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It feels wrong. Everything feels so, so wrong and he has no idea why. There’s an itching, crawling sensation of wrongness in his bones, and Cross would love nothing more than to be rid of them entirely.
Chara is gone now, back in his own body, which leaves Cross alone with his own thoughts and feelings and wrongness. At least when the kid was around, he had something to distract him from this awful feeling that overwhelms his nervous system.
He’s curled in a fetal position on his bed, clawing at his skull. His mouth is wide open in a silent scream as he writhes from the bad, bad, badbadbad feeling. His clothes, normally comforting, feel restricting. Too tight, too tight, too tight on his bones, he can feel the fabric rubbing against him and it's awful, awful, awful. He tugs at the various pieces of his outfit in vain. He’s in too much of a frenzy to remove them properly but even then he would still feel the sheets and blankets and it would be too much.
“It’s fine, you’re fine, everything’s fine,” he mumbles, and his voice is so so wrong it hurts. He claws at his neck and chokes out a sob. Why did his voice come out so high? He thought he was getting better at that but no, no of course it wouldn’t be so simple.
Worse yet, he can’t turn to the gang for help. Not with what happened today.
He’d been sitting at the dining room table, trying to stave off the badbadbadWRONG feeling, and everything everything everything had been all too much.
Everyone was speaking all at once, bickering and joking and cackling and yelling, and the dishes all clinked together in a discordant tune that felt like nails scraping against his acoustic meatus.
Unwittingly, Cross had held his head in his hands, overwhelmed by all the everything. Nightmare had only been trying to help.
He’d put a hand on Cross’ shoulder, asking what was wrong.
It startled him, to say the least. Not quite registering who had touched him, Cross swung a fucking knife at Nightmare. He’d attacked his boss, his leader, his savior, attacked him, and why? Because he was startled? Fucking pathetic. He hadn’t even apologized properly. He’d simply dropped the knife, stood up abruptly, and shortcutted to his room. He had locked the door, too, like a damn coward.
...he’s not been breathing. It’s funny, how magical skeletons need to breathe. By all accounts they shouldn’t, not having lungs and all, but here he is. He tries to suck in a breath of air but only chokes again, curling further in on himself as he coughs.
His ribs feel like they’re being stabbed by a thousand tiny knives, all burning hot. He’s certain that the bone will shatter any moment; he can’t breathe, the air won’t come, why can’t he breathe—
There’s a knock on the door, sharp and jarring and loudloudloud. Somebody is shouting, probably for him, but their words feel like clouds; tangible and real, but unable to be grasped. They’re mad at him, they must be. They’re here to take him back to his dead AU and leave him alone again. Cross attacked Nightmare, and now he has to pay the price for insubordination.
Cross’ thoughts are spiralling fast and hard. He misses the moment when the door bursts open, and fails to catch the sound of several feet rushing towards him. More voices, raised, distressed. He thinks he hears his name but there’s no way to be sure. What are they saying? It seems like they’re bickering, but why? Cross’ head hurts. He’s thinking too much, too fast, too loud, and the lack of oxygen is starting to fuck with his magic. Everything is white hot agony. Everything everything everything hurtshurtshurts so bad.
Something cold touches his forehead. Cross barely has time to register it before the bright and searing pain fades into dull blackness.
When Cross comes to, there are more voices. They’re hushed, now, and still sound muddled, but each word is starting to sound clearer as his senses sharpen.
“...ouldn’t he just talk to us? He… he knows we’re not mad, right?”
That has to be Horror. There is no time to mull over what he said, though, because someone else is talking now.
“Obviously not. I doubt he’d trust any of us to do his laundry, let alone help with whatever this is.”
That’s Dust.
“...Applesauce doesn’t trust us?”
Wow, Horror sounds… really sad. Why does he sound so hurt?
“Gee, good going, bunny. Yer bein real helpful right now.”
Killer. All cropped words and sharp wit, there’s no mistaking the owner of that voice. But he sounds angry? But he never takes anything seriously. What’s going on?
“Oh boo fucking hoo. I’m just stating the facts: he doesn’t trust us. He doesn’t trust anyone, and as evidenced by what happened today, he’d rather keel over dead than talk to us, or stars forbid, ask us for help!”
“Fuckin’ can it or you’ll wake Crossy up! We know damn well he doesn’t get ‘nough rest,” Killer hisses. Why in the multiverse were they all so worried!? There’s never been any point in fussing over Cross, so why…
“It’s a bit late for that.”
Shit. Nightmare is here, which means the jig is up. Cross opens his eyes, still lacking the energy to get up and bolt as he ought to.
“Damn,” he whispers, and his voice sounds rough and craggy and still so wrong. “Busted.”
He tries to smile at everyone to let them know he’s fine, totally fine, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.
“You scared the shit out of us,” Dust snarls. “Asshole.”
“Why didn’t you… tell us?” Horror’s tone practically breaks Cross’ heart.
“Didn’t wanna bother anyone,” he mumbles. He tries to sit up, but Killer gently(gently?? Killer doesn’t do gentle, what the fuck) pushes him back down.
“Aight, first’ve all, yer a dumbass,” he deadpans. “Second’ve all, stay down. Ya need rest, Soldier boy.”
Somehow, Killer’s obnoxious voice and crass manner of speaking is soothing. It’s familiar; it feels normal.
“I don’t appreciate being lied to,” Nightmare interjects before Cross can protest. “You know that. Tell me, what good does hiding things do? What use is there in refusing our help?”
His expression hardens into one of cold disapproval, and Cross wants nothing more than to hide under the covers and six feet of dirt and never come out again. “Are we not good enough for you, Cross? Is that it? Do you think so little of us that you cannot accept our care?”
“Lay off ‘im for a sec, boss. Yer gonna send ‘im into ‘nother spiral.”
Nightmare glares furiously at Killer, but says nothing.
Dust is standing in the corner fuming. Horror looks like he’s holding back tears. Nightmare’s tendrils are lashing furiously behind him, and Killer… there’s no discernible change in his expression, but his SOUL is an entirely different story. It’s shaped like an inverted heart, wavering around the edges. Cross doesn’t really understand the SOUL thing, but one thing is abundantly clear. They’re all worried about him. Him, of all people. Why? Why the hell do they care so much?
“It’s… it’s kind of the opposite,” he whispers at last. “You’re all so wonderful, and I'm… I’m just some pathetic idiot who got lucky. I don’t deserve any of this- hell, I don’t deserve any of you! I don’t understand why you’re all so worried, I’m really not worth the trouble—”
“Fucking can it already,” Dust snarls. “Stop being such an idiot and quit talking shit about yourself.”
“...What Bunny means is you are worth it,” Horror amends. “And… you’re not pathetic. You deserve… every ounce of care we give you… and so much more.”
“But—”
“That’s enough, Cross. Stop arguing and tell us what happened.”
“It’s stupid. I just… got kinda overwhelmed, I guess. I overreacted and… I’m sorry. I lashed out for no damn reason and then I fucking ran instead of apologizing properly. I’m really sorry; I won’t let it happen again…”
Cross screws his eyes shut, waiting for a harsh reprimand for his behavior.
“That’s not stupid,” Dust scoffs, still in the corner. “You had a panic attack. Speaking from experience, it’s literally impossible to think clearly during those. It’s nearly impossible to even breathe, let alone have a rational train of thought.”
“And ya couldn’t control whether or not ya had it,” Killer adds. “So it’s really not yer fault.”
“Next time, just tell us when you start to get overwhelmed, so we can avoid this whole thing.” Nightmare walks over and gently cups Cross’ face. “We all love taking care of you, but it’s heartbreaking to see you in pain like that. So please, let’s try and prevent these as much as we can.”
All Cross can do is nod weakly, as sleep beckons for him once more. His mind is getting fuzzy again, but he manages a small, genuine smile before he slips away into dreamless bliss.