relax even for a second you know it’ll be the end of you. 

His weak voice groans. “And I maaaay have said a few things…to ensure that he would.”  

The sound of bells stop. Your boots screech in unison, squeaking painfully in the hallway.  

“I didn’t compute for a single possibility that you’d be back!” he screeches, guilt flooding his tone, “the probability of this ,” he gestures to your entwined hands, “was so low that I didn’t even consider it! What I did was wrong and I’ll spend the rest of my existence trying to make up for it, but that doesn’t mean Moon isn’t right .” 

You frown at him, coming to a complete stop. “Sun–” you start, but he interrupts you. 

“Darling.” His voice is suddenly rigid and firm, free of any tremors. “I love you. I do . But that doesn’t mean that the feelings that I felt before can change so quickly.” 

His quiet unnerves you, the silence coating the air with molecules of a feeling heavier than guilt. 

He continues. “Moon loved you for... this .” He gestures to you with your bonded hands. It doesn’t take an engineer to know he’s referring to the squishy, human you. “I didn’t. And I don’t even know if I’ll ever love you the same as he does.” 

“There are parts of you that I love and there are parts of you that I’ve lost, this is still all so new . I admit I may have gone a bit far with my…theory…but Moon is still acting in accordance with our code. I broke the rules . He’s maintaining them.” 

And I don’t care , you want to say, but the words die in your throat. This goes beyond simple cultural differences, the concept of their functioning code is something you’re still getting used to with your robotic boyfriends. It’s not as if they can choose to break code whenever they feel like it–it goes deeper than that.  

Sun’s exhibiting what humans would consider massive amounts of guilt, the results of rash decision making and anxious confessions. But from an animatronic perspective, he’s still trying to follow his assigned code.  

Moon’s following the rules. Which means someone has to change them . 

You shove down the twinge of pain that pierces your heart at his words; the thought of Sun never loving you the same way as you were when he thought you were just the Princess. It hurts to know what it felt like and dread never feeling it again.  

But it’s not about you. You just have to get over it. Focus on other things, the elements of happiness you can hold onto that don’t involve those things. 

“No problem.” you say, reigniting your stride with vigour, “I can fix this.” You bury the sour feelings deep inside your heart and clutch his hand tighter, pulling him along. 

A static garble escapes Sun, like he’s at a loss for words. Your bravado swallows up any attempt at a retort. You’ll fix this. You’re not going to let either of them go. 

Steadfast steps squelch into the atrium, the expansive room feeling like a breath of fresh air after the claustrophobic, unending Castle corridors. This is where you saw Moon earlier, you might be able to retrace his steps from here. 

It’s empty of your lunar love, the silence prevailing. You know it’s only a matter of time before he finds you , your wet boot prints being impossible to belong to anyone else. The moment he sees them, he’ll come straight to you. You just have to be ready and waiting when he does. 

Sun’s silence echoes in the atrium, his earlier words still reverberating painfully in your skull. Your task helps you keep your mind from thinking about it too much. 

“Sweetheart…” he begins again, softly as to not let his voice carry. Sweetheart seems to be his new nickname for you. You won’t say it, but you already miss his voice that he calls you Princess . “Maybe I shouldn’t be here.” 

You spin on a dime to face him, eyes wide and angry. You’re ready to retort but Sun splays the fingers of his free hand placidly. “I mean while you’re talking with Moon! Maybe I shouldn’t be here while you’re having your conversation.” 

In response your frigid human fingers squeeze harder, making your point. No words need to be said, your expression says it all. He lowers his hand with an air of futility. 

You won’t let him go.  

“As you wish, your Highness.” 

It’s hard for your heart not to pang at that, the familiarity bringing with it a drop of ease. You relax your shoulders that you hadn’t realised were tight, and you loosen your grip on Sun. 

Like an avalanche starting with the first relaxing muscles, the rest of your body begins to break down, the last few hours finally taking their toll. At first it starts as a bone-melting relief, your teeth unclenching and your muscles taking on the consistency of warm butter. But before long they begin to scream in protest, frigid pains making themselves known. A groan escapes your mouth before you have a chance to stop it. 

Sun’s bells ring in concern, worry flashing over his features. If you knew his words would unravel you so quickly, you would’ve asked him not to say it in the first place.  

Like a one-track mind, your exhausted feet let you know just how few steps you have remaining in your tired body. They bring you to the edge of the throne, Sun lowering you down weakly, and you take a weary seat in the uncomfortable chair. The wet prints lead right to you. You’ll let Moon do the rest. 

You fight the urge to shut your eyes, even briefly. The idea that Moon could find Sun with your unmoving body is a situation you don’t want to put anyone through, and you use whatever remains of your energy to keep your eyes peeled and your ears open. 

Sun stands awkwardly at your side, hands still clasped. He has to bend a little to keep a steady grip, but you push the worries away that he could be uncomfortable. You’re the one with muscles and bones that ache. 

You should’ve guessed that Sun would be the one to hear him coming before you, his rays perking up with a wave of his disk-like faceplate. He’s quicker than you expected. Your head swivels in the same direction a second later, waiting for a shape to emerge from the distant darkness. 

His silver bells are quiet. If Sun hadn’t silently informed you that Moon was here, you’d never have spotted him. There’s the barest gleam of red in the far, far corridor opposite the merchandise booth. It’s obscured by a colourful canopy draped in flags. You can’t see his expression from here. 

Sun, to your surprise, doesn’t tremble like you expect at the sight of his brother. He freezes, either out of guilt or resignation, and his grip loosens in your hand ever so slightly. You pull him back with fearful instinct. 

With your straining ears, you can’t hear Moon get any closer. So you take matters into your own hands. 

“Moon. Come here.” 

Your authoritative voice echoes throughout the atrium, bouncing off the walls and sinking its teeth into every orifice. It’s the first time you’ve used the Princess’s assertive tone outside of costume.  

At your command Moon approaches, his faceplate illuminating as he steps into the light. His expression is a complex series of emotions, flitting from heartbreak to anger and back again. Optics dart to Sun and back to you with a frightening speed. 

He stops at the base of your dias, fists clenched at his sides. His gaze burns over your and Sun’s clasped hands. 

“I told you to leave . It’s not safe here. He’s not safe.” An angry tone coats his words. 

“And I told you to come here and you did. Glad we’ve established who’s in charge in this conversation.” 

Your fatigued body leans forward lazily, every inch a pompous ruler. You jerk your chin up at him, accusatory. “You never answered me.” 

Confusion flickers inside his ruby lumens. “What?” 

Your free hand leisurely comes to rest under your chin. “Earlier, I said I love you . You never said it back.” A smirk graces your lips.  

He sputters, a clenched fist raising to point at Sun, “ He tried to kill you!” 

“But he didn’t. And if you’d listened before then we would have already had this conversation.” 

Moon takes a rattling step atop the dias, his foot heavy with frustration. The plywood creaks from the force, threatening to break. It holds. “I’ve already sent a report. Endangerment of any guest or human staff warrants a full investigation. Upper Management will be here first thing tomorrow.” 

“Then they’ll get my statement. This incident pertains to me, and I’ll say nothing happened.” 

You can hear Moon’s teeth grinding, threatening to spew metal shavings. He’s aghast at your opposition. There’s desperation in his optics.  

Muscles tense at the base of your jaw. Yawning would be rude, but it would be funny. Exhaustive delirium makes your brain think humorous things but you keep it contained for the sake of decorum. Let him throw everything he can at you, you have a retort for everything. Sun’s not a danger to you, and neither is Moon. Despite what Monty said, you’ve never felt safer in your life. 

The solar brother is as still as a statue at your side, looking at his brother with wide optics. He doesn’t say anything in his own defence, not a word to his sibling. He stands there like a porcelain doll waiting for it all to come crashing down. 

“Sun says you love me. But I’ve never heard you say it, so I’m beginning to doubt if it’s true.” You quirk an eyebrow, ensuring your gaze remains steadily on the darker brother. 

Moon’s pupils flicker up to Sun for a brief second, but drag back down to you. They shine with an emotion that you hastily recognise as hope. 

“Do you love me?” 

“...of course I do.” His response is barely more than a whisper. Sun’s hand flinches against your digits. 

Your languid smile turns into one bursting with sorrow and sweetness. You extend your free hand and reach for him. That’s all you wanted to hear.  

But he doesn’t move. It's Moon, not Sun, that trembles under your gaze. 

Moon makes a noise, words that you can barely hear for how quiet he utters them. 

“...Haven’t you…chosen him over me?” His words are so hushed, so low, and yet they reach past your ribcage and squeeze your heart with both hands. His fear imbeds itself in your bloodstream. 

“Monty was right.” you shake your head. Two faceplates snap to your attention. 

“We’re all fools.” A new smile breaks out across your face, painted in colours of relief. 

You scratch your cheek a bit sheepishly, your body finding enough blood in it to heat your cheeks a couple of degrees. “Y’see, I’m actually pretty greedy. I was hoping for two boyfriends instead of just one.” Your eyes look towards the floor and away from their reactions, your embarrassment catching up with you at mach speed. 

It helps chase the lingering cold from your body, your feet reminding you that they’re still cold and wet inside the boots. Dewdrops of snow dot the rubber toes and they’re suddenly the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. 

When you gain enough courage to lift your head and face them, their faces are twin expressions of shock. The lack of immediate positive reactions to your comment shoots one last vestige of clumsiness through your nervous system, and you sluggishly try to crawl over the throne to escape their frozen faces. 

Whether by exhaustion, cold, or their speed, two sets of hands catch and crowd you back onto the throne, pressing jingle bells into the fabric of your coat. Your vision is a sea of red and navy blue, arms holding you on all sides and shaking shaking shaking . 

It makes you laugh–a bright, cheerful sound. Old habits die hard. You reach your arms up and hold them back as best as you’re able, fingers fanning over plush rays and long tapers alike. You’ve never been good at talking. Actions speak clearer than words. 

It feels good. It feels right . Pieces of your heart slot together, cracked and damaged but finally whole. The puzzle is complete, and there are no more secrets left to share. 

The yawn finally escapes its confines, dragging out across your tongue. You mutter, “Are you both fine with sharing? We should have better communication going forward.” Moon laughs sharply against your temple. Sun’s laugh is weaker in comparison. 

Completely spent, you let your eyes droop, the weight of your two loves coaxing you into a comforting slumber. Before you drift off fully, you can hear Moon tearfully confess to Sun that he was lying about the report. Sun shushes him in return. Warmth pools in your heart. 

You fall asleep with a smile on your face. When you wake up, there will no doubt be some explaining to do. 

You’ll need all the rest you can get. Now with the air cleared and a light heart, you feel the days that come after will greet you with chiming bells and melodic strings; both in tune with their love for you.

Chapter Text

Epilogue: 

This was a new thought.

Sun stared at the Vocalist, his optics trailing over soft skin and ruddy cheeks. For the most part they treated him and Moon equally, never straying outside of each brother’s comforts and boundaries. 

It was a safe, but cautious space. Filled with a frightened newness that had them all walking on eggshells. With the reveal of the Vocalist’s identity, the relationship was an alien space. Motions and gestures that were programmed to feel normal felt unnatural in his hands. Soft touches that were searching for fabric laden metal instead found warm and living flesh–far from the sensations he had grown accustomed to. 

Sun could admit that of the three of them, he was the one most changed. Moon, for the most part, acted the same if not fairly more cautious. Sun could see the rigidity in his posture, the inherent fear response that he–Sun had created. Moon, no matter the situation, was always poised for action, unwilling to let his hard-won happiness slip through his fingers a second time.

The Handler in response embraced all their flaws, every difference and change in the coming months. They were nothing but gracious, rarely making a move for affection themselves, though Sun could spy a few twitches of their own pre-programmed mannerisms. He watched them reach shyly only to hold back at the last second, hesitant. Touch with the expectation of revulsion. Their happiness was only skin deep–a mask held high, keeping both brothers out.

Sun wasn’t stupid. He knew his actions were the cause of everything. Both his brother’s anxiety and their shared partner’s hesitancy. 

But it was hard to change what he had known for so long to be true. He thought he came to terms with it months ago, but the programmed thoughts and feelings kept him restricted in the affections he knew he was capable of.

And who could blame him? He had fallen in love with an animatronic , or so he had believed. His love might in truth have a mortal body, but the outer shell, the beauty of the Princess, was still very much a part of who he loved. He fell in love with delicate, cold metal hands as much as the true voice and heart of the Princess. To separate them felt wrong, inherently conflicting. It wasn’t as if his programming could change in an instant, his feelings refused to switch their allegiance like the flip of a switch.

He fell in love with someone like him . And now that they weren’t, he didn’t know what to feel.

That didn’t mean he didn’t love the Handler. Sun would be the first one to throttle any who would accuse him of such. But there was a difference between the all-consuming love that he felt with the Princess and the slow, quiet, reverent love he felt with the Handler. There were the physical differences, sure, but the heart was the same. The love he felt was changing, and it caught him by surprise.

The Vocalist, for all their hesitations, never moved to initiate physical contact with Sun. The concept came as both a relief and a fury to him–the thought of their touch, squishy and warm, simultaneously repugnant and fascinating to him. Could he be satisfied in a relationship barren of physical touch? Their hand, so different from the Princess’s, drew him like both sides of a magnet. He wanted to touch, but he didn’t, he couldn’t . Thoughts and feelings and sensations clouded his processor like a blizzard, leaving him spiralling.

There was a difference between finding young lords and ladies adorable–the small human children that would visit the Castle touching his hands and pulling at his bells. He loved children, with all their traits and complexities, and he didn’t feel revulsion when he touched them. But the difference between touching a guest with polite intentions versus touching your partner with romantic intentions was completely different. Sun didn’t hate humans, he just hadn’t considered the complexities of how to go about loving one.

The new thought came from a guest. 

The Castle opened after the last of the Spring storms, and with it came a flood of lords and ladies that were all intent on using their previous vouchers, having heard from prior guests that the staff had performed exemplary during the inclement weather difficulties. Word spread like wildfire and the Castle was soon more packed than ever.

The Handler donned their Princess costume, a visual that caused Sun’s internals to ache. To see her on the throne, pretty and perfect as she always was, with the knowledge he knew now…It grew easier over time to see them as they truly were, but the pain never truly went away. He didn’t touch them in costume as he did before, the tragic yearning too much for him to bear. He stuck to his duties while the Castle was open, and nothing more.

The Princess sat upon their throne, greeting guests with a regal bearing. Their graceful hand steered the Princess’s armature in a royal wave, digits graceful, beckoning the first in line to step up to the throne and greet the regent.

The guest was a young boy, no more than sixteen. His dark hair shrouded over his bright eyes, beaming with nervousness and a hint of mischief. The room was clamorous with activity, making Sun unable to hear the exchange of words, but he could read the body language just fine. Moon was present behind the throne in the event that they required additional security, and Sun allowed his gaze to wander from his own line of guests to the Vocalist’s whenever the attention ebbed away from him.

He watched the young man lean in, presumably sharing a secret with the Princess as they were known to do, only to turn quickly and press a quick kiss on the side of the mask. The regent turned sharply, pressing a dainty hand to their cheek, but Sun could only feel the rising bubble of rage within his chestplate.

How dare such an insignificant whelp violate the sanctity of the Vocalist’s person? Whatever anger Moon was feeling, it paled in comparison to the rage that Sun felt inside himself. He couldn’t focus on his brother’s response as the fury consumed him from his core to his struts, burning fire through his cables. He turned his optics away, knowing the sight of the boy would only further enrage him…rage that swiftly shifted to confusion, questioning and deliberation.

Why did he feel this way? The guest had already vanished into the crowd, laughing with some youthful chitter, leaving Sun to complete the puzzle his mind has wrought.

Jealousy was an emotion that he had recognized within himself before. He felt it whenever the Princess had interacted with the Knights, showing special attention to anyone other than him. He knew he was capable of jealousy, of violence , but this was different. He could share the Vocalist with his brother, and could survive in a relationship without touching, but this incident…

As he had watched the young lad’s lips purse against the static cheek of the Princess’s mask, soft flesh meeting an unliving shell, his processor had sputtered. The Princess– the Handler was his partner, belonging to the Royal Attendants. They hadn’t done anything of that sort since the Princess’s identity was revealed, Sun had partly assumed it was because none of them wanted to.

But perhaps that was not entirely the case.

Human skin meeting animatronic casing. What a fascinating concept . A thought that should be repugnant…but perhaps not at all.

From that moment onward Sun watched the Vocalist closely, carving a high definition image of them in his memory banks that he pored over in the dark hours between charging. The feeling of their lips against his mask, would it feel good? Or would it be wet and disgusting? Would he feel anything at all?

This new thought consumed him, the sensation ghosting along his thoughts at any given moment of the day. The Handler had never kissed Moon where he could see (if they’d ever even kissed at all) leaving Sun no basis for comparison. He couldn’t even ask his brother such an embarrassing question for fear of triggering a conversation he’d really rather not have. Thus Sun was left to his obsessive contemplation, his white optics dragging over their lips as often as he had the opportunity. It burned into his memory banks like a brand, shaped like the Vocalist’s mouth.

_______________

It’s hard to determine exactly what has changed.

You should be happy. You are happy. But you can’t deny that things feel different after the whole…debacle.

There’s no secrets between you now, only clear and smooth communication from here on out.

Or so you tell yourself.

Things are different. Gone are the shy touches from each of your loves. Moon treats you more like a piece of fragile glass than a person, each of his quick glances shiny with ill-repressed worry and anticipation. He carts you around with the gentlest of nudges, keeping his optics open to any potential (imaginary) threat. You thought it would just just be a temporary lapse–humouring it as you go, but now months later you’re questioning otherwise. Your coy banter has all but disappeared, replaced by anxious and fright filled queries. He’s nearly lost you once, and it’s changed him irreparably.

Sun, at the very least, gave you some warning to accompany your heartache. You want him to be comfortable in this new type of relationship, different from what you shared with him as the Princess. You know it can’t be easy to accept the changes that come with your ‘identity’, but you still love him, and you’ll make sacrifices for the ones you love. If Sun never touches you sweetly again, never puts his hands on you in any loving way, then you’ll just have to learn to live with that. A small sacrifice for long-term happiness.

But you can’t deny that you miss how things were . The rush of passion when both your loves had no such restrictions on your person–the excitement of a budding relationship. You shove the thoughts aside, feeling a deep well of guilt at your hopeless longing. Shoving the thought into the pit, you focus on other things to keep your mind busy–idle thoughts only lead to strained smiles and disappointment.

So you do your job. The Princess costume still fits like a glove, the bruises at your ribs having ample time to heal during your impromptu time off due to the Spring storm. The weather is warmer now, green buds on the hedges outside bursting into leaves and flowers. You want to go outside and feel the sunlight on your face with your loved ones at your side, but you’re unsure if they’re even able to leave. Sad thoughts pave the way to more sad thoughts and you struggle to stop your trail of thinking before you drift too far.

If it were up to you, you’d stay at the Castle much longer–it is only Moon’s insistence that you go home each night. More energy is spent fighting him after close to stay than during the shift itself, your eyes drooping with exhaustion the longer you argue. You know he means well–he’s not wrong that you sleep better in your own bed, but it’s hard to leave them each time. Most fights are lost before they’ve even begun, with your groggy body giving out on you and your bag unceremoniously shoved into your hands. 

You’d do anything for a kiss or a gentle touch. But all you get is a worried smile and a ‘travel safe’. 

It makes you want to cry. But with some effort, you keep the tears at bay until the bus arrives. The poor driver must see your reddened eyes night after night and think the worst, pressing your palms into your eye sockets in an attempt to keep quiet on public transit. The lonely bus ride feels longest during these times.

It’s misery. And like an addicted fiend, you keep going back for more.

You’re scared you’re scared you’re scared . You don’t want to lose what you have. But sometimes you think it would have been easier if you didn’t know what it felt like at the start.

Memories of sitting on the platform arm in arm, or cuddling to sleep high up in the rafters. Things were easier then, less complicated. You didn’t feel afraid to lose what you already have.

A selfish part of you wants to confront them about your longing, your desire to touch and do more . But you would never sacrifice their happiness for your own, that’s just not who you are .

And you are happy. You stuff every negative feeling down under your happiness. You bury it in warmth and throw your remaining energy into trying to make new memories.

Even if the brothers find it hard to look at you when you are in costume. You spend so much energy trying to stay and spend more time with them. Trying to think of ways to accidentally touch them, feign ignorance, only to smother thoughts entirely with a guilty conscience.

You do what you do best, and unfortunately words were never your forte.

Bonnie takes you aside one day, a novelty cup in the shape of his helmet clasped in his gauntlets, a symbol of apology. His posture is rigid, guilty. You can tell without having to look at his expression.

“I should’ve mentioned something sooner, I just didn’t expect…all that to happen. I’m really sorry,” he shoves the cup into your hands, a bright liquid inside sloshing. It smells sweet and slightly acidic.

“It’s not your fault,” you reply, “there’s no way anyone could have guessed how things went. And we’re all fine, everyone’s okay.” A comforting smile cracks through your happy facade.

He fixes you with a stern look, somehow achievable despite the helm blocking his optics. His prior pity is smothered with blatant disbelief. “ You don’t look fine to me.”

You pick the worst time to take a sip, sputtering and choking on the apology soda. It’s black raspberry flavoured, and it tingles the back of your throat unpleasantly with every cough. “W-what? Of course I’m fine. Nothing happened, crisis averted.”

The blue Knight crosses his arms, vambraces hidden under shiny gauntlets. Disbelief is etched into every panel of shiny metal reflecting your own expression back at you. “Ah-huh. And you expect me to believe that?”

“Why shouldn’t you believe it? I’m telling you.”

Cocking a hip, he peers down until the glow of his optics shine through the slats of his helmet. “Oh yeah? Then pray tell, why haven’t we heard you singing lately?”

You’re better prepared this time, your mouth thankfully empty of the fizzy soda. 

“What are you talking about? I sing every night for the show, you hear me.” You can feel a crease form between your eyebrows, burrowing deep.

Your friend waves a shining gauntlet, catching a beam of light and sending it shining into your eye. You try not to flinch.

“I’m not talking about that singing. I’m talking about your happy singing. The humming and whistling you do when you’re happy. Me and the Knights have noticed you’ve been uncharacteristically mute lately.”

The soda flavour turns to sand in your mouth. You might as well be drinking unfiltered beach water.

You want to disagree with him, open your mouth and prove him wrong–but you can’t. He’s right . And more concerning is the fact that apparently it’s noticeable . A crack deepens in your outer facade, and a trickle of fear spills out and makes itself known. Worry lines crease on your face.

The crack widens and pools, a waterfall forming behind your eyes. Panic builds and threatens to spill, a tremor shooting down your spine. Bonnie’s posture goes from lightly stern to concerned in the blink of an eye. He uncrosses his hands and opens them placatingly, worry etched across his body language. Despite your best efforts, the shaking continues and evolves into full body trembling.

“Oh geez, it’s worse than I thought. C’mon,” he says, taking one gauntlet and placing it on your lower back, ushering you forward, “let’s go someplace private where we can talk about it.” Tears sting at the corners of your eyelids, and you keep them wide to prevent them from falling. 

Apparently, all it took was someone to notice for it all to come crashing down. Even as you walk through the halls, you unload on Bonnie like a tidal wave–fears and anxieties crashing over you in tearful splashes. When you open your eyes  you find yourself in the Arena kitchenette, a kettle already on its way to boiling. Bonnie sits on the floor with a hand on your leg, thumb rubbing your knee comfortingly. He listens quietly, his metal ears comically alert.

Your fearful confessions are a blur–some surely incomprehensible with your snotty bawling. You’ve held onto these fears for so long that it just took one glance and you fell apart. Your friend sits quietly as you attempt to put yourself back together.

When you’re finished, your eyes are red rimmed and puffy, the steam from recently boiled tea serving as a gentle salve to your frazzled edges. The novelty cup serves as a perfectly adequate vessel–the previous liquid poured down the sink and rinsed in favour of the comforting beverage. The plastic is warm beneath your hands.

Bonnie hums thoughtfully, giving you a moment to collect yourself. “I can see where you’re coming from,” he says solemnly. “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if my big orange lug decided he still loved me but didn’t want to be physical anymore. I mean it’s not like we have a lot of the same stuff you humans have, no hormones or anything that sends good vibes up to the brain, I just know I like touching, y’know? And if he ever decided he didn’t want to do that…” he pauses, and a hitch stabs your heart. 

His optics are shrouded behind the helmet. “Have you tried telling them? Moon at least would be easy to convince.”

Your face is still wet with tears as you shake your head, responding exasperatedly, “I don’t want him to do it because I’ve convinced him, I want him to do it because he wants to . And I know how much he cares about Sun, the last thing he’d want to do is make his brother uncomfortable with a bit of PDA.”

Using the side of your sleeve, you wipe your nose. You huff a breath of resignation. “I don’t want to lose them. I just have to find a way to be satisfied with what we have now.”

Bonnie is silent in response, either contemplating or agreeing. Your brain is in too much of a post-crying fog to determine which. Then he nods, which is even more confusing, and gets to his feet in a melody of metal plates.

He reaches the door in a single stride, leaving you floundering in your chair, cup still in hand. He turns back to you, backlit by the arena lights behind him.

“I’ve just come up with a way to make it up to you.” The cup of reconciliation in your hand is aghast at the implication. You’d think you’d gotten used to your robotic coworkers doing stuff you don’t understand. Another cultural difference, or the fact that they don’t have the same kind of squishy brain that you do. 

“You just keep doin’ your thing, and leave the rest to me. I’ll bring your voice back.” He tilts his helm in a facsimile of a wink and you’re left alone in the kitchenette.

The door swings shut with a final click, the steam in your cup blowing in the air movement. Exhausted from crying and trying to figure out what he’s got planned, you take a sip, and resolve to worry about it another time.

_______________

Days go by after the baffling moment with Bonnie in the kitchenette. It was cathartic, giving you a burst of energy to resolve yourself further into your happy mask, but the pressure continues to build like always and you quickly find yourself losing steam keeping it in place.

You’ve come early again–you told Moon and Sun last night that it was your terms for going home on time. You were hoping that they’d both meet you at the door when you came in, but there’s no recognizable shadow through the window of the staff entrance. Still, you walk through with a wish in your heart, and there isn’t a jester to be seen.

Instead, a StaffBot is waiting for you. One of the Procession bots, the ones with the little trumpets attached to the face. They have little flags on the ends, and sport a very handsome little vest in the colours of the Knights. This one in particular is a lovely shade of lilac.

“Hello,” you greet somewhat hesitantly. “Did you need my help with something? Has something happened?” 

The StaffBot is understandably silent, their design not capable of speech. You don’t even know why you asked the question in the first place, never expecting an answer, but you figure you should be polite and ask nonetheless.

It wheels at a sharp angle, now facing the opposite direction with its back to you. It wheels experimentally forward, tilting a head to look back and see if you’re following.

Intrigued, you have no choice but to follow. If something is wrong, then there’s only one way to find out.

As you walk, you find your mind wandering. What could be happening? Did one of their friends need help? You aren’t exactly a qualified technician, so if something is wrong you hope it’s just a misaligned wheel or something.

It leads you through the staff corridor, passing banners and holo flame torches and faux stone walls. The process is slow–slower than your usual walking speed, and the curiousness of the procession gives you a chance to observe your surroundings with care, both searching for a clue of what could be wrong and taking this time to appreciate the effort that went into building this castle.

The thought brings a smile to your face. It’s been a while since you’ve truly appreciated being here, in this weird and wonderful workplace. It makes your heart warm that you can call this place like a second home, even with all the drama that’s involved. It’s the home of your loves, your friends, and it’s pretty here. How many other people can boast that they work in a castle?

Another StaffBot waits at the end of the corridor, the one that leads into the atrium. This one is one of the Knight’s squires, a bonny blue capelet around its small shoulders. Its wheels spin in excitement as you both approach, and it causes your heart to pick up speed in anticipation as to what could be in the atrium.

But as you approach there’s…nothing. Just a Squire that’s happy to see you. You smile gently, trying not to let the disappointment show on your face, and greet the new StaffBot. To your continued confusion, this one merely joins you in your slow procession.

Through the atrium you pick up more StaffBots–the small robots seemingly spawning out of hidden corners and wheeling over to join your small group with the organisation of a swarm. It’s odd, though charming, and it feels a little bit like a parade. The smile that cracks through your face is genuine but small, and you attempt to greet everyone as they approach and join your group. It’s like you’re a queen bee and they are your loyal subjects.

They lead you away from the Arena, a direction that gives you brief pause. Instead, the parade turns in a wide circle and ventures down one of the lower corridors, the one leading in the direction of the Knight’s quarters. You haven’t spent a lot of time down here, but you trust that the StaffBots know where they’re going.

The last time you were down this far it was cold and dark–this time is infinitely more comfortable in terms of temperature. The spring warmth– real spring–means that you don’t see your breath down here, and the lights aren’t relying on limited generator power. The halls are instead brightly lit with torches, and feel cramped rather than endless and lonely.

Down down down you go, the ramp slanting downward into the depths of the castle. Small, familiar sparkles glint on the ground beneath your feet, the sand of the Pit crunching under your shoes.

The hallway takes a turn and an exit appears at the end. It’s dark, with something bright glinting in the distance. The entrance to the Pit. Curiosity wells and truly piqued, you keep your eyes glued and steady on.

The sound of wheels and crunching sand under tires grows softer as you approach the Pit, the flags on either side of the entrance still in their flapping. The light makes itself known as a spotlight in the centre of the arena, illuminating the sand and giving it a white glow. Your procession stops at the edge, many pairs of white optics trained on your tense form.

The lilac coloured trumpeter, your first StaffBot of the evening, extends his free hand, his simple digits outstretched. They’re less anatomically complex than their more advanced counterparts, but the gesture is clear–it’s asking for your bag.

You hand it over hesitantly. “Okay…” you start, your voice coming out a whisper automatically, the quiet air around you feeling tense and uncertain. You don’t know why, but it seems like it would be a shame to disrupt such peace. “But I want it back, okay? My thermos is in there.” 

Your happy trumpeter waves his flag, meaning what you’re unsure of, but you’ll hope it means an affirmative. Turning to thank your impromptu parade cohorts, you’re caught off guard when the moment you hand over your bag they’re all rushing forth into the arena, pulling you by their sheer numbers. You don’t even have a chance to sneak past them lest you risk a wheel going over your toe.

They steer you, herd you, towards the spotlight, practically pushing you towards the glittering centre. In your attempts to get a look around, the Pit seems empty. Why did they want to bring you here?

Your shoe enters the light, casting it in a white glow. Your leg follows, then your body, forcing you to squint as your eyes get used to the change in brightness. The StaffBots have all backed off to the edges of the barriers, the walls high above you. It’s hard to see anything with the light blazing above you.

Then, faintly, you hear a soft noise. A familiar one that you hear everyday. A brass note that holds and rings clearly through the arena. A singular trumpet plays a note of a tune you recognize.

You turn your head back towards the entrance, or wherever you think the entrance is. Its real direction is lost in the blaze of the spotlight. The rest of the Pit is so dark that you can’t see much of anything, the light blinding you to any real details. The sound of a single trumpet turns to two, and then more.

Music begins to swell inside the arena, a melody that you can feel beginning in your toes. A smile is fixed upon your face, a touching gesture by the StaffBots that you truly hadn’t expected. They’re performing for you–a happy, familiar melody. You open your mouth to thank them when a second, new instrument makes itself known from somewhere else in the room.

A gentle percussion, a rhythmic tapping resounds from the stands–echoing all around you. There’s a few off-beats, clearly a live performance of some kind, but it adds a complexity to the melody that makes you laugh aloud. 

There’s a gentle click high above you, and very soft lights begin to sparkle in the rafters, looking like stars twinkling in the night. The smallest of lights have illuminated in the gentlest setting, casting little light and looking more like a galaxy than theatre bulbs. It’s a magical sight, and your lungs intake a big breath. The melody grows in your chest, a warmth tingling up your legs and up your spine–your fingers clench with anticipation and elation.

For the first time in a long while, you breathe out a note just for you, a free note, and let it resound through the stands and crawl up the walls of the arena. 

You sing and you laugh and you sing, spinning the melody as if you were a seamster working their thread, coaxing colours and feeling into the air with the power of your mouth and lungs. The music works through you as if you were the instrument–an expertly tuned bag of wind that squeezes out harmonies directed by the gods themselves. You feel full, you feel light , you feel full to bursting. Your arms spread out to your sides and you belt out your highest note, holding the trill with all of your training and raw ability, a happy tear rolling down your cheek.

Somewhere in your singing the speakers add familiar strings to the melody, a lute recording no doubt from Moon’s own instrument. The sound is expert level, as you know it to be, and the heaviness in your heart lightens at the memory of singing with him. It’s tampered only a little by the sorrowful thought that it’s been so long since you sang together at all.

But your breath doesn’t stutter–your expertly trained vocal chords able to master multiple complex thoughts and singing at the same time. You hold your notes appropriately, spinning them when the tune allows it, and trill to your heart’s content. Your body spins with joy and contentment, it’s the first time in a long while you’ve been able to just feel , and if your shoes weren’t so full of sand they’d feel lighter than air.

It’s only when you hear a new instrument that you pause even a little, a foreign sound that doesn’t sound out of place, but you know can’t come from a recording.

A bell rings to your left, the barest sound of sand underfoot. The sound is musical but doesn’t fit the melody of the song, and while your singing doesn’t stutter, it grows remotely quieter as your solar love approaches.

Your body reflects the white spotlight onto his clothes–the shine of his bells reflecting like tiny suns in the darkness of the pit. A part of you wants to extend your hands to him, bring him close; the other wants to run to him and dance, but you do neither.

Instead, you stand like a doll in a music box under the spotlight and do what you do best. 

His expression is shrouded in the dark, his faceplate so high above the reflected light of the sand that it receives only the barest amount of illumination. His mood is a mystery, his hands loose at his sides. Sun stands immobile mere feet from where you sing.

But there is still joy in your heart. A smile quirks at the edge of your mouth on clear display for him to see, and you close your eyes and sing a little higher, a little sweeter. You lose yourself in the song once again and pretend that you’re not singing just for him. This performance has gained an audience of one, or so it seems.

_______________

Sun had read many fairy tales. He was familiar with the structure and the format of ‘once upon a time’ and he could recognize the reused assets from the stories that spanned the globe. He knew the difference between a myth and a legend and a folktale, and how in the original story Cinderella had gold shoes and not glass slippers.

He knew the dangers of monsters and men, and he knew the power that love had over both.

He knew a mermaid’s kiss could save a man’s life as easily as it could take it. He knew a siren’s song could ensnare hearts.

And yet, he followed his audials to the source of the sound with neither heart nor life, and allowed both to be taken.

He entered the arena with a question burning in his voice box and a query upon his brow, only to find an unending line of StaffBots lining the edges of the Pit like a wall, some holding trumpets and others merely standing. They all faced inward, pointing towards a north star they could not look away from. The music dulled his senses as his feet brought him down the stands towards the edge of the Pit, the wire only barely clicking into place as he narrowly stepped off the edge.

Out of the corner of his optics, he could spot the Knights crouched in the stands, each in their own section, barely recognizable as their colour blended them in with their similarly coloured surroundings. He was blind to their motive, drawn like a spell towards the figure standing in the Pit.

The Vocalist stood in the centre shining like a beacon, their simple clothes spun silver under the powerful light. They sang with their entire body, breath heaving and skin warming from the exertion. It was masterful to listen to–enchanting every cable that ran through his body. How could one tiny human create such music, such sound that made his pistons go weak? This was the sound that brought him to recognize what love truly was–this was the voice he fell in love with.

The wire brought him down to the Pit, the bells on the ends of his slippers ringing gently as he made contact with the sand. His optics burned forwards, stuttering slightly as the Vocalist turned to look at the source of the sound. Their voice petered off slightly, losing some momentum, before regaining its prior power. He was hostage to the voice, transfixed by the sound, and utterly obsessed with the figure of the singer.

Sun’s optics bored into every glittering sparkle on the Vocalist’s cheeks, the lights illuminating them like the brightest moonlight. It was as if they created their own light, sapped of colour, lashes fluttering against soft glowing cheeks.

He could see their throat vibrate with the chords his body could feel. They could somehow create this sound, this volume without the need of any robotic enhancement or speaker system. This was wholly them , and Sun was utterly transfixed.

A stray hair glittered under the light, loosened from their hair tie sometime during their boisterous singing. It fluttered around the sides of their face catching on the breaths expelled from the song, catching Sun’s optics in a snare around the fascination of their mouth.

Their lips, that in this light looked so soft. Their mouth and throat that looked so delicate and yet were capable of such power. His optics burned at the sight, his feet leading him forwards without his mind’s judgement.

The melody sang on, albeit slowing, and the closed eyes of his Sweetheart were lost in the music. He walked forward, stopping a hair’s breadth away from his little love, and cast a shadow over their form into the spotlight. If he had a heart, it’d be pounding.

With the light obscured overhead, the Vocalist opened their eyes, stars overhead glittering inside them. Twin lights pooled at the centre that Sun distantly realised were the reflection of his own optics, and they grew bigger in the reflection the longer he stood there.

The distant stars vanished, the twin suns casting a residual shadow over their open face. The obsession overtook him, his systems screaming and yet somehow silent, and he pressed downward unto his little love.

Soft soft lips met the edge of his grin. A gasp escaped that he swallowed down. His hands, that he didn’t realise were shaking, were grasped between two warm human hands, steadying his fearful trembles. His optics were wide, studying every texture, every pore of his human’s face, and he watched as a small tear formed and fell from the corner of their eye.

He was suddenly beyond consumed, suddenly hungry . He ripped his hands out of their grasp, no longer trembling, and grasped their head with the full width of his hands. His digits curled around the back of their skull, pressing into their head and pressing forward with all the strength he dared to allow. He pressed forward to feel more, to feel them more , suddenly starving for a sensation he barely knew.

A small squeak escaped his small love, the hands that were previously steadying his wrists thumbing the underside of his faceplate. The contact tingled where it lingered, sending sparks of energy through his cables until he was simultaneously full and yet wanting more .

His faceplate rotated, shifting in search of continuous new and ethereal sensation. It thrilled his senses, his consciousness lost in the surge of passion–any thought that this could be disgusting was thrown to the farthest reaches of his processor.

He didn’t need food nor air nor water, he just needed this . With hands poring over every inch of tingling gooseflesh, Sun couldn’t imagine wanting anything more. He offlined his optics to chase the sensation further, allowing him to focus on just touch . The music in the arena stopped, but it still sang in his core, resounding through every cable, every wire and internal component.

Their small squeaks turned to gasps, hands pressing against his chest plate and pushing. Reddened cheeks and wide eyes greeted him, their lips pink, puffy and glistening. He wanted to pull them back in. He didn’t want to stop . 

His small little love shook beneath his hands, their fingers splayed and flush against his cowl. Shock and love and joy spilled from their eyes, followed by a steady trickle of tears. 

His internals stuttered at the display, his memory banks surging with action to commit this sight to permanent memory. He wanted to say something, something meaningful to stop the flow of tears and calm their fluttering pulse, but the right words escaped him. Sun was left floundering under the spotlight like a fish out of water.

_______________

When the rabbit Knight asked Moon to bring his lute to the arena and play with ‘no questions asked’, Moon was immediately skeptical. But, with a stern look and a gesture to the puncture marks in the blue Knight’s armour, the lunar jester knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter. With what had gone down with the entire Princess is the Handler debacle, Moon knew he owed the Knights a great deal, especially when he left his love in their hands during what was no doubt a very traumatic episode.

So he grumbled his agreement, lamenting the fact that he would miss the Handler’s early arrival that day. Did it really have to be now ? Maybe if he cooperated, he could get it over with quickly and still have time to meet them. 

With every moment they were out of his sight, Moon was simultaneously relieved and concerned. Sure, there were no doubt dangers beyond the castle walls, but they were safe from any supposed dangers inside the castle when they left. His security protocols felt more oppressive than they previously had, triggered by the near-deadly events from a few months back, and Moon found it increasingly difficult to dismiss them.

So he resigned himself to the whims of his coworker, jingling miserably towards the arena and attaching to the wire without a complaint. Inwardly he grumbled, sending a grimace towards the rabbit, and sat on the edge of the platform. The Knight then left, returning briefly with the rest of the Knights, and they each took their places in the stands of their respective sections.

Moon wanted to ask what was going on, but his prior commitment of ‘no questions asked’ and the dimming of the overhead lights swallowed his inquiries. He didn’t have long to wait before a single spotlight lit up an empty space in the middle of the Pit, and the energy in the arena changed . 

It was so silent that Moon was sure his thoughts were audible. He hadn’t even been told what he was supposed to do, only sit here with his lute. Darkly, he mused that since he wasn’t explicitly asked to play any music, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was the rabbit’s fault for not clarifying. 

The space was quiet for a short time, until a small familiar voice tickling the edges of his audials somewhere far below him. Footsteps and the sound of many wheels grew louder, adding a bolt of curiosity to his impatient gaze. Faintly, he heard ‘I want it back, okay?’, the voice of his love far beneath him, entering from somewhere on the Pit level.

A slow trickle of StaffBots began to line the walls, interspersing trumpet processioners and squires in an organised pattern of colour. They turned and pushed the Handler, now entering Moon’s field of vision, towards the centre of the pit where the spotlight illuminated. They stepped into the light, hand covering their eyes to protect them from the brightness, before huffing a small sad sigh.

Moon wanted to rush down there and do something, but a sharp glance from the Knights kept him still. His debt was yet unpaid, and he still had no idea what he was doing here.

It took until the horns began playing a familiar melody that he realised the reason. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the Handler wasn’t happy–Moon had chalked it up to their recent near-death experience and assumed that they were scared , and he was happy to protect them in the ways he knew how. But his Songbird wasn’t a songbird if they didn’t sing.

He was also hesitant, oh so anxious, about Sun’s position in this new relationship. Did Moon have priority since he was the first to discover (and love) their true identity? He deliberated over it a lot, concluding that the best option would be to allow the Handler and his brother to find their own groove in the relationship first without his interference, and then they could find a comfortable balance. The fact that it had already been months with no improvement grated on Moon’s patience like rust between his joints, but he surrendered himself to their patience.

The Knights drew his attention by beginning a slow and steady percussion on the stands–Chica using the backs of chairs as a flat drum, Roxy using the base of her weapon as a singular drumstick, the remaining Knights finding new and creative ways to make sound. Moon even spotted the Invader flubbing his beat a few times, the innate musician within Moon coyly proud that this was another area where the jester was more skilled. 

Then his Songbird began to sing–a song spilling forth from their lungs that filled the entire arena with music. Percussion, winds, words–all that was missing was strings.

In his pride, he picked up his lute, no longer resigning himself to play, but choosing to play. His lute strings picked up the melody quickly, familiar notes spilling forth and merging seamlessly with the additional instruments. From his high placement, the strings sang in tandem with the voice of his love, welling up and filling every crevice with harmony. Moon fought and failed to keep a smile from his faceplate.

He played for a while, calm and content and oddly grateful to the Knights for organising this impromptu performance. It wasn’t until a motion in the corner of his optic caught his attention that he realised that wasn’t all they had planned.

Moon knew with innate familiarity the silhouette of his brother–the characteristic star shape of his jester rays bouncing with every step Sun took towards the Pit. Moon watched as he nearly toppled over the side, blue claws nearly stopping their plucking to race and catch his brother from falling, only noticing the wire at the last moment. It was only Moon’s professional skills as a musician and the heavy promise to Sir Bonnie that kept his fingers playing. Red optics blazed forward at the scene, leaning over the edge of the platform to get a better view.

The lunar brother watched his solar counterpart touch down on the sand next to the Songbird, their song only flitting slightly in recognition of their audience. He watched them close their eyes, starlight falling from their cheeks and continue to sing. 

Moon was entranced, his fingers playing automatically. A similar expression appeared on Sun’s faceplate–all consumed with a fierce obsession, his white optics burning forward with immense intensity. He watched Sun step forward towards the Songbird, hands outstretched, and felt a brief shard of panic as Sun leaned forward.

But instead–relief. Sun’s faceplate crashed down over their Songbird, swallowing the song down his perpetual smile. The trumpets stopped, the percussion slowed, and Moon’s own lute was silenced.

Satisfaction oozed from his brother, the golden bells of Sun’s rays shining under the spotlight. This was suddenly a very different scene, bursting with passion and reprieve. 

Moon hadn’t realised this is what he was waiting for–for his brother or the Handler to make their move and solidify their love without words. How long had Moon waited before they tumbled into their first kiss? He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised it took so long.

Quiet gasps and squeaks echoed out through the arena, bereft of any other noise. With the StaffBots and the Knights watching, Moon felt inextricably embarrassed even though he wasn’t the one participating in the performance.

His cables burned with renewed energy, his promise delivered. Without waiting another moment he called the wire and descended low onto the Pit, nearing the trembling Handler and his wide-eyed shaking brother.

With a swoop he tucked his arm underneath the Songbird’s torso and commanded the wire to ascend once again, pulling them into his chestplate and laughing loudly to alleviate some of the embarrassment. 

Pink ears parted from behind glittering strands of hair. Moon moved to further support the Handler as he ascended, and caught a glimpse of their wide expression and flushed skin.

“That’s enough of that,” Moon hollered down to the shape of his statuesque brother in the Pit, “it’s my turn with the Songbird now.” He grinned widely, showing his teeth. The Handler flushed further, their fingers fisting the fabric of his cowl. 

“Moon!” Sun yelled up from the Pit, “get down here ! I wasn’t done!”

Moon only laughed in response, tucking the Songbird higher and closer to his faceplate. With a spare hand, using the crook of his elbow to support their upper back, he cradled the Songbird’s chin upward to meet his own mouth. Playing his lover’s pulse like his favourite instrument.

With a firm press of teeth, Moon felt reinvigorated, recharged, re-energized.  The Handler pressed back, grasping the base of each of his twin tails with a tight fist, pulling him in deeper, adding their own strength to the kiss.

They floated around the arena on the wire lighter than air, pressing into each other and laughing amidst kisses. A few curious tears fell from the Handler’s eyes which were quickly soothed away, questions for another time. The Knights cheered and the Invader grumbled, sounds that were silenced by the passion roaring in his audials. Sun continued to holler demands from the sands, cartoonishly stamping his jingled feet and causing clouds to shroud his ankle joints.

Moon could only laugh and kiss and love, feeling free and content and whole . Sir Bonnie shouted a curious ‘you’re welcome!’ from his hidden spot in the stands that had the Vocalist chirp with surprise and cover their face with embarrassment at their unbeknownst audience.

He eventually landed on the royal platform, taking a seat on the throne with his Songbird cuddled into his lap. The wire detached and Moon knew it was only a matter of seconds before Sun would make his way up here.

Holding them close, Moon felt his pistons tighten with joy and elation.

Despite being created here, working at Castle Faz was always full of new experiences. Ones he’d get to experience with the people he loved. 

His red optics flickered down to the ruddy cheeks of his little human love and he sighed contentedly. Working at Castle Faz was weird. Finding love there was like a fairytale.

THE END