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There’s a dreadful lull in the castle. It’s weird–the castle had never been comforting. No. It had settled like a mistake on their shoulders and taunted them at every twist and turn. It was the harrowing defeat–a labyrinth they could never escape. The castle was all there was. Nightmare was all there was.
And yet–that seemed untrue. A lie. One that had been laid on thick like snow–because the castle felt more emptier than before. The castle is emptier than before. There's no uncomfortable cheer, a laugh too pitched and too high–fake, uncertain, but still there.
And now? It’s not.
Cross had been a fluke. A stray dog that was obviously going to snap off it’s leash when the opportunity came. It was easier to delude themselves, anyways. Cross was a fluke. A runaway that would never occur again, and the rest of their fates were already set in stone.
Redemption wouldn’t be granted to them within a twelve foot pole, and escapism was the meer indulgence of when they bundled together–smelling of heavy iron, dust caked on all their clothes–and hating one another. It was easy to hate each other. It was easy to sneer and pretend they were better than one another, and it was even easier to say that–but then curl around another.
Cross was supposed to be a fluke.
And then Killer began to pull away.
Maybe Killer had been pulling away for awhile. The stained skeleton had been in these haunting hallways much longer than they both had even breathed in the air of them–had become used to every turn; had learned where survival met compliance and where he could loosen. Maybe the Killer they knew was the one already dragging himself out of the Castle halls–out from this prison with no real name.
Maybe they had been why he chained himself longer. It was a weird thought to entertain; because they so surely had hated each other, hadn’t they? They fought as much and had as many scrapes and bruises to prove it.
And yet–they know it’s because of them Killer pushed harder to endure Nightmare. To endure these never-ending halls that reeked of blood that couldn’t be stripped away. To sit like a doll with no story, name, nor face.
They had hated each other, and yet they were all they had.
They would sit back to the door after one of them was punished. They wouldn’t cry, nor comfort–that would just be lying, and it hurt more to lie to eachother than beat each other–but they would settle there, and they would just wait. For a miracle, or for something cliche. For something that wouldn’t come.
Killer hadn’t left without a word. Not really. Killer didn’t know how to stop talking afterall.
They had been on a mission. A careless one that didn’t really matter. It was mundane, and they would simply just have to terrorize the AU inhabitants so Nightmare could feast on them and their terrible weeping. It was a mission that didn’t matter–it hadn’t even felt remotely different in how they spoke or acted.
They were told to keep everyone alive. That usually wasn’t a problem. They usually didn’t have to dust anyone–they usually tried to stick to Nightmare’s orders.
He knew you were getting close.
He knew the hatred was nothing but a fraudulent lie.
He knew the only way to punish you was to punish each other.
He knew you’d obey.
Horror staggered over the wetlands of Waterfall; the sound squelching loudly beneath his boots ridges. He dragged himself with a ludicrous he couldn’t have imagined otherwise. His simply movements forced a tremble down the spines of others; forced them to imagine just how sharp his phalanges were, and forced them to stare at a monster who should’ve dusted by now.
His skull pangs with hurt, and he keeps on pushing forward. The hurt ricochets off the walls of his skull, but he has to push forward. Papyrus needs to eat. Snowden needs to eat. That bitch Undyne needs to watch as every other monster gets their fill and their magic while her stomach concaves and her ribs poke through more than her spears do bodies. He needs to see her dust. He has to see her dust.
There's a shrill sound of a gaster zipping through the air–he has to wince and force his hands to clench as his side and axe handle before they slap to his already panging skull. He growled, a grimace on his face as he snaps to his other half–
“Dust, fuck was that for?” He grumbled, voice low and groveling enough to make a Shyren hiccup with fear and try to hide themselves.
His partner in crime turned lazily, dispelling the blaster. “Didn’t kill anyone.” Dust mumbled, pocketing his hands in his jacket pockets. Horror rolled his eyelight, scoffing. “Oh, come on, don’t act like a bitch.” Dust dryly said.
“I can’t wait for that swap-a-bitch whatever to dust you.” Horror simply said, dragging himself over to the smaller skeleton. He throws the blade of his axe over his shoulder, just short of cutting himself with it.
Dust smacked him on the shoulder with a ferocity they knew to entertain, and it had Horror smack him upside the head till his hood almost slipped off. There’s a few snivels and shushed worrying in the air–Horror sees now that Dust’s blaster had left an ashen and dead path in Waterfall.
Horror doesn’t care for the destruction of this region. It’s filled with memories he doesn’t want to remember–the kind that haunts every corridor without trying too. He has purposely squashed dozens of echoflowers and felt their dying whispers as he did. It filled him with such awful gratitude that he almost hoped they were alive.
It felt better to watch a flower wilt, though. To watch it try and live–and then stomp it until all its petals ripped off.
“Think Killers done with Hotland?” Dust dully said.
“‘Course he is, probably been done with it for more than an hour now.” Horror grumbled, and then glanced around. “Meanin’ he’s off fuckin’ around to get us all yelled at by the big boss.” He mused–a smirk on his face as he watched Dust flare.
“That bastard–!”
“It’s rude to talk about people when they're not around, you two!” A shrill voice cheered, the sound of water being run through–splashing, and surely flicking everywhere. “‘Sides, boss would probably be mad if you killed me. Probably.”
Horror pauses, staring at Killer.
“Why are you caked in dust?” He growled, pushing forward to the skeleton. Killer blinked, head lowering to stare at his coated jacket–and then smiled lazily. “The boss is gonna kill you himself!”
There’s an unspoken accusation there.
They're all gonna feel it. Killer doing something this stupid–this–this careless?
“Are you that much of an air-head?” Dust groaned, pushing forward with a small shove to Horror, and an even bigger accusation underneath his spitted words. Vitriol and some weird sense of betrayal–which is strange, as they had never plead any loyalty to each other; maybe they should’ve expected Nightmares prized much to want to see them writhe and bite back whimpers–
“‘S fine. I’ll take care of it.” Killer mumbled–and it’s not what they’re used to. They’re used to a crassness in his voice; a taunting cry that they could never escape. The cuckoo bird in a nest they found themselves wrapped up in–
And yet, his tone was strange. It was still him, still Killer.
But it had some sort of promise within. As if he knew he could direct every ounce of anger onto himself, and he could do as he pleases before then. Mocking, but not them. Not Dust and Horror.
A silence they can’t quite pinpoint fills the air. They had gotten so used to each other and the knowledge they could ruin one another–and yet didn’t–that it was hard to understand each other when a silence not commanded of them filled the space.
“Hey, Horror. Dust.” Killer mumbled, voice light and barely rising above what they were used too. It was weird.
Killer was caked in dust–remains of monsters, slain without afterthought–and yet the only thing they could focus on was the softness he carried on himself in this very moment.
“Fuck–what? You’re being weird.” Dust snided, leaning closer as if he was about to leer. He didn’t. They waited.
The skeleton before them is staring at something they can’t see; beyond them. They don’t know how he can tell, as his eyes are fully glided over with a tar that drooled down his face; staining every part of his cheek and oozing into the fuzzy fabric of his jacket.
They’ve just gotten used to Killer, and knowing where he is looking–and it’s such a strange thought that they don’t entertain.
“If you weren't this, what would you be?” Killer quipped, head tilting slowly to the side. His goop drags slightly across his face as he does this. His phalanges are gripping that dusted jacket, and the two of them stare.
Dumbly, Horror speaks. “I dunno, probably starvin’.” He mumbled, eyes downcasting a little.
They’ve mentioned it once before. Where they would be without Nightmare–Horror would be starving, and his brother would be too. Dust would’ve probably spoke himself into suicide, the ghosts of his mind heavy and certain–and Killer would still be sitting in an empty forest, the taunts of a ghost weighing down on him.
Killer shakes his head, a weird smile worming onto his face. It’s not the eerie one they’re used too. It’s sweet and soft, and all the things you shouldn’t expect to see on a murderer's face.
“Not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Horror slowly asked, arms crossing–
The zip of a portal opening answers them. There is no answer to be given. Not when they can smell Nightmare’s anger and fury–it’s putrid and clear, and they know it will thrash and bang against one of them like no other soon.
They know what Killer meant, now. He’d run that very same night—how and where, they aren’t sure. But they knew Nightmare had screamed and rained a fury like no other. He had left the castle with a mission, and they were sure Killer would’ve been back in the form of a pile of dust the very next morning.
They had spent all night awake. Time didn’t move in this AU, and yet they understood it still functioned.
They had spent all morning with bated breaths, staying far too close to one another–and they had waited. They let the day drag on like a funeral. They didn’t speak to each other beyond a few wayward glances–and then curled into one another. They mourned a skeleton by the name Killer–who they suspected they knew, but most likely didn’t know it all.
They wanted to be angry. It would be easier when his crumbled body was forced to kneel in front of them–beaten, bruised, blackened, and worn out. It would be easier to believe he betrayed them when he sobbed in pain and his body racked with reeling fatigue. It would be easier to despise him when Nightmare killed him.
So they pretended to be angry. They spat and conjured up hateful thoughts about him, and yet all they could be filled with was regret. They didn’t say this outloud–not until noon did they begin speaking, and even then, it wasn’t about Killer.
They were afraid to utter his name on the idea it would force them to be angry, and force them to stare at a world where Killer was murdered in front of them. Forced to watch him become an example.
And then the lull of night came, and Nightmare still hadn’t returned.
They waited for a long time, and they still refused to sleep–sockets wide and growing angry and taut for how long they’d been wrenched open. They waited till they realized that their faux-morning had come once again, and Killer still hadn’t been dragged back.
But Nightmare did.
They expected him to throw his dust on the floor, or just plainly say he had killed the smaller skeleton.
And yet–they had seen the look on his face before. His face clenched in a rage he still hadn’t expelled, but only burned brighter. It took a few moments of Nightmare storming away with this expression and then slamming the door to his office shut to the point they think the lock snapped in permanently.
Cross.
Cross hadn’t been an exception.
Cross hadn’t been a fluke.
Cross had simply just been the first to blow a candle out of Nightmares horrid cake–
And Killer was gone too.
Alive. Well. Safe.
Gone.
Nightmare is still grovelling in his office, and the two of them have bundled in Horror’s room. It’s less dank and more together than Dusts–isn’t caked in the taste of cigarette and alcohol. It’s still uncomfortably small and riddled with grit and spiderwebs, but they can live with it.
They can live with it, but it’s becoming increasingly clear with every loud crash they hear in Nightmares room that they don’t have too.
They don’t speak, but they put on some shitty movie. Their TV screen is enlightening them both, the flash bouncing off their pearlescent bones easily. The movie is cheesy and dumb, and it has them both groaning and feverish with second-hand embarrassment. They keep it on. They have to keep it on.
Dust leans his head on Horrors lap. There's stillness in the room, but it’s meager and unimportant, and filled with more hope than they had ever had before–it’s almost as if they're eating a meal laced with such heavy positive intent that they can’t help but scarf it up and cry it out.
“Dust.” Horror mumbles, looking at the TV still. He gets a soft hum in response–and for once, the other skeleton's mind is clear and not tormenting every deep part of him. It might change tonight when they sleep–and they will sleep, but right now, in the moment, they are okay. Not safe, but they could be.
“What’s after this?”
Dust doesn’t respond, and his phalanges clench Horrors pants leg for a moment–before he breathes out, unbridled, and with a sense of self they thought they had misplaced. “Prison.” Dust chuckled, turning around and looking Horror face to face while still settled om his lap.
“But I think–I want to marry you, too.” Dust whispered.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Let’s go to prison, and get married there. Spend our lives together behind bars.”
There's a moment of silence neither of them dignify, and then they both turn back to watching the movie–they hear Nightmare raging, and they know they may ache with bruises soon, but it’s doable. It's doable tonight. They’ll make it doable.
And then—they’ll make do with prison food and holding each other's pockets in a courtyard.