MothWood.
He didn't realise at first. Didn't realise he was getting older. Because as he was getting faster as well, stronger, leaner. With longer legs he could run further, kick harder, leap higher. He just thought he was getting better. And he was, in a way. Compared to humans he was ageing oh so slowly, and so it was even less obvious. He didn't note that he now came up to Slender's elbow instead of his waist. Didn't note that he could reach the higher cupboards in the kitchen. Didn't notice the looks the other pastas would give him sometimes. It was the elephant in the room to them, one they didn't want to think about.
When he finally noticed, he was equivalent to a human's 25th year of living, though he'd actually been around for about 50 now. He'd looked in the mirror by accident and instead of becoming enraged, he was stunned. Because the scars on his face had healed so completely there was nothing but cleanly cut slits, a perfect, smooth set of openings in his cheeks. He'd never noticed the scars around them fading. After that he started to realise that he was taller. That his body had grown and filled out. That it wasn't stopping ageing. He noticed that everyone else was still the same, even Jane hadn't aged a day from 18. Ben was still a tiny ghost, LJ was still a clown he'd rather avoid unless greeted by the promise of food, and Slender- well. He's timeless. Sally hasn't matured a day, cherubic face grinning up at him from beneath gold curls as he passes. He smiles back slightly and keeps walking down the hall.
When he enters his room he notes the lack of effort in reaching the top of the doorframe with his hand, notes how his shoulders fill out the space now. He's not the undernourished little boy he was, he supposes. When he thinks about it, he notes changes in his personality as well. Less quick to anger towards the other mansion residents, less hateful, more gleeful when he kills. And he doesn't kill teenagers anymore. He wonders why he ever did. Was he projecting his own self hate onto them? He cuts that train of thought off quickly. When he decides to confront the elephant in the room, he does it with a grin. "I can't help but notice that despite my ageing I haven't been getting birthday parties. Unimpressed, guys." Jane turns and grins at him slightly. LJ cackles and promises to bake a cake every year for him. Ben hums noncommittally, turning his face away. Slender inclines his head, amused. Masky and Hoodie could care less about birthdays, but Jeff is a good ally and they nod respectfully to him as he exits the room again. The new elephant in the room is that everyone will miss him.
On his 27th birthday a new proxy is introduced to the mansion. Toby and Jeff don't get along too well, and Jeff mostly just avoids the annoying kid. Until he realises that Toby is a lot like he was. He sits the kid down and tells him to shut up before teaching him a thing or two about how the mansion works and that he needs to chill out. The way to get positive attention and make friends is to be yourself, not bug everyone else. When Toby leaves again he's thoughtful, and Jeff is smiling. His 30th birthday and he's been alive for sixty years. There's a new scar just under his eye and a single strand of grey in his hair. No wrinkles, no otherwise visible deterioration other than the slightly less than vivid gleam in his eye.
He says that getting old isn't so bad, because it means he won't have to deal with any of his friends long enough to make him insane. He loves them, but they're a pain in his ass. Toby is turning 18 soon and Jeff helps plan a party for the brat, streamers and the works. He ropes everyone into it because damn if he's letting another kid feel alone in this great big mostly empty mansion. Sometimes he wonders who all the empty, locked rooms belonged to. He decides he doesn't want to know. He's 40 now and Toby stops ageing at 20 and he doesn't have the heart to be spiteful or jealous. Sometimes he gets an ache in his shoulders after a kill, and wakes up more sore than he ever was even when he was building strength after a year of little nutrition. He's still in good shape, only wrinkles the crows feet at the edge of his eyes. At fifty he's taken down by some man with a shotgun, reflexes no longer fast enough to whack the barrel of it away. The shot catches him in the chest and he bleeds out on the side of the road, halfway back to the mansion. He smiles into the asphalt, laugh lines and grey hair. This is the first time he's ever failed a mission. It's his birthday.
