𝔹𝕖𝕖𝔾𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕩 𝔽!ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟝: 𝔹𝕖𝕖𝕓𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕝𝕪 𝔾𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕥

Now it makes sense that he never stops crying.

⚠️Swearing, mention of death, mention of anxiety, implied past self harm

"So...where do we go now?" the ghost asks, turning towards me. "First, we return Kyle's book. It has so much sensitive information that would be terrible in the wrong hands," I explain, walking into the village. It was a side entrance that only guards and those working directly with the government could use. I actually used to like order and rules, but ever since life fucked with my friend, I've hated those who rule with an iron fist. Why have so much power if you aren't going to use it to protect those who've helped you from the start?

He nods. He's never been much of a talker but even he'd still try to keep a conversation going so it wouldn't be silent. Roy's never liked silence. But I guess the undead fellow floating next to me isn't the best friend I remember. "Hey. Beebo," I say. He perks up and looks at me expectantly. I knew it. He's always loved that cute little nickname. "How do you feel about Kyle?" Might as well keep a conversation going, while learning more about this new husk of a man.

"Well..." he starts. "From what I can remember, they are a rather timid goat. Always just followed orders. And was really meek. Though he was very strict and reliable when it came to emergencies. I like them, they had their priorities straight." Huh. Weird. He used to hate Kyle, mostly because they became president after Toast died (long story).

"Huh. Okay...Uh what about--" I try to question but am immediately interrupted by a commotion. By now, I was already inside but it seemed they were loud enough to get to me. I take a peak out one of the windows. Seems to be a very angry mob. While small, they could probably kick some ass. I'm guessing it's about the books. "Roy-- I mean-- Toby. We need to get those books back ASAP," I state firmly, turning to look at him. "O-oh uhm okay. What...do you need me to do?" he questions me, turning upside down but still looking at me, floating in the air. He reminds me of a golden retriever for some reason.

"I'll tell you whose books they are, and your job is to float them back into their houses without catching attention from anyone."

[Time skip because I'm lazy LMAO]

"Good job, Beebo," I smile, patting him on the head. He...

He purrs.

I'm sorry?

He hums, pushing his head against my hand. "Thank youuuu," he states sluggishly yet happily. The mob was still there, though they seem to have died down a bit. I think Toby did a little too well keeping the books hidden. Well whatever. Hopefully they notice their books are back once they go back to their places.

"Y-yeah," is all I could say.

(A/N: I'm curious. Do you consider Beeboo to be a dogboy or catboy?)

"What now, rose?" he asks me, turning back around so he wasn't upside down. "...What did you call me?" I ask. It sounds hostile, but I'm more confused than anything. "Oh. S-sorry it's just...you remind me of a rose. I...I won't call you that if you...don't want me to..." he explains rather sheepishly, looking ashamed. "Nah it's fine, call me what you want. I was just confused, don't worry, I'm not mad," I giggle. He looks up at me in surprise. What? Did I say something?

He floats away, but not before adding, "Your laugh is like a music box. I could listen to it all day."

LJHFDLSJFGSDLGHSALSJFHLKFJAHDSDGDLHAFLADJFB?????

I just stand there, flustered and caught off-guard. HOW CAN HE GET AWAY WITH SAYING THIS SHIT???

I compose myself and turn to face him, but he was already floating away. "HEY!!" I yell, running to catch up with him. "Ah sorry! I must have spaced out again," Beebo laughs nervously, scratching his neck. He's always had the habit of scratching at himself when he was even slightly anxious. Got so bad that it left him with scars and lots of blood. I curiously study him some more to see if he still has scars. He has a huge gash on the bridge of his nose and less noticeable ones on both of his lips. Unfortunately, his sweater is oversized and covering his hands so I can't tell if the scars from his arms are there still. Let's hope not. He's always loved them. So much so that he had to make more.