Chapter Text
Mistoffelees was born just moments before sunset, his first cry echoing beneath the golden light.
Quaxo arrived only heartbeats later, as the moon cast its first pale kiss over the heaps of trash surrounding them. It felt like an omen,
an invisible thread tying their fates together, both blessing and curse.
Mistoffelees glowed like the dying sun, his fur shimmering, magic already dancing at his fingertips.
Quaxo was the silence that followed. The in-between. The moon hadn’t fully risen, not yet. The sky was empty, dark, waiting. And so was he.
Quaxo, the one left unnoticed.
The Ordinary.
The shadows clung to him like a second skin. They had always been close, sometimes even closer than whiskers to fur. As kittens, they were one soul split between two bodies, inseparable, indistinguishable in their laughter and play. Wherever Mistoffelees wandered, Quaxo followed, just a step behind.
But at the end, they grew.
And with growth came change. Mistoffelees bloomed: radiant, untouchable. Magic crackled at his paws like lightning desperate to be seen. He glowed, he shone, and Quaxo?
He waited. He waited for his own spark to stir, for fire to curl inside his chest, for power to flood his veins and spill from his fingertips.
But nothing came.
Moons turned like pages, each one heavy with silence. Quaxo stayed cold, untouched, unseen.
Nights bled into each other, nights spent alone, whispering incantations into the dark, clawing at the air, begging for even a flicker of flame. Just a spark. Just something.
But his paws stayed empty.
His heart emptier still.
And in the daylight, he watched. Watched as Mistoffelees danced like he belonged to the sky, every step kissed by stardust. The older cats watched too, their eyes soft with awe.
“Such a talented kitten.”
“He’s extraordinary. Just imagine what he’ll become.”
No one ever dared to say that about Quaxo.
But he tried. Stars, how he tried. He mimicked Mistoffelees’ steps, pushed his body past the point of pain, smiled until his cheeks ached, but of course his fur didn’t glow. His presence didn’t demand the world to look.
No one looked.
Never.
Even the moon turned her face away that night, slipping behind a curtain of clouds.
And under her absence, Quaxo broke.
No tantrum. No fury. Just a quiet, aching sob,
the kind that claws its way out of your chest when you realize you were never meant to shine.
Mistoffelees didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t.
How could he, when he shone so brightly he couldn’t even see the shadows he cast?
As they grew, Misto only burned brighter
radiant, dazzling, untouchable. And beside him, Quaxo dimmed. Slowly. Painfully. Like a candle left too long in the wind.
It wasn’t that Mistoffelees was cruel. Far from it. He was kind. Gentle. Always warm when he looked at Quaxo with that soft smile and asked if he was okay.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Quaxo almost wished he was selfish, arrogant, anything that would make the jealousy feel justified. But no. Mistoffelees was golden inside and out, and Quaxo…
Quaxo was just tired of being small next to him.
There were days the envy curled so tight in his stomach it made him nauseous. He wished he could throw it up, force it out somehow. But it lodged in his throat like a living thing. twitching, squirming, refusing to leave.
So he swallowed it down. Every time Misto danced by, trailed by stardust and adoration, Quaxo swallowed it down like poison.
He tried. Stars, he tried to be more than just “Mistoffelees’ little brother.”
He wanted to be his own cat. To matter in his own light.
“I wrote a song,” he said one day, clutching a crumpled scrap of paper, voice trembling with hope. “I was hoping I could- get a spot tonight? At the Jellicle Ball?”
Skimbleshanks didn’t even sit up. He barely looked away from the warm stone he was stretched across, just cracked one eye open in Quaxo’s direction.
“Give it here.”
Quaxo passed the paper over with shaking paws. The older tom scanned the first few lines, and Quaxo saw it.
The slight raise of his brow, the tightening of his jaw. He knew. He knew it was a mistake to hope.
“Well- the lineup’s full,” Skimbleshanks said, clearing his throat like it might soften the blow. “But I’m sure your brother wouldn’t mind squeezing you into his act.”
That night, Quaxo tore the paper into pieces with shaking claws, his sobs echoing into the empty corners of the junkyard.
And not even the moon dared to look down on him.
In the end, he said yes. Of course he did.
How could he not?
He had dreamed of this night since he was a kitten. Of being old enough, good enough, to step into the Jellicle Ball not as a shadow, but as a star in his own right. He wasn’t just Misto’s brother. He was a dancer. A good one. Maybe even better than some of the other Jellicles. Maybe this would be the moment they saw, that he wasn’t just a trailing echo behind someone else’s brilliance.
Even if it meant standing beside Mistoffelees.
Even if it meant risking being eclipsed all over again.
As the ball crept closer, Quaxo could feel the tension winding tighter in their shared den. Mistoffelees’ excitement crackled like static, filling the small space with flying sparks and muttered incantations at all hours. Quaxo couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, another flicker of light burst behind his lids, another sharp whisper danced around his ears. His brother’s energy was boundless, exhilarated, electric.
Quaxo lay wide awake, night after night, staring at the roof of the den, blinking against the flashes.
And he dreamed.
Dreamed of applause. Of warm lights washing over him, of cheers. Of being seen. Just once.
He smiled to himself in the dark, tired and buzzing with hope.
But the night of the Ball came and with it, the crash.
He was exhausted. His legs trembled before he even stepped onto the stage cobbled together from junk and rotting wood. His joints ached with the weight of sleepless nights. He tried to steady his breath, to focus, to shine.
Then Mistoffelees stepped forward, the crowd instantly leaning in, murmurs already forming. Sparks lit at his heels. Stars danced around him like he owned the night sky.
And Quaxo?
Quaxo stumbled.
His timing slipped. His spins were jerky, his footing unsure. His body felt foreign, shaky, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. Nausea crept up his throat, his vision blurred. He moved too close to Mistoffelees, desperate to correct himself, desperate to still be part of it, and in that moment, a stray spark from Misto’s magic caught the edge of his fur.
Fire. A flash of heat. Pain.
He screamed.
The crowd gasped, and then came the laughter. Loud and deafening.
Not kind laughter. Not amused.
Mocking.
And oh, so cruel.
He could barely hear it over the pounding in his chest as bile surged up and spilled onto the stage. Right there. In front of everyone. In front of his brother.
In front of every cat he had begged the stars to impress.
He ran. Of course.
Later, the den was cold. The magic had drained from the air, leaving nothing but ash and silence.
Quaxo curled into a corner, back to the room, face buried against the wall. His body shook, not from cold, but from something deeper. Something sharp and rotten.
“Are you- alright?”
Mistoffelees’ voice was gentle, concerned. That soft tone he always used when Quaxo scraped his paw or had a bad dream as a kitten.
And it made Quaxo sick.
He stayed silent, clenching his jaw so hard it ached. It was his fault. Mistoffelees. Always taking up space, even without meaning to. Always burning so bright that everything else faded. Quaxo had been awake for days. He’d burned on that stage. And they had laughed.
But he didn’t say any of it. He couldn’t.
Misto sighed behind him. “I don’t know what’s going on with you these past few moons- You need to control yourself more.”
He didn’t mean it cruelly. He didn’t.
But something inside Quaxo snapped anyway.
His heart pounded with something ugly, something fierce. Anger rose fast, bitter and hot, curling in his chest like smoke.
He wasn’t just tired. He was done.