Before The Bet Fanzine @grimmyweek - Tumblr Blog

Goodnight Sun, Mister Moon, and Pinkie Swears // A Date With Death

A Date With Death Before the Bet Fanzine Story Entry

Characters: Azrael, Casper/Grim (A Date With Death)

Summary: You are the plushie of an axolotl. Loved.

Content: No ships because you are a whole-ass plushie; second-person pov (because I don't know how to write in first person anymore i aint gon lie); Of course I find a way to incorporate sun and moon symbolism; Angst with comfort; I SWEAR TO GOD I WROTE THIS BEFORE THAT SPECIFIC CHAPTER FROM THE OFFICIAL WEBTOON CAME OUT PLEASE DON'T COME FOR MY NECK I HAVE RECEIPTS

From Mayaree: I can't believe I finally get to share this with you all! For those who didn't see, I joined @grimmyweek's A Date With Death: Before the Bet Fanzine as one of the writers. After patiently waiting, the fanzine is officially out and I have the go ahead to share my work! Check out the others' work, too, because omfg everyone was phenomenal: A Date With Death: Before the Bet Fanzine

You are the plushie of an axolotl on a shelf.

There’s a tag on your arm that says “Take me home and love me lots!” Your name is written at the bottom, but it does not matter. Especially when next to you are other “you’s” that have the same name.

So many of you, and yet a hand closes around your arm.

“I want him.”

You’ve seen how other children hold on to others like you – dragged and tossed and tugged between.

You expect the same from the child as he pulls you free from the very back of the shelf. And yet when you’re in his arms, he hugs you close to his chest, ensuring your arms aren’t pinned to your sides.

His grin is like the sunlight that enters through the store window as he presses you closer. He could be the sun himself. “We’ll be best friends forever!”

He reads the card on your arm but instead of calling your name, he cuts the card off and gives you a new name. One that is for you.

You are the plushie of an axolotl with a new name.

Days fly by and so do months. In complete bliss. Through rainy days and sunny skies. The boy holds you, to his chest, or your small hand in his as you play.

The name he gives you feels like a promise. He tries to pinky swear with you, a lot of times, because of a lot of big and small things. But he’s unable to properly wrap his tiny finger with your stubby arms, and you are unable to curl around his.

Was that why it was so easy for them to slip by you?

Your friend had built such a wonderful dream. But it ends as you find yourselves stuck to a bed in a colorless room.

“Azrael,” his voice is not the blinding joy you are used to, the smile on his face no longer the same sun. “Thanks for being here.”

You hold his hand best you can when he squeezes it, the doctor talking to his parents outside the room. He brushes your little head, soft smile frozen as you both hear someone weep.

You are the plushie of an axolotl, meant to stay beside your friend, your sun, who was forced to grow up too soon.

Days fly by, months fly by. In a blissful dream. Through the rain and sun out the window. The boy holds you, to his chest, your hand always in his. When you both lie down to sleep, he curls his pinky finger around yours. Like a prayer shared between you.

One evening, the moon high up, a raven sits on the windowsill.

You and the child watch the bird, hand in hand, and finally your friend speaks.

“Are you here for me?” You and the child once read in a book how fear feels, but you don't understand. It says blood grows cold, your heart seems to stop; you do not have either of those – but your friend says it’s true.

You both watch as the bird turns into a man. He holds a staff shaped like a crescent, his hair the color of the moon.

“Yes.” His voice is quiet.

The moon has come to take the sun.

Your friend rubs your hand in his – to comfort you or himself, you’re not sure. But you’re together, and that’s enough. Your friend smiles at you, and for what felt like months, you feel like the sun has peaked past a cloudy sky. He turns to the man: “Okay.”

The man blinks owlishly and doesn’t say anything for a while, before finally, “I’m sorry.” You know he means it.

Your friend is smiling when he shakes his head. Your friend is smiling when he looks back at you. He smiles as he squeezes your arm with his pinky.

A promise. A prayer.

He pulls you away from his chest and holds your arm out to the man. The man stares at you, and then him, and then back to you.

“Mister, this is Azrael. He’s my best friend,” he waves your little arm, introduces you like he was talking to someone familiar. He introduces you like the moon had not come to take him. “He says hello.”

The man blinks once more before he takes out a hand and holds yours lightly, giving it a soft shake. You do not have to look to know there’s a smile on your friend’s face, “What’s your name, mister?”

The blank look on his face twists into something. Uncomfortable. Confused. Sad. “I don’t have one.”

The sunlight in your friend’s voice doesn’t falter. The very sound of it feels like a warm breeze. “When you have one, tell it to Azrael, alright?”

You watch the man frown ever so slightly, but he nods.

And then you feel it.

Your friend’s hold on you loosens. The man feels it too, because his eyes widen and he holds your arm firmly to make sure you do not fall.

You are reminded of an old shelf. The sun doesn’t disappear from your friend’s voice.

“When you take me away, can he come with you?”

The man flinches, red eyes filled with something odd. “I… can’t do that.”

But your friend laughs like a summer breeze.

“I promise he’s good! He’s the best! We play and talk for hours and hours. He’s my bestest friend,” But then he pauses, and you feel the clouds rolling in once more, ever so slowly. His grip on you loosens ever so slightly, and the moon holds on tighter. “I… just don’t want him to be lonely.”

A silence takes over the room. The man stares at your friend before he looks at you. Finally, he takes his crescent staff and leans it on a wall. He comes closer and bows down, holding you up in his arms. As he raises you to his height, you feel it – a pinky curled around your little arm.

“You’ll take care of him, won’t you, mister?” the sun doesn’t let go.

A pause. “Yes.”

A promise.

“Hear that, Azrael? He promises to take good care of you.” You feel the finger slip off of your arm. “So be good, too, okay?”

The moon holds you close to his chest, making sure not to strangle your arms. Without further delay, he shifts you so you’re facing your friend. Seeing this, your friend grins like a breaking dawn. The moon breathes sharply before guiding a hand to your head and making you nod.

Your sun laughs. “You’re gonna be the bestest of friends, too!”

You feel the moon stiffly nod. Finally, he picks up his crescent staff. You watch his grip on it tighten and loosen over and over, agitated. He only stops when he hears rustling.

Your friend is getting ready to go to bed. He shifts around, getting settled in. Under the moonlight coming through the window, his weary eyes continue to shine like stars, just as far away.

“Goodnight Azrael,” he yawns, eyelids heavy. You miss the feeling of a pinky swear. “Goodnight Mister. Can you… sing me a lullaby?”

There’s hesitation. “Goodnight,” the moon says, his voice small. He pauses, and then he hums. A soft tune. You feel it’s the kind of song you would hear in the morning as summer break ends. When your friend’s breathing slows, the man stops. “Sweet dreams.”

The crescent is raised. The sun sets.

Maybe the book was wrong. The blood did go cold. The heart did stop. And yet you don’t think the sun felt fear.

The moon looks at your friend and then turns you around, staring at you in the eyes. At this moment, you do not see the moon.

Red eyes are dull like the night sky. Holding you close, he steps out of the window and back into the dark. The moon is hidden behind thick clouds.

You are the plushie of an axolotl, far away from the sun.

When he brings you home, it’s like both of you are in a stranger’s house. The man stands at the door for a while, lost. He stops as he goes to remove his shoes, and lifts you up to his face, almost like he just remembered you’re there. He blinks a few times, eyes still dull, before finally giving up and trudging further inside.

Before you know it, you’re in his room. It’s more spacious than the room you shared with your friend, with all sorts of posters and knick-knacks, but you can’t help but feel it’s… empty.

Wordlessly, the man lays you down on the bed and sits on a chair. A sigh leaves his lips, one that carries the weight on his shoulders. He leans back, staring at the ceiling for a while before he heads to the bed.

The man sits and holds you up. He squishes at your cheeks, pats your head. And then he stops.

At first there was one, and then two, and then you couldn’t count anymore. Not because your friend didn’t teach you how, but because they just kept on coming. Kept on flowing.

The moon cries, and a part of you feels like this was the fear missing from your friend. The blood goes cold, the heart stops, but what comes after?

“I’m sorry.” His voice is small. His voice is broken.

You try to reach for his hand, but your arms cannot.

You are the plushie of an axolotl far away from the sun, even farther away from the moon.

He does not show you around your new home. Instead, you find yourself on a shelf above his bed.

Days and months fly by, at least you think so. In complete silence. Sometimes you hear the rain, but the sun is gone here like it is for you. The moon does not hold you close. Your new home is a place that is shrouded in night and it makes you miss your sun all the more. You dream of laughter that lights up a cloudless sky.

You have not heard your name in a long time.

Sometimes, when the man comes home, his eyes find their way to you. He lies down on his bed and watches, red eyes a stormy night. Always deep in thought. It never lasts long though. Eventually he gets up and exits the room and again you are alone.

Until one day he comes back in a rush, breathing hard. He paces around the room, long hair a tangled mess. He swallows down what feels like a scream. The moon curls up into a ball on his bed, trying to ground himself. As his eyes erratically move around the room, he finds you. There’s a pause before he gets up and all but stumbles to your shelf.

You feel his hand enclose around your arm and you make a pinky swear for the both of you as he holds you close.

This time, a prayer. You think the moon is lost without a sun, too.

Finally, with gulps in between, he whispers. “I don’t have a name.”

You do not answer. And it did not seem like the moon was asking for one. Not quite. He pulls you away from his chest and holds you to eye level. You wonder if he sees your sun as he looks at you. You wonder if that’s who he wants to talk to.

“I don’t have a name,” he repeats, red eyes bloodshot. “And that scares me.”

He forces to control his breathing bit by bit, eyes trained on you the whole time. The moon pulls you in again, trembling hands patting your head, rubbing your arm over and over like a thousand prayers.

“Your name is Azrael. Right, that’s what he said.” he says, voice soft. Still small, still a little broken. “You’re very lucky to have one. It’s a great name. It’s perfect for you.”

He pauses. “He said you talked for hours together. Do you mind listening to me, too?”

You can’t tell the time without the sun, but you have all the time in the world as you listen to the moon. He tells you of the days and months that slip by him. Bliss is a rarity to be found in his work, but he tries to hold on best he can. Through rainy days that plague him and sunny days lost upon him, he collects more suns than he could count. He squeezes you closer, unconsciously holding on to one of your arms. In the end, he sighs.

“What am I doing? Talking to a plushie,” the moon laughs and you think that this is what they meant when it reflects the sun. He rubs your head, and then laughs a little more. “Maybe I should have asked him for a name, too.”

After that, you don’t return to the shelf. Never again. You’re carefully set on the bed. Always waiting for him to come home.

He tells you more and more stories and you watch as the clouds slowly clear from his eyes. It’s slow, not completely, but it happens. Red eyes glowing like soft moonlight as he recounts new things he’s learned, small things he’s tried. One of them is sewing.

He sews your name on your little foot. A promise.

The moon smiles like the sun at his handiwork. But there’s something behind his eyes. You know there’s something missing.

One day, he comes bursting into the room, and when his eyes lock on you, you feel like your sun is back, his face lit up. He props you up on a pillow and kneels in front of you. He clears his throat, and for a moment hesitates, before he starts.

“I promised him I’d tell you, so-”

“My name is Casper,” his voice is a whisper. Before he clears his throat and repeats it louder. “What do you think?”

The smile on your face has always been there, but you hope he feels the warmth your sun has given you in them.

“Now we both have one,” he laughs like sunlight, pinky wrapping around your arm.

A pair of arms hold you close and you don’t miss the grin on Casper’s face. You remember your tiny sun that once held you, and while he had held you in his warmth, the moon holds you with peace in your hearts.

Casper. What a lovely name, one born of building and finding one’s self. It was his.

Azrael. You feel the stitches of your name on your little leg, not like the piece of paper with a name shared with a thousand others. This was yours, given to you by the sun, kept by the moon.

Casper and Azrael. A pair of the bestest of friends. You know your sun would have thought so, too.

You are a plushie of an axolotl, loved by the sun and moon.

From Mayaree: Don't forget to check out the full fanzine! Mwah love yall <3

🌙 Disclaimer: Characters are not mine and belong to their respective creators. Their portrayal is merely my own interpretation of them and may not be accurate to their intended characterization. I stake no claim to the original works, only to the ideas and plot of the fictitious stories I’ve written them into.

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