Chapter Text
Beep…beep…beep.
The heart monitor’s rhythmic beeping grates against his ears as Sprout’s fingers fly across the screen of his phone.
"Let's go," the message reads, concise but urgent.
Sprout takes a deep breath, straining to hear any footsteps echoing outside his door. Silence.
This is stupid.
Sprout stares at the heart monitor, its rhythmic beeping matching the unease building in his chest. His fingers hover over the phone in his lap, the words "Let's go" glaring back at him from the screen.
For a moment, he hesitates. Maybe—just maybe—he should reconsider. Go back to lying down, let the machines do their job, let the hospital keep him tethered. What am I even doing?
His heart beats harder, faster, like it’s trying to drown out his doubts. The monitor beeps more insistently, almost accusingly. Sprout grips the phone tighter, his free hand curling into the fabric of his hospital gown.
This is stupid. The thought circles back, nagging him, giving him second thoughts. But the longer he sits there, the more his resolve solidifies. With every pulse of his heart, it feels like his body is trying to remind him of something he’s been denying—something desperate, raw.
The thought shifts, twisting itself into something sharper: If I stay, nothing changes. If I go, at least I tried.
He exhales sharply, pressing send on the message: “I'll be there.” There’s no turning back now.
He swings his legs off the bed, his body trembling slightly. He reaches for a pair of hospital slippers at the bedside and slips them on with quiet precision. His hospital gown rustles as he stands, its loose fit doing little to muffle his nerves. The wires and tubes tug uncomfortably at his skin, but he doesn’t bother to untangle them just yet.
He waits a few more seconds, counting in his head.
With one sharp motion, he rips the needles and sensors off his body. An alarm wails almost instantly, shrill and unrelenting. His heart skips a beat—of course there’s an alarm.
Sprout grabs a jacket—Cosmo's—from the nearby chair, slipping it over the hospital gown. The fabric hangs awkwardly, but he doesn’t care.
Swinging the door open, he darts into the hallway, the sound of the alarm chasing him. The slippers slap softly against the linoleum floor as he moves, his breaths shallow and frantic. There’s no time to hesitate.
Sprout stumbles into the hallway, the blaring alarm echoing in his ears. His hand flies to his mouth as he suppresses a hacking cough, his body trembling with the effort. He knows even a single noise could give him away.
He glances down the corridor, adrenaline sharpening his focus. Footsteps. Rushed and frantic, nurses are already responding to the alarm. Sprout’s heart pounds as he ducks into a shadowy alcove beside a supply closet, pressing his back against the cold wall. He grips the fabric of his hospital gown tightly, holding his breath as the nurses rush past, their voices urgent and clipped.
"Check Room 217!"
"—move quickly!"
Sprout waits, frozen, until the sound of their steps fades. He risks a peek from his hiding spot. The hallway is momentarily clear, but he knows security will be next.
He keeps moving, the soft slap of his hospital slippers against the floor barely audible. A sharp turn down another corridor reveals a security guard standing near the elevators. Sprout’s heart skips a beat, and he quickly retreats, slipping into an empty patient room. He crouches low, his body hidden beneath the hospital bed as the guard’s radio crackles nearby.
Sprout clenches his jaw, waiting until the guard moves further down the hall. Once the coast is clear, he crawls out, his muscles burning from the effort.
He picks up his pace, his legs unsteady but determined. It’s been so long since he’s stretched them like this, and every stride feels foreign yet liberating. Free. The thought surges through him like a jolt of electricity. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he’s not confined to a bed, not tethered to machines monitoring every failing breath.
He laughs under his breath—quiet, manic, and tinged with disbelief. He’s done it.
This is stupid. I’m stupid.
But even as the alarms blare, the smoky air hits his senses, the cold pricks at his skin, and the looming threat of being caught hangs over him, he can’t help but feel alive.
Dandy watches Cosmo's reaction. "You should've seen what he looked like when we finally met. He's still wearing that hospital gown, but thank god he had on some pants. Here's the kicker, though—he also stole someone's jacket because it obviously never fit him."
Cosmo hasn’t seen Sprout’s body yet, but he can feel himself boiling over with anger at the insensitivity.
"Did... did you—?"
"I'm not a murderer, come on, Cosmo. You're smart, right?" Dandy keeps his distance, wary of Cosmo's hostile posture. "He ran away from the hospital. He was already dying. I just... watched, I guess—?!"
Before he can finish, Cosmo pounces on him. One hand grabs Dandy's neck as gravity pulls them both deeper into the cellar.
They tumble, fists flying as they punch and struggle. Cosmo’s body slams into the stairs, but he ignores the ache, his anger dulling the pain.
“You bastard!” Cosmo screams, his throat raw, wrestling Dandy with all his fury. “Why would you even let a dying man come in here?!”
Dandy coughs, choking on his own spit. He kicks Cosmo between the legs, knocking him off balance, and rolls him over. “How the fuck would I know he’s a hospital patient when he ran to me?!”
“You could’ve called the hospital!” Cosmo grits out, pushing through the pain.
Dandy sneers, a twisted smile curling his lips. "I'm not his damn babysitter," he spits, his voice harsh and laced with bitterness. "He made his choices, and who am I to deny that?"
With that, he throws a wild punch, landing square on Cosmo’s jaw with a sickening crack.
Cosmo’s head whips to the side from the force of the blow, but he doesn’t falter. His rage ignites, a fire that only grows fiercer. Moving without thought, his fist connects with Dandy’s eye, and in a fluid motion, he grabs Dandy’s wrist with an unbreakable grip. Cosmo twists Dandy’s arm behind his back, forcing him to the ground with a sharp yelp of pain.
He leans in, pressing his knee into Dandy’s spine, as he hisses, “You should’ve cared! You should’ve done something!”
Dandy’s breath is ragged, but he manages to grin through the pain, his voice dark and threatening. “And what? Be a hero?” He scoffs, bitterness dripping from his words. “I’m not in this hellhole of manor for that. I’m here for myself, same as everyone else.”
Cosmo snarls, pressing harder on Dandy’s arm. “What in the world do you mean, ‘same as everyone else’?”
With a burst of strength, Dandy kicks out, sending Cosmo sprawling backward. Cosmo feels a sharp, dull pain stab into his side, enough to steal his breath. Gritting his teeth, he pushes through it. The two scramble to their feet, their hands grabbing, pushing, and shoving, each struggling to overpower the other.
“By everyone, I mean all the ghosts in this damn manor,” Dandy pressed on every word, “Everyone in this place has been through some shit.” He grits his teeth. “I’ve got no blood on my hands. They all did this to themselves and died in the process! Only I lasted this long!”
Dandy pushes Cosmo hard, slamming him into the wall, his head thudding against the hard surface. Cosmo yelps at the ache, fluid dripping down his neck. Whether it's blood or sweat, he can no longer discern.
Dandy leans in closer, his hand gripping the fabric of Cosmo’s chest, his presence imposing as he takes advantage of Cosmo’s shocked state. His voice drops low and ragged, the words spilling out with urgency. “No one tells you this—they like to gatekeep.”
Dandy pauses for a moment, eyes narrowing, then leans in even closer, his breath hot against Cosmo’s ear as he whispers, “But everyone who comes into this manor has a wish. Ever heard of the Ichor on the news?”
Cosmo's legs falter, his body wavering slightly, but Dandy's grip and the support of the wall keep him upright. The dizziness is overwhelming, his head pounding from the impact with the wall. His vision blurs, and he feels a wave of lightheadedness wash over him, threatening to send him crashing to the ground.
As he scrambles to steady himself, his foot strikes something solid beneath him. He refuses to look down, too terrified to even imagine what it could be.
"...Ichor?" he mutters, his voice shaky, confusion and disbelief seeping into his words.
"Come on, you can't be living under a rock!" Dandy scoffs, shaking Cosmo with the hand holding him. The motion almost made Cosmo throw up.
"Sprout told me you're basically on your phone all the time!" When Cosmo doesn't respond, Dandy uses his free hand to gesture around the room, as if the answer should be obvious. "The black gooey stuff. Blood from the gods, they said. It can grant you one wish and it resides on this very manor."
"Ichor...?" Cosmo repeats, his voice barely a whisper, his mind struggling to process the absurdity of it all. He can't quite grasp what Dandy is saying, the words feeling like they slip through his fingers. His head feels too heavy to lift, weighed down by the confusion and the pounding in his skull.
Of course. Ichor. It’s been all over the news for one day, and then—poof—every trace of it disappears like it never existed. Whispers of it remain—fragments of fear, of speculation—but the facts? Gone. Erased, as if someone decided it was too dangerous for the world to know.
"Yeah," Dandy says, eyeing Cosmo with a crooked grin. Though it withers every second Cosmo continues on being silent. "Like the stuff you're eating and drinking from breakfast to dinner in this very manor." He pauses for a moment, "We're on the same boat. I've been eating that stuff too, but hey, what else am I going to eat here, other than spiders and dust bunnies?"
Cosmo stands there, staring at Dandy in stunned silence.
“Don’t look at me like I did it,” Dandy sneers, shoving Cosmo back once more, his voice dripping with irritation. Cosmo gasps at the impact. “It's not my fucking fault your dead boyfriend and I were stupid enough to get ourselves trapped here.”
Dandy's voice shakes briefly, but he quickly composes himself. "It's also not my fucking fault you and the others are trapped and dying. Don’t go pointing your finger when there’s no one to blame.”
Cosmo’s knees give in, and he collapses to the ground, breathing heavily as he struggles to sit upright. His hands scramble to hold onto something. “You should’ve… worded it better, then,” he mutters, his voice strained. He lets out a hacking cough, wiping at his mouth before continuing, “Maybe it would’ve saved you a black eye.”
Dandy watches as Cosmo struggles to keep his eyes open, his chest heaving with the effort. A series of wet, hacking coughs wrack his body, and black liquid dribbles from the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin like ink.
Dandy glances from Cosmo's bleeding torso then up at the spot where Cosmo hit his head, his expression tightening as he notices the absurd amount of blood smeared across the surface. He silently winces, the sight making his irritation bubble further. Clicking his tongue, he digs into his pocket and retrieves a crumpled handkerchief, tossing it unceremoniously onto Cosmo's lap.
“We don’t have medicine in this place. Disinfectant, too,” Dandy mutters, his voice clipped and sharp, devoid of softness. Cosmo doubts there’s any space for concern in the tone. “It’s better for you to just turn into a ghost.”
Dandy can almost count how many times he’s said that to the unlucky ones who’ve found themselves trapped in this manor. It’s a script he’s repeated so often that it feels rehearsed, the weight of the words eroding with time. What’s shocking, even to him, is how casually death slips into conversation now—like it’s just another piece of furniture in the room, another shadow flickering in the corner of his eye.
Cosmo glares at him, defiance gleaming in his eyes as he grabs the handkerchief. He spits on it, the viscous black liquid seeping into the fabric and spreading like ink on parchment. The silence that follows feels almost louder than the words they’ve exchanged, thick with unspoken anger and resignation.
It might have been an intimidating gesture, one full of defiance, if not for the tears streaming down Cosmo's face. Heavy and relentless, they betray him, cutting through whatever shred of dignity he’s trying to cling to.
Dandy’s lips twitch, as if he’s torn between scowling and sighing. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he mutters, his voice carrying a faint edge of something that might almost be pity,
With a sharp exhale, he turns his back and begins climbing back up from the cellar. “We’re trapped here. Indefinitely. Killing yourself won’t do anything, to be honest. Vee tried it, but look where she is now.”
“Dandy, wait,” Cosmo croaks out, his voice thick and gagging with the bile rising in his throat.
Dandy pauses at the sound, his shoulders tensing. With a resigned sigh, he turns his head to glance back, his expression unreadable. But it's almost as if he can no longer bear to look at Cosmo.
He waits, silent, as Cosmo struggles to find his footing—both in his words and his resolve.
“What is it?” Dandy grumbles. “Come on, I’m tired. I’ve been saying the same words to the people who come to the manor, like a mouse to a cheese trap.” He shrugs. “If your little boyfriend sees us, he’ll punch me to the moon with his twig arms.”
Cosmo attempts to swallow whatever liquid is stuck in his throat, practically drowning in the process. He spits a little, his words barely coming out. “Is there a reason why everyone's memories are stuck in the past? Like, it’s not even their memory...”
Dandy decides to eye the cobwebs in the ceiling as he ponders, then grins. "Maybe it's to stop them from warning the newcomers..." He barks a laugh, a painful cracking sound that hurts his throat. "Shit, whoever made this Ichor bullshit really loves to torment people."
"..."
Dandy straightens his face when Cosmo offers no response. "Cosmo?"
"..."
Dandy winces, his legs tensing, ready to flee.
"...Coward," Cosmo coughs into his hand, his voice weak. "You can't even look me in the eye."
"Oh, so we're doing jokes now?" Dandy retorts, still refusing to meet his gaze.
"I hope for more years in your life," Cosmo murmurs, closing his eyes. His voice is frail, barely a breath. "It's what you're good at—telling them the truth, and then pushing them into a cellar." he coughs again, struggling for air, "Pray that I forget what you did to me."
Dandy stills, his breath catching for a moment before his shoulders sink into something resembling ease. The tension that had coiled in his muscles releases, though not entirely. It’s been two years since he started wandering through these haunted places, two years of brushing shoulders with the forgotten and the restless.
At this point, he’s almost desensitized to it. The way shadows seem to shift on their own, the whispers that curl at the edges of his hearing, the feeling of being watched—it’s all routine now, part of the backdrop of his life.
Sometimes, though, he wonders if he’s become more like them than he realizes. A ghost in his own right—drifting through empty halls, unacknowledged, untethered. A presence without substance, a life without a home. It’s hard to tell where the living ends and the haunting begins.
Dandy takes one last step toward the exit.
Cosmo whispers, though Dandy still hears, "Goodnight. I hope you sleep well after this, bastard."
"Don't kid yourself," Dandy says, his tone flat. "I never had a wink ever since." And with that, he turns, leaving Cosmo to wrestle with his own body shutting down on blood loss.
Dandy steps out of the cellar, quickly checking his clothes for any stains. He fixes himself with a careful precision, then takes a deep, steadying breath. There's a faint scent of dust and earth that clings to his clothes, but it doesn't matter. It’s the least of his concerns.
Dandy didn’t bother to close the cellar door. He knows there’s someone waiting. Someone who was always waiting.
A ghost rushes past him—through him. The coldness is sharp and invasive, like frost seeping into his bones, a sensation that lingers on his skin like it’s trying to claim him. He turns instinctively, eyes catching a glimpse of a familiar tuft of leaves. It’s Sprout, the man of the hour, floating with urgency, his body drawn tight, his eyes darting nervously, scanning every shadowed corner as though searching for something—or someone. His movements are charged with purpose, as though the ticking of time is slipping away faster than he can hold onto it, and every step is one closer to something inevitable.
Dandy’s gaze lingers for a moment, watching as the figure fades into the dark recesses of the cellar. A part of him recoils at the sight of Sprout’s face, a face almost full of joy—joy, of all things—for someone whose spouse is bleeding to death not far from here. It’s unsettling, that look. Almost unearthly. And yet, it’s something Dandy has come to expect from him.
He pauses, his fingers brushing against the worn fabric of his sleeve, grounding himself in something real, something tangible amidst the chaos of the manor’s ghostly whispers. The distant echoes of celebration begin to fade, as though the manor itself is rejecting the sounds of life. The walls, once warm with the hum of life, now seem to recoil into an uncomfortable silence, pulling inward like a breath held too long. It doesn’t feel like an occasion anymore. It feels like a memory slipping through his fingers, fading into something forgotten.
Dandy hears a bell ring—a sound he’s never heard before. It reverberates through the empty corridors, hollow and haunting. Midnight, perhaps.
It seems the grooms are late to their own wedding. The irony isn’t lost on him.
“Look at you, Sprout,” Dandy sneers, though the person he’s speaking to is no longer in the room. “Like a dog with a new chew toy.”
At least Sprout got his wish.
Dandy lets out a shallow laugh, its sound hollow and eerie in the vast stillness of the halls. He doesn’t quicken his pace, though. Instead, he drifts lazily toward his assigned bedroom, footsteps soft and deliberate against the polished floor, the rhythm of them familiar and unhurried. He doesn’t bother going to the wedding. He doubts he’s invited, anyway.
Bonus art
