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Cross hated school, he really did. He hated when his full potential wasn’t displayed in his work. He hated when his faults were picked apart and put on display. That was how he got into this situation, after all.
He used to love it, as any child did but that was before he left primary school. That was before the overbearing expectations of his father became harder and harder to ignore. He didn’t notice it at first. He spent his days flipping through daydreams in class. Sitting in class and doodling in his notebook was a given when the topics were so easy to grasp. He just couldn’t understand what made all the other children so stressed out!
Then came father’s disappointment.
“Cross.”, his father said. He froze, already knowing that tone from multiple instances of his disobedience before. He hadn’t heard it in a while. What did he do? He couldn’t have done anything. He was good! He was-
“What’s this ?”, his father remained seated on the couch. His posture was stiff and he immediately straightened his back, on guard. He wanted to hide from him or plead for forgiveness for what he’d done but he knew that would only make it worse. He was out of his reach. He was safe, right? Why was father angry? What did he do?
“Wh-”, he cleared his dry throat. He was stupid. He was already choked up and nothing had happened yet. Father would be mad if he couldn’t understand his voice. He always spoke too low, too flat. He shouldn’t be afraid of father. He wouldn’t hurt him. He hadn’t done so in a long time. “What do you mean, daddy?”
Father tsked, the sound lancing a new fear in his soul. No. No no no! He had been good! What did he do? Why was father angry? Was he actually angry? Why was his face so unreadable? Why did the air feel so heavy? The bag on his back felt too heavy. His legs already ached from running around the yard. He didn’t need anything to add to his pain.
“This, pitiful grade, Cross”, and father pointed to his phone, the screen was bright and too far for him to make out. He’d have to step closer. He didn’t want to but father would be upset at his lack of understanding. He didn’t want to- he really didn’t want to.
The screen displayed ‘15/20’ under the assignment ‘Quiz’. Was that … not good? “I … I don’t understand”, he said. He spoke too soon. Father’s face twisted into a grimace that held a dark promise.
“You will.”
He wanted to run but he couldn’t move. His tears blurred his vision and nothing even happened yet. He was weak. He was so pathetic. He could take this. He could get through this and he’ll show father that he can be good.
He’d … rather not think on the details. Father emphasized that he had so much potential. That could (should) always be better, do better. If he only applied himself he could get a perfect score or GPA. But his efforts were never enough.
He often questioned why he was doing any of this anyways. Did he pursue his career for himself or for his father. His first real choice was becoming a royal guard for Frisk but look at how far that got him. He shouldn’t be floundering so much at everything. He should’ve asked the teacher for help when everyone could clearly see him struggling. He should’ve taken the initiative when things went south in group projects. He should’ve been the leader that anyone could rely on. He should’ve been the person they aspired to be.
He was good, father always stated how proud of him he was. But it wasn’t enough.
Of course Cross was scared then. Scared of what father could choose to do or say. Scared of how much it would damage him. It was hard to forget about what his father did. He supposed he proved his point.
Until he forgot again that is. Until he lapsed back into his lazy habits. Until he forgot about eating as he wasted hours trying to understand a topic that he couldn’t . It only served to remind him that he was helpless and stupid without guidance from his father. But he should be getting this right? It’s so easy! So why wasn’t he getting it?
It was why he was in Nightmare’s office now. It is why his fist ached from punching the wall in frustration at his failed mission. He couldn’t even do a simple scouting right! He should have known his mismatched eyelights were visible. He should have known to hide his scent in the mud. If he wasn’t dead on his feet from his stupid, stupid eating (or well, not eating) habits and his shitty sleep schedule then he would have cleared it and gotten the information with ease.
Why did their disappointed glares have to look so similar? Why did it feel like Nightmare’s gaze was attempting to peer into his soul and succeeding? Why did he feel heavy with dread while being light with numbness, apathy and resignation. Why did he have to force himself to remember to fucking breathe as his ribcage burned as it tricked itself into believing it lacked the oxygen.
Here he was again. Alone, afraid, pathetic . Every whisper of hatred in his skull had to sound like him and he hated it. He hated how everything it said was true. He was pathetic and weak. The tears burning at the corners of his sockets were proof of that. He knew Nightmare wouldn’t hurt him but would be so so easy for them. All he needed was a little reprimanding. He knew how fast they could move and how easily they could predict his movements if he attempted to fight back. He was like a fly in a trap.
He was trapped.
He knew he couldn’t get out of this. He hadn’t told Nightmare why he was like … this. He never said anything regarding his childhood past that it was not aligned with what was considered ‘normal’. It felt normal to him though, even if he’d never wish the same treatment on anyone. He didn’t need someone to become reduced to a lonely, desperate and broken person like himself. How Nightmare had put up with his bullshit up to this point is beyond him. Didn’t they have more important subordinates to care for? Weren’t they a better use of their time? Because he was just that replaceable even if there would only be one ‘Cross’ Nightmare could easily find another willing subordinate out of the infinite Sanses in the multiverse. He couldn’t understand why Nightmare reached out to him outside of missions. He already served his purpose. He didn’t need their help to get bandaged up but he complied. He would always comply to their wishes.
Cross pledged his life to Nightmare. They were his only tether to this world. Without them he knew he’d find a way to off himself eventually. He … tried before but the determination in Chara’s portion of his soul kept him alive. Fortunately or unfortunately is not for him to decide. Their taunting would quickly switch to pleading when he summoned his attacks.
Point was, Cross didn’t matter. He couldn’t because if he did that would mean that these people would actually care if he was gone. They’d miss him . Nightmare, he could understand. He was their subordinate, an asset , something to be used and gain profit from. Why would Dust care about him? The two rarely talked and aside from Dust not attempting to kill him anytime they crossed paths, he didn’t know him. He didn’t help him when he was at his lowest. When he heard panicked screams and attacks being summoned in his room he kept walking. The water bottles he left outside his door always disappeared once he returned.
Horror’s large frame and intimidating aura was something he’d gotten used to. He must be an annoyance every time they meet in the kitchen or in the hall. With his own inability to converse outside of sounding strictly formal or uptight and Horror’s reluctance to talk at all , he doubted they’ve come to be anything more than a stranger with a name to them. He knew their favourite flavours for everything, and all the other members as a result. They held him steady as he stirred the batter. They were so gentle and loving . It made him sick.
Killer is interesting, to put it lightly. Their first meeting included them trying to flirt with him over a dozen times. His face became warmer during the expanse of them. By the end of it he was flushed a mortifying shade of lilac. Their jokes were … terrible. They were morbid, crass and terribly immature. He couldn’t help but snort at a few of them. They just caught him off guard, is all. But Cross sucked at talking and reading their tells. He only knew those were flirts because of the overexaggerated wiggling of their browbones and pointed winks. Most of the subtle jabs flew over his head. Killer was stupidly handsome. He … he hoped they wouldn’t miss him too much if he left.
He hadn’t realized Nightmare had stopped talking or that they were talking in the first place. He blinked, attempting to reel in his focus on the low, silky voice of his boss. His skull was still absently roaring with curses and pointed jabs towards his person.
“Cross.” , he tensed. He knew he hadn’t been good lately. At least not up the standard of what could be considered ‘good’ in this manor. “Your behaviour as of recent has been …” , they paused, as if running the word along their teeth before continuing, “Worrying.”
Worrying?
Nightmare was worried?
“I’m sorry”, he said and it was too low, too pathetic, too flat, too-
“There is nothing for you to apologize for” , they cut him off before he could spiral any further. He wanted to protest and say he should apologize. He shouldn’t have let his issues be known to the point that Nightmare of all people was worrying over him . His father’s voice or was that just his voice? said that he wasn’t worth it if he’ll just be dust for them to sweep away soon. He wanted to cut in and say something but Nightmare’s tone did not indicate that that was a request. It was an order.
So he shut up. He shut up and allowed Nightmare to drone on about how they, and anyone else in the castle for that matter, was open to listening to his feelings. They would try to help him in their own ways, as expected. They emphasized that his well-being mattered and was something Nightmare was responsible for. Cross could understand responsibility and obligations and everything associated with that. He willfully rejected the notion that Nightmare may care about him apart of being a loyal subject. He can’t become attached, he can’t let them become attached. Nightmare wrapped his hand in bandages. Their movements were measured and attentive to where they applied pressure, as if he was something delicate or something that deserved that kind of treatment. He didn’t.
“Remember Cross, we’ll always be here for you”, they said, running their phalanges along his knuckles in what he was sure was meant to be a comforting manner. It only reminded him of his father, so caring after tearing him down from the inside out.
“Yes boss”, he answered. He sounded flat, like his response was automated.
Nightmare sighed as if they knew he wouldn’t really come to them for help. As if they knew he would only find that same wall to bruise his other fist until it purpled and pain melded with numbness. Until his father’s whispers grew quiet against the roaring of pain in his skull. They knew that he was becoming more and more disconnected from his own emotions as his inner turmoil began to push at his mental walls.
“You are dismissed.”