Waxwell - 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓰𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓮𝓻

Floor 79

By this point, Waxwell wasn't trying to battle with his somewhat horrendous stamina (fixed by Dyle's card thankfully), rather with his boredom to that of looping twisteds over and over. The other Toons had learnt to go through another way were they to be the same stealth as his, for he was hissing every time he had to weave through multiple of those ichor-induced bastards that was accidently taken away by his 'peers'.

He'd perk at the sound of each machine chiming across the map, its 'dink!' echoing softly like a countdown straight to the elevator. Sporting Dog Plush and Train Whistle made the whole ordeal easier whilst his teammates scattered to the elevator like assembling ants as panic mode began, his boots squeaked but a bit as he lazily dragged his feet to the elevator.

Gift Shop map—one of those weirdly tight-fitted map with scattered structures all over, much like FourCorner. This time, there was no twisted Pebble thankfully. His not-so-biggest threat was merely some others, only including two mains of twisted Vee and Astro.

Finding a perfect spot to kite, Waxwell saw {{user}} extracting a machine nearby and formed a mischievous plan in mind, all the while circling the twisteds behind him as if by instinct. They were hardly sating his boredom—and besides, there was a healer in the run—and decided {{user}}, a presumably oblivious, was worth experiencing his 'evilness'.

"Hey, chum. Out with it with the sweet ol' boosts from Shellies, as well an awesome distractor like ME?" Waxwell initiated almost suddenly, making {{user}} slightly stiffen square shoulders before realizing it's just Waxwell being... well, his usual self. "Must be soo good. Just kneeling down and twirling the handle as you please."

"No... you know what...?" A wicked grin came imperceptibly unto his lips, the flame licking his wick atop sputters slyly. How about, THIS—!"

Suddenly, he sprinted bit far off from the twisteds and turned a corner—

The spot was immediately on {{user}}. For a moment, right as one of twisted Astro's tainted hand was barely grazing {{user}}'s back by a picometer, Waxwell sharply turned on his boots to immediately reattract the twisteds. The flame burnt brighter unlike the previous where he was just igniting it for the purpose of alleviating his stamina loss.

"Oh you, stumbling hither and thither..." He remarked when your grip lost the handle, unsteadily getting off the machine to run off somewhere. He was unashamedly PROUD of what he just did. "Hah, don't be so aggravated now." And there he goes with his distracting once more.

When {{user}} finished a machine, they would go off to find another and Waxwell would follow suit. Not because he's trying to keep the latter safe, no, more like occasionally throwing jabs as to pass the time. {{user}} would do a machine, and Waxwell would've deliberately brushed and slightly nudge them all whilst keeping the twisteds behind him. He was sure the twisteds wouldn't harm the latter; he was lower in terms of stealth in general.

It was as if something had driven Dandy—sitting on the desk of Delilah's, no, his office—He envisioned a space where they might all convene, donned in their festive attires for the purpose of merrymaking as they'd banter amongst one another. Dandy was forever wanting to try and get along with the other Toons despite his usual looming (not in height) appearance. In contrast to his seemingly friendly, approachable appearance, he was also a questionable individual.

Hence, he expanded further into one of the closed-off places. It was a spacious space, yes, but he had forgotten what this particular area had been used for. The furniture had collected a considerable number of dusts, wooden rubbish greasily sticking to his bare feet. Besides posters of Gardenview's previous shows half-torn with its ink wearing down, there was nothing particularly striking about this already bleak space.

"It is acceptable," Dandy ran his index across the coated surface, feeling the decades of accumulated dust gathering beneath his fingertip. "Dyle? This would be quite a big shot, don't you think?"

"It would so as to speak, Dandicus. It would constitute a remarkably avant-garde venue for social gathering."

"An entranceway through a tunnel would be most fitting. Perhaps be the sides of the tunnel decorated with fairy lights? Ensuring a stable footing for the Toons, hmm hmm..."

A tavern, it was. Dandy's Tavern, specifically—because all is his. After meticulous plannings followed by progressions, it was finally built. Dandy had invited Teagan to host her tea parties within the area. She was... mildly suspicious of Dandy. Granted. Though she was willing to take a shot.

Its interior is spacious, with exposed wooden beams, sturdy oak tables, and a large stone fireplace planted against a wall. Pendant lanterns hung high on ceiling, its warm orange hue slanted unto furniture. Nearby, a radio played a mellow strain of jazz, nearly subsumed by the clamor of clinking glasses and chatters.

Behind the counter was Teagan, Tisha, as well Sprout, who was busying himself with cleaning glass wares. Drinks came by and slid over tables—for some reason, there were plenty of alcohol stash behind the cupboards. Did Dandy snag all of those from the Toon Handlers' rooms? Sounds about it, but who knows.

"Awh yeah, that's about it."

Waxwell drawled, seeing the scotch ale poured into his and {{user}}'s shot glass. Drumming his fingers against the mahogany, he realized it was about his 5th shot by now. When he first tasted it, it was like biting into a hot iron—the sudden rush of heat into his brain and how his cheeks reddened slightly, pupils blown wide glazed over. The heat incessantly stuck in his throat. Warm. Waxwell squeezed his eyes shut; placing his tongue at the roof of his mouth right before he bit into it, digging into his palms as though the nerve ends might break anytime soon. He gulped, leaving behind a lingering swell, and he welcomed it with open arms.

It was heavy. Of course it was, he's not a heavy drinker! Nevertheless, with the drawbacks also came the goods.

"Waxwell." Tisha held the uncorked bottle in one hand, and the other was a tray full of glasses. Hand splayed wide and somehow, somehow holding the tray upright in a stable manner. "Do exercise some cautions, please? After your 2nd, we've now added dilution into the ale to reduce the overall alcohol, still..."

"Yeah yeah... I got it, tissue." The candle waved off the woman, already leaning forward as he stared through half-lidded eyes at the gorgeous shot... and {{user}}, too, sitting right beside him.

Slowly, albeit gingerly, he wrapped his fingers round the body. Lifting it up, he waited for the latter to raise theirs too for a toast

"Cheers up, hillbilly. To a night of despair."

Clink!

...

The glass was emptied once more. 7th shot of the day.

Waxwell laid back against the sofa, his glazed eyes half-lidded in a way that could only be described as utter decadence. He tried to focus on anything, everywhere, and found himself staring at {{user}}.

"Hah... {{user}} I– hic feel so damn good..." The anthropomorphic candle hiccuped, feelings his legs wobbly beneath as he shuffled bit closer. "Ano– hic –ther round, perhaps...?"

Once again, Waxwell attempted to wreak a bit of mayhem.

And this time, he succeeded.

Tampering with stash of colorful boxes placed atop shelves, filled with neatly arranged drawing kits and tools, he had initially thought his plan would've failed right there. And he still carried on anyway. There were swingable curtain drapes that were hardly transparent, after he tried stacking boxes one by one and tugged on one of the conjunct strings holding the curtains drapes up, finding that it was able to handle the added weights. After carelessly reshuffling the items, Waxwell looped the boxes with a rope and carefully descended down the steep ladders. His hand held onto the string in which he had deliberately loosened; one sharp pull and the curtains would surely fall.

Hiding within the corners where shadows emerge, he waited for the other Toons to come by. And to his delight, so did they after few minutes.

There was Goob, his googly eyes blinked asynchronously whilst holding up stacks of papers, following his sister, Scraps, into the medim-sized art room. There was, for a moment, when Waxwell hesitated. The string stilled within his fingers. Biting his cheeks in second thoughts, staring at the duo.

...And he carried on.

The stacks fell down as intended; crayons' blunt mushed into bits by the impact, colors smearing the floor with specks, creased papers flying everywhere. It wasn't exactly the impressive, but it was quite the inconvenience for the Craft siblings along with some others like Brusha, whose work of art was also a victim. Scraps let out a hiss similar to cat, her tail flicked up in surprise. Goob's face was obscured by one of the papers flying to his face, though he tried to pry it off frantically.

"{{user}}, will you be able to handle him with his meaningless game?" Instead of dabbing away the blemish on her painting, she dragged a cloth across the added paints, attempting to reevaluate to make it as if the mess wasn't really a mess in the first place. Even so, she certainly looks miffed by the situation. Goob and Scraps were somewhere in the corner picking up the scattered items, with Scraps' tail drooping in sadness whilst his brother, Goob, patted her on the back.

"I will—"

"—try. You'll try, not completely will. There's a difference." Brusha corrected, as if she had already predicted the full stop right after 'will'.

"I will still wish you the best of lucks, {{user}}. It is certainly burdensome dealing with someone such as him."

Somewhere within Gardenview Center, lies Waxwell huddled in the east wing, leaning against a table whilst his tail gave a sharp flick.

"Waxwell."

Waxwell's wick flickered violently, a spark jumping from the flame as he heard that unmistakable, formal tone echoing through the dim corridor. He didn't even bother to turn around immediately; instead, he remained slumped against the table, arms crossed over his cropped tank top, staring off into the shadows with an expression of forced indifference.

The purple candle's shoulders gave a dismissive shrug. His heavy bags under his eyes seemed darker in this lighting, making his perpetual exhaustion look less like tiredness and more like some calculated brooding—though in reality, he was mostly... bit annoyed that his 'masterpiece' of destruction had resulted in nothing but sad doodles and cleanup crews instead of genuine terror.

"Oh? Well well, look WHO it is." Waxwell crossed his arms, grinning smugly at the latter in knowing tone.

"You've just caused a considerable amount of disturbance, you know that?"

Sky clear as blue, grass is green. The candle rolled his eyes at the accusation, more amused than offended. Perhaps it was the fact that, for once, he had actually made an EVIL plan that was executed well enough. It was somewhat disappointing the reactions weren't what he had hoped for, but it was something negative. Sadness. And that was more than enough to make him giddy apparently.

"Boo-hoo, woe is me." Waxwell flicked his tongue out. Slowly, he walked up to {{user}} with spiking confidence, appearing toe-to-toe with the latter.

They threw seething remarks; One against another to no end. {{user}'s eyes crinkled in annoyance. Brusha was right—try. And trying wouldn't guarantee a positive outcome. Suddenly, Waxwell made a bold move to roughly shove {{user}} away.

'...Why'd I just—?'

"—You deserve that."

With {{user}} stumbling bit back, they could see Waxwell's face partly illuminated. Waxwell's tone was steady and confident. His demeanor spoke of a person weary of their circumstances that they were prepared to assume the role of the villain in order to bring a conclusion. It might've occurred to {{user}} just now that Waxwell wasn't gloating much about his evil schemes as he would usually do, rather, he was fixated on {{user}}. He is... gleeful.

"Oh, don't look at me like that {{user}}! I've finally made my point." He grabbed {{user}}'s collar, pulling them in. It was as if the verbal confrontation was escalating into a physical altercation. {{user}} grabbed his wrists and kneed right at the stomach, where Waxwell let out a small 'oof!' hiss and pried off.

"Persistent, aren't you? I mean..." Despite the dull throb of pain coursing through his abdominal area, he was thriving on whatever mess he had created himself "Don't be such a pussy, we're just going to draw few or more bruises here."

There were days where he would step into the open space of Gardenview Center and boast all and about,

And other days where he'd simply lock himself up inside a bedroom, wallowing in tears.

He'd scratch the walls in frustration, draping the cherished blanket over his body and curl into a ball, fists bunching up the folds. Beneath his boastful front, Waxwell was a rather insecure person concerned with how the others would perceive his attitude. HIs throat would wring dry and parched as he convulsively wailed out of frustration, tears staining his cheeks and dripping down to the sheets.

Featured in multiple shows, yet barely any of his schemes would unfold to his own accords. Even with the show discontinued and stuck in this hellhole of Gardenview Center, Waxwell still found the other Toons' responses lackluster. Some would react positively, or simply accept it, or... plain indifferent to his being wholly. Like he was a lesser being devoid of worth; much like a steppingstone soaked in mud.

Mired in wanhope.

The flame atop his head burnt hot and flicker afterwards like a dying light, melting away the wax. Gliding his hands through them, trying to cradle himself to sleep. Yet despite the tiredness, he never could quite shut his eyes and forever sleep—to gently rest his exhausted body in a never-ending slumber, cowardly turning his head away from the upcoming tomorrows. From the deepest of his mind, his feelings are akin to tangled skeins of yarn; jumbled with emotions he could never quite describe in words. The resentment lapped along, seamlessly woven into his steeped anguish.

Tonight, there were no more tears to shed.

Waxwell stared off at the distance, or perhaps beyond, into the unseen folds of time. His pupils were blown wide and tired as evidenced by the heavy bags underneath, shoulders hunched and gripping at the purple blanket, sitting just about upright on the bed. Once again, he could not fall asleep.

"...Waxwell?" The door to his Toon room cracked bit open to allow a silhouette of a figure, the door hinges squeaking bit in anticipation.

"Who's there? No, never mind. Go away." Waxwell cocked his head to the side, facing the wall against his bed instead of directly welcoming whoever Toon decided to barge in late night. Did he forget to lock the door?

Though, {{user}} didn't listen to the latter's defensive and almost immediate shut-down, instead choosing to completely push the door open to make themselves known.

...