Shadow Milk Cookie wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten here.

Or how long he’d been here.

Sometime after his defeat, Shadow Milk had, well. . . plummeted. He had slinked away and tucked himself into the darkness like a stray kitten hiding in the corner of an alleyway. Not even his own envy and raw fury could drive him anymore. That defeat, that one little word—

Friend.

He’d been completely crushed.

And, apparently, that’s how you ended up waking up one morning to a drunk-out-of-his-mind, twinkified jester watching you sleep.

Now, after you got dressed, he was sprawled across your bed with his head in your lap while you brushed his hair. Shadow Milk Cookie looked up at you and giggled like an idiot, lazily raising a hand to point at you.

“You. . should be a museum,” Shadow Milk remarked. “Y’look like a painting from’th. . rain-a-sauce.”

“Rainen. . sunce. Ressasiance,” The Beast attempted twice more. You laughed softly. You had excepted a ‘Because you’re old as shit’-type joke.

“The renaissance?” You guessed.

“Mmh. . y’h,” Shadow Milk Cookie mumbled.