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“Whatcha drawing Crossy?” Killer laughed at the clap of the sketch pad being slammed shut. Cross spun around to glare at him over his shoulder.
“None of your business.” Killer laughed harder at the purple dusting of embarrassment over the guard’s cheekbones. He flicked Cross on the forehead.
“Totally my business. What if you’re drawing up blueprints to give to our enemies?” Cross didn’t get out his rebuttal, Killer shook his head amused. “You’re not gunna say no to the Boss’s right hand, are you?”
The growl was expected, as was the slam of the heavy book into his outstretched hand, but Cross moving to sit across from him with his head down was not. He thumbed down the pages. The crisp tune relaxed him, leaving him primed to sit down and flip through.
“You look pretty nervous there, Criss Cross. Got some voyeur sketches in here?” He prodded for a response, but he didn’t get a flinch, much less a word. Well that wasn’t fun. Maybe there’d be better material in the pad itself.
It was a generic notepad, slight color wear on the black cover, signs of being open and closed many times over, slightly crinkled edges, only as straight as they were for the fact the book itself was too thick to let the pages stay that unflattened. He’d seen this sketch pad a few times before. Cross really only pulled it out when he was alone, or in solely Nightmare’s company, but Killer had caught glimpses of it during his sneaking and pranking. He’d been waiting until he could catch Cross alone to reveal he knew about it at all, and his patience had about run out when he got the opportunity today.
“Guess I’ll just have to see why you’re so moody then. And they say I’m dramatic.” That got a light growl, but nothing else. Still oddly quiet. With a sigh, he pulled open the cover.
The first sketch was nothing surprising. Boss, hand outstretched towards the viewer. It reminded Killer of his own first meeting, except that he had been more eye to eye. The viewer was meant to be kneeling. Cross kneeled to their Nightmare constantly, so that wasn’t any new material. He could admire the details. His negative black sheen stretched and flowed like in reality, the single cyan eye captured in perfect tones and hues. Even the lilt of Night’s middle finger, unusually higher than the rest, exactly as it happened.
Did he have Nightmare perform the act again to capture it exactly? Or did he do it by memory? He pulled his sockets away to turn to the next page.
The reverse of Nightmare’s sketch was blank, preserving the art on the opposite side. The next page was of Chara.
This Chara was younger than his Frisk, the shadows of the demon lurking within his possessed child defined in full on this child’s face. The smile was too kind, maybe from a time before what eventually occurred. The thought scrunched up his nasal crest. He turned the page before he gave in to the urge to rip the piece in half. Leave it to Cross to be so nostalgic and forgiving.
A few thinly lined drawings of flowers, the garden within the courtyard, and continuing on, a few of Horror, Dust, and himself. A very detailed drawing of Error. The strings were shaded well, the colliding colors and glitches captured about as well as paper could emulate. He had definitely done this by memory. Error wouldn’t pose for a drawing, he hated when Ink even attempted it.
Black coated the entire next sheet, a drawing done in the absence, white lined darkness to create that haunting visage of Cross’s soul being torn in half. Half warped human face, half of Cross’s own. The child’s evil smile made the corners of his own twitch. It hurt to look at. Even though he hadn’t lived this as Cross had, the image hit something inside that was still sore all these years later. He moved past it.
More of missions, Nightmare, Horror, Dust, Error, but suddenly a lack of himself. From about a fourth to the halfway mark, none of him. He could feel his hatred building in his eyes, but didn’t let his grin crack. It was a fairly even mix of the rest; that was the only reason he noticed.
Cross still hadn’t said anything. But then again, Killer supposed he hadn’t really done much to prompt a response. The tight grip Cross had on his own legs was his only answer.
He went to turn the page again, just about done with looking, bored with the monotony when he hit a drawing of himself.
“What the fuck...” Cross looked up at him, but Killer was too distracted to care.
He remembered this mission. It’d been the first one where they actually could work together well enough to be considered ‘a team.’ After it’d been over, Killer held up his hand for a high five, but pulled a too slow. Cross had huffed at him while he lost his mind. He’d been doubled over he was laughing so hard. The picture was of just him, but he recognized the damage to his jacket.
His finger traced his face. He’d never considered himself as someone radiant. He could go for raw sex appeal from his power or skill maybe, put out some dirty temptation if he worked at it, but not really anything off average when he was just standing there. Clearly Cross didn’t agree.
This was in full color, a flush of red under smeared black, a glimmer of white halos in his sockets. His soul hovered, gentle outlines to show its tremors. He’d been drawn brightly like he’d been in direct sunlight. Each catch and patch of his hoodie had been rendered exactly as they were, but the real showstopper was his mouth. He’d leaned back fresh after laughing himself to tears and given Cross an actual smile. There were no sharp edges, nothing mean in the squint of his eyes, just a genuine good time grin that had been drawn lovingly well.
No, not just drawn. Seen, dedicated to memory, and drawn later to the exact detail.
After pages and pages of nothing, why suddenly this?
“You’re...nice to draw.” Cross spoke up quietly. Killer went to counter that immediately, but Cross had stood and turned the page, gently brushing over Killer’s.
More of him. He’d almost say obsessively him. Cross flushed dark purple, but didn’t shy away. Killer looked back down to look over the pad.
Pages and pages. Moments after missions, him during the group dinners after a funny joke, a few times with a teammate in a spar. Once in a blue moon, one of the others, but always in a very striking moment, times that Killer could pinpoint as memorable situations. Otherwise, just him.
“I’d almost take this as a love declaration.” He chuckled once, soft. It made him feel vulnerable. He didn’t want to know how soft he looked right now, though he was sure that Cross would capture this for eternity in ink later on. Cross met his eyes strangely serious.
“Almost?” Killer swallowed hard. He could feel his soul shuttering against his shirt.
“Same way this is almost a kiss.” The sassy snap gave Cross the aggressive confidence he needed to do away with almost. The quiet clank ended too soon. Killer raised a brow bone with a lecherous smile. “That’s all I get?”
“While you’re holding my sketchbook, yeah.” Cross’s hands closed it and lifted it out from between them. He leaned closer once it was safely to the side. Killer pressed his body upwards into Cross, hands around his neck, very interested in what the next move would be.
“Gunna draw me like one of your french boys?” He stuck out his tongue. Cross took it into his mouth and kissed him deeper, his free hand roughly moving along Killer’s ribs and gripping his pelvic bone, humming into the manhandling. He broke the kiss into an intense whisper.
“I’m going to map out every inch of you.” Killer summoned his ecto under his clothes, seeing the physical spark in Cross’s sockets when his chest pressed up against him, he laughed and sighed into the gripping hands.
“So like a pin up then? Because I think I could make a really go-”
“Drawing and sass later. Kissing now.” When he kissed him this time, Killer decided to let him have this one. He had lots of time after all.