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It’s been ten months, two weeks, and three days since he ran away from home. Cross has gone through several different phases of grief since sleeping on his friend’s couch and then finding an apartment for himself. In all honesty, there hasn’t been a single day that he hasn’t imagined or expected one of his brothers to break down his fucking door and tell him to pack his shit, or their father is going to beat both of their asses.
He scrubs his face roughly with cold water before wiping it off, blinking into the mirror until he can register the glow of his eyes and the stubborn scar on his face. On the left side of the sink, there is a small plastic container. He dips his thumb in it and smears the putty over the angry, red mark, sealing it off from the world the same way he did with the holes in the shitty walls using spackle. Cross leans back from the sink, his mouth dipping slightly into a slight frown.
He looks too much like Sans. But so does everyone else, evidently.
With a small huff, he scrapes off any excess from his thumb using the edge of the jar. The edges of the putty are wiped and blended into the rest of his pale bone. Then, he glances at the analog clock in the bathroom and tiredly makes his way to his closet to put on the clothes he prepared before.
Today’s the day. He’s going to go to that cafe, he’s going to order a black coffee with milk, and then he’s going to go straight back here. No receipt, pay in cash, and go.
Cross recites the steps and the script he’s prepared in his mind, worrying his hoodie drawstring between his teeth as he pulls up his jeans and does the button. He slips on his shoes, careful to keep an eye on the reflection of his door and the skinny window in the front hall of the tiny apartment, never putting his back to any doorway or opening. Then, double checking his phone and his wallet, he puts on his backpack and makes a face in the mirror.
With another dissatisfied noise, he brushes some of the stray wrinkles out of his shirt, and leaves before he can convince himself to stay in bed.
Immediately after walking out of the complex, he rounds back to double check that he locked the door. Then, he goes back inside to ensure the stove’s off, the windows are all locked and the blinds are down. Then, he makes sure that he’s got his phone again, and where’s his wallet? And also that his keys are on his keyring (they’re never off his phone’s keyring,) and then that he has a spare few knives just in case.
Now, he’s going to leave.
For sure.
Cross stares at the shut front door, hand on the lock. He looks through the peephole. No one is there, he would have sensed them first.
His palms are sweaty. Ugh, gross. He’s so sick of sweating so much all the time.
That’s it, though. If he goes outside, it’ll be nice and cool and there’ll be a breeze. He just has to go outside. Today’s the day that he’s going to go get a coffee from the cafe, it’ll be nice, it’ll suck a little bit because he has to talk to someone but it’s not going to be fucking bad. It’s not going to be hard, it’s just talking to people. When he gets there, he’ll remember the script and he can get a nice coffee out of it.
His breath hisses through his teeth, and he wrenches the door handle- except that it just yanks his arm instead. Because it’s fucking locked.
“Come on,” he mutters to himself, unlocking the door and stepping out. Keeping his eye on his surroundings (he hates this hallway, it feels so damn open) Cross locks the door. Now, now, he’s going to take his ass to the cafe. It’s five minutes away, he’s looked over the trek on his phone like three times now since he woke up and ruminated in bed anxiously at seven in the morning.
His sneakers only barely scuff against the sidewalk as he walks. It feels too loud, even with how the people around are happily chattering amongst themselves. His hood is already up and covering his head from them or any cameras. The gentle weight and sound muffling it provides is comforting, but not enough to fully lessen his anxiety. Cross chews on his jacket drawstring again as he lengthens his strides, his shoulders tight and his soul racing. He searches for the landmarks on his journey, taking a turn around the corner and walking through the parking lot with his hands in his pockets.
The first five minutes of being outside are always the worst, in his experience. He keeps waiting for someone to show up, to get struck or to get knocked flat on his ass. That’s the way they usually get about it- the most mercy they can give each other with retrieval. Cross appreciates it, though it’s hard to feel gratitude when his head is spinning and he’s strapped back into his stupid fucking chair in father’s office again. Chara gave up on saying sorry a long time ago, and Frisk never bothered. But at least they could be quick and painless.
There. The glass is glinting off the sunlight. He fights the urge to chew on his earphone wire, letting his worried drawstring slip out from between his teeth so he doesn’t look like a damn toddler coming into the shop. Thankfully, there’s only like two people in there, they’re very engrossed in a conversation at a far table from the doorway. He really hates how the windows are so big, anyone like him can see right into the store from the exterior, but that’s exactly why Cross isn’t going to be staying inside to enjoy his stupid little coffee.
He cringes as the door chimes, ducking in and running through the script in his head.
Okay, okay, don’t stutter, he repeats to himself, his expression stony as he approaches the counter. One of the monsters sitting at a table he passes by gets up, and he fights the instinctive flinch back. He’s been trained better than that. They pass behind him, which prickles all the way down his spine and all over his ribs with anticipation for a strike, but of course nothing happens- they just go behind the register and give him a jagged customer service smile.
Cross looks up from the menu he’s been staring intently at on the countertop and the words slam into the back of his teeth when his mouth clamps shut. They’re tall. The other monster is a skeleton as well, which isn’t necessarily an issue- except that he looks so much like Pap for a second that his mind stops. He blinks for a few seconds, getting rid of the image of cold eyes and a tight, disapproving scowl, before remembering to speak. He doesn’t think he’s even registered or processed the words they said to him. Cross doesn’t even know if they did talk to him yet, he’s just completely fuzzed out the past five seconds. Oh fuck, he’s already messing it up.
“I’d like a black coffee with milk, please.” His voice is even and a bit quiet. There’s a bit of that hoarseness to it, the same that comes from not speaking to anyone for weeks.
He did it! Cross feels something glow in his chest with nervous excitement. He did it, he said the thing, he’s doing so good right now! This can still be salvaged!
The other hooded skeleton nods lightly, their tired eyes flicking through the options they press on the register’s tablet. Their gloves look comfortable, Cross thinks. He wishes he had some like them. They’d probably help his joints from feeling so stiff in the cold.
Now that he’s really looking at them, they’re nothing like Pap, it’s just the face shape that threw him off. They both have that long face, but Pap’s chin is more square and this guy’s is more pointed. Not to mention the canines. He also looks a bit younger, and has a hunch and an inward bow to his shoulders that reminds Cross of when Father once-
“... three gold.” They quietly rasp back to him. Oh yeah, definitely nothing like Pap. He feels his tension slowly unwind, and he reaches into his wallet’s inventory to pull out three coins, sliding it over on the mat to avoid unnecessary noise. They take it, gingerly putting them one by one into the register’s dimensional box and pressing another button on the tablet.
“… receipt?”
More confident than before, “No, thank you.”
They nod, their braces stretching as they begin to mumble again. “... order number, is um… Is…” They sweat a little, staring at the tablet and clearly looking for the number. Cross looks away to avoid making them feel embarrassed.
“... twelve. Thanks…” They put their drawstring in their mouth, and Cross has a brief moment of ‘hey, I do that,’ before he automatically responds with “Thanks,” and finds his legs moving to sit him down in the nearest chair.
He takes a deep breath in, and then out.
That could have been worse.
He flicks his eyes around the shop, sitting in a new spot that’s easier for him to get out of and keeps his back to a wall. The monster who was sitting with the worker before is now scrolling through their phone, squinting through their wire frame glasses and jittering one fashionably clad knee.
Yeah, that could have been worse. Cross tries to relax a bit into the soft cushions, zoning out while staring straight ahead. Every now and then, he checks the windows. It’s only a few minutes before his order is called (and it’s not like anyone else is going to get up and get it, he’s the only presumable customer there,) and Cross tries not to look hurried as he takes the warm paper cup. He just barely avoids crushing it in his nervous grip, thanking the barista again, before he ushers out the door with another chime. Finally! He can go back to his bed now!
Wine sips his tea cup idly as Coffee lopes back over to him, falling into his seat with a tiny sigh of relief.
“He was almost as nervous as you were.” He lightly teases. “Odd fellow, wasn’t he?”
Coffee nodded quietly, getting his sketchbook out of his inventory again.
“Going to draw him, dear?”
Another nod.
“If he comes back, you should show him. I’m sure he’d like it.”
Furious head shake.
Wine softly laughs, before turning back to his phone. He scrolls past the missing person’s report of the skeleton monster they just saw. “You like this one?” The older monster muses.
His little brother makes a small, affirmative sound. The shop is comfortably quiet, save for the sound of a pencil on paper.
“Mmh, alright. I’ll see what I can do.”