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The kitchen has always been a weird source of solace to Dust- not as much as Horror, no one could ever love that room as much as Horror- but it was… warm. Sure, his room was safe- sealed tight with three different locks even though they could all shortcut through anyways- but the kitchen was the closest thing to homey that this castle could be. He could sit at the table, thrumming his sharpened fingers into the furniture although Nightmare told him to stop, it messed up the expensive wood, and watch as Horror hummed around the stove and Killer played on his console and Nightmare read a book in the armchair in the living room. He could see everything from there- and he liked it. A lot. He felt safe.
It was the closest the voice that rattled in his skull ever came to blissful silence.
But tonight, the voice whispered harshly- a hand on his shoulder that whispered offers to him that were syrupy like honey, an offer for an escape from the torment, a release from the pain.
Dust would try hard not to listen- but he was easily influenced by his emotions, suggested by his moniker and everything surrounding it.
And that was how he found himself stumbling back to that kitchen, gripping the walls like a vice as he let the texture of them guide him around the castle. He’d been here so long, wandered so many nights, that if he’d suddenly lost his sight he’d fare just fine.
The mansion was dark this time of day. While, of course, it wasn’t the shining example of cheerful any time of the day, it was much more eerie during these hours- late at night, where not even the cicadas chirped anymore. The wallpaper whispered and the floorboards groaned under his weight, minor as that may be. Dust was only a bag of bones, after all.
He daren’t flick the light switch on once the hardwood turns to tile, padded feet creeping across the floor as he kneels by a drawer and begins to rummage through the various snacks. Dust wasn’t loud, by any means- Nightmare had trained that right out of him- but the negative aura he tried to repress would alert the Guardian of his turmoil. And he didn’t want to be bothered by him, at the moment. He’d want to talk. He hated talking. All talking ever did was make them come back again and again and again, with that stupid grin and stupid blade. He was so happy when he made them stop grinning.
Dust didn’t really think he was talking about Nightmare anymore. But he’d have to hope that the general aura of grief in the mansion would disguise his own.
Mismatched eyelights brighten the drawer under his fingertips, minutely, and he lets out a soft curse as his phalanges catch on a bag and the contents spill into the drawer, crumbling. into. dust.
The stupid voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
He knew. He knew he was flawed and idiotic and the weakest link. He knew he was sensitive and horrid and every negative thing that was ever said about him. Even before he became this.
The bag crinkles in his fingers.
“Y’know, there’s actual food nice n’ sealed up fer yah in th’ fridge.”
He jolts and turn, an embarrassing amount, and all that focuses in the dark is a single red glowing ball several feet above his crouched position on the floor.
“…but you’d’ve known tha’ if you’da come down to dinner at any point th’s week.”
Horror’s voice is a low, steady rumble, and he never really had to lower it to avoid disrupting any of the others. It was always somewhat hard to hear the monster, but Dust preferred that over when Horror yelled. He only yelled when he was angry. And he was animalistic when he was angry.
“Dust.”
Dust finally inhales, as if he needed to, and gives a lax little chuckle as he crosses his legs on the ground and tucks his arms behind his head as if he was a normal person taking a nap on the beach.
“…come here often?”
Horror is unamused. The red light flickers.
“More th’n you. You’ve been dodgin’ us for days. Y’ stay in y’r room all day an’ sneak out in the dead of night and eat popato chisps. As if I don’t cook enough ta feed’ja.”
His voice is slurred moreso than usual, a sign of his exhaustion, and Dust feels a little bad, suddenly, as his limbs drop a little.
“Er. Sorry, Chef. Just haven’t been feelin’ it.”
The vague answer pisses off Horror, he knows it does, by the way his voice rumbles in his throat for a moment before he sighs.
“Up. Get up. Sit at th’ table.”
Dust blinks for a moment and pulls himself up quickly when Horror’s fingers twitch. When Horror tugged, Horror tugged. Hard. He'd rather avoid dislocating his arm at this hour.
He drags his slippers, intentionally, alllllllllll the way to the table before plopping down in his usual seat as Horror trudges to the fridge and takes out a carefully sealed Tupperware container with his name written in erasable marker. Another pang of guilt pulses through his bones before it subsides. He’s learned to let it wash over him, at this point.
It’s unwrapped and placed inside the microwave as Horror’s fingers press the button, each press slow and purposeful. The light inside illuminates the room as the soft hum of the microwave fills the empty spaces.
With the newfound light source, Dust can see more than the eyelight now. Horror is tired. Not the permanent, everpresent tired that most Sanses seemed to have going for them- he just looked disheveled, his jacket sleeve caught between his radius and ulna and his t-shirt half tucked in.
“Why’re you up?” Dust finds himself asking, despite feeling like he shouldn’t push things, and the eyelight slowly rolls from the microwave to his own.
“…didn’t sleep. Knew I wouldn’t wake up again if I did. Wanted to talk t’ ya. ‘M not the kinda monster to break into yer room. This w’s my next best option.”
Dust inhales through his teeth and nods.
“Ah. Yeah. Guess it’s kinda hard when the skeleton in your closet won’t come on out.”
Horror presses on a microwave button right before it shrieks instead of entertaining Dust, pulling out the dish with his hand and testing the temperature before nodding slightly to himself. He rummages around a draw, pulls out a fork- the one with small tines, Dust wouldn’t eat if it wasn’t clean- and slides the dish across the table to Dust. They both watch silently as the bowl scratches across the wood to Dust’s placemat.
It’s lasagna. Smells just as good as it did when it was wafting around the castle hours prior, and he can’t help but pick up the fork and tear into the soft pasta as sauce dribbles down his cheek, and he doesn’t even care if it stains his sleeves as he wipes his bones.
“Mm. It’s really good. Your stuff’s always really good.”
The terse look on Horror’s face softens a bit as he looks away.
“…’m glad. Y’ haven’t eaten real food in days.”
Dust chuckles a little.
“It’s not like I need food that often to live. It’s all magic. I’m not some fleshy human.”
A scoff.
“And chisps are going to suffice? What happens when we go on our next mission? You’ll fall to a single blaster.”
“…yeah.”
Some part of him felt that he wouldn’t really care that much. Would he? If he was turned to his namesake in only a moment? It really was that easy. He could do it himself.
Huh.
The voice was choking him a little. Not strangulation- he knew what that felt like. Just an uncomfortable grip to let him know what he belonged to.
“What’s wrong.”
Horror speaks almost nonchalantly, and Dust swallows a lump that wasn’t quite chewed yet. It dissolves in the back of his throat.
“Nh?”
“Don’t give me bullshit. I know we’re not th’ most stable bunch but you’re worse lately. And we’re not moving. Until y’ speak.”
The slur in his tone had faded back to his normal level. Dust swallows again- though there’s nothing in his throat this time. Nothing palpable anyways.
“I’m just… y’know…”
Fighting the urge to skewer a bone in his throat daily? Was that it? Or maybe it was the thoughts that told him to attack Nightmare. Just to see what would happen. Betray him. Betray them all so no one cares anymore if he leaves his room or not.
“Dust.”
He’s been mumbling again. He wasn’t sure what was audible and he’s not sure he wants to.
“Yeah.”
“D’ya think you’re depressed?”
A noise between a snarl and a laugh leaves Dust, making some weird gargling noise instead.
“Depressed. I’m not fucking… sad.”
The lasagna isn’t very appetizing anymore. The fork lands with a plap on the noodles.
“…’s not just that, dumbass. ‘S tired an’ unmotivated an’ hurt. Desperate to get out. Ta escape. Do you…”
They both jolt when Dust kicks a leg on the table, the dish bouncing. Dust’s fingers dig into the wood.
“Hm. What. Do I what. You gonna ask if I wanna kill myself? If I wanna shred myself into a fine pulp and rip all two hundred and six bones off my body with a sickening ripping noise? Huh, Horror? ‘S that it?”
His tone raises a bit, but Horror doesn’t flinch.
“Do ya?”
Dust opens his mouth. Shuts it, and shuts his eye sockets, too. Sighs as he slumps into the chair.
“Fffuck. I dunno.”
“…y’ sounded real… passionate about that.”
Dust gives an exaggerated exhale, swinging his legs in the chair like a small child he once knew.
“The voice. It’s louder lately.”
He’d told the others about the voice- only when he was distressed, of course, he wouldn’t offer that voluntarily. And Nightmare never backed off. The voice fluctuated often, sometimes quiet, sometimes loud, a sticky sweet voice of hope and promises of an end to pain and a harsh scream that gave impossible demands.
“D’ya… wanna talk about it?”
God, talking. He hated talking. Fuck talking.
“Yeah. I do.”
Silence for a little more.
“…well, go ‘head. Whenever you wanna.”
Yeah, Dust, just speak. You clearly don’t have a problem doing that with anything else but this.
“It’s… just… it’s… it’s me and it isn’t. It’s not… fghh…”
His fingers clutch under his hood and onto his vertebrae as he tugs slightly.
“Take y’r time. But don’t… hurt yourself.”
Dust’s grip loosens.
“I don’t hurt myself. Like, I’m not a- cutter or somethin’. If I was gonna hurt myself I’d do it to kill me. You know. No point in doing some stupid shit if I could do all the stupid shit at once. You know?”
He’s certain Horror does not know, but the monster nods anyways.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck. Yeah. Like. Maybe I should cut out the top part of my skull. Make the voice stop.”
His head darts up and his eyelights flick quickly from the hole in Horror’s head and back to his eye sockets.
“…sorry. No offense.”
“None taken. But I don’t think y’ should do that.”
“I know. I fucking do. It’s irrational and it won’t stop shit, but just- god, the dread. The everything. It doesn’t stop. I can ignore it real well sometimes but it doesn’t stop.”
Horror sits contemplatively.
“You should… talk to ‘mare about this. We could… he’ll help ya if you ask y’know. I’m… takin’ somethin’. For the hunger. It’s helped a lot. I don’t think about… nh… humans much anymore.”
Dust chuckles, but it’s low and fake. It sounds so wrong and right all at once.
“Hhhhah. Pills. It’s like putting the voice behind a glass wall. It’s muffled and blurry. But it’s not gone. And one wrong move and it fucking shatters and hurts worse than before. Jagged and chipped and bloody. I just- i don’t- wanna fix it. I mean, i want it to stop but i want it to stop. I want to stop. It’s- I-“
His voice gets stuck in his throat as his hands clutch to his hood.
“I don’t recognize me anymore. There is very little left of me and it’s never coming back. I’m stuck. Done. This is it. This… is it. I ruined me. Us. I ruined Sans.”
The breath leaves his non-existant lungs as Horror screeches his chair closer and side-hugs him- even with only one arm, his grip is deathly.
“You did not ruin Sans. If you ruined Sans, what does… that make me? Killer? Any of th’ other Sanses that were discarded like us?”
“It’s not the same,” he chokes, hands gripping to Horror’s jacket, “Fuck, it’s not nearly the same, you- you didn’t have a choice, your family and friends were so hungry, Killer was manipulated by that stupid child, but me? It was of my own violation. I killed my brother. I killed everyone I love for what? For LV? For control? To spite a ten year old? I killed them. And now what? What did I get? I ruined my own life. You are saints and I’m a sinner.”
Horror’s eyes narrow, and he squeezes him closer.
“It was not your fault. You were pushed far past your breaking point. You had t’ watch them do the same thing ov’r and ov’r again, hurting everyone y’ loved. You are not a sinner. ‘N we are not saints. We’re all just monsters. Worst and best parts o’ that.”
A nod, and Dust inhales, but it’s shaky, and he’s crying into Horror, who holds him close and runs his hand down his spine.
“Hh…Horror?”
“Mmyeah?”
“I think I am fuckin’ sad.”
“I know.”
It had been minutes, or seconds, Dust could never tell, before he pulled away, wiping at his sockets. The display of emotion embarrassed him.
The voice was a whisper. Embarrassing. Letting people see you like this. For shame. You are shameful.
“You wanna talk to ‘mare?”
In… and out. Slow, deep breaths. What Nightmare told him to do when he got like this.
“…yeah.”
“Kay. C’mon.”
He tugs the smaller skeleton up, and Dust sharply sniffles as Horror clutches his arm with care and pulls him to the wide entrance of the kitchen, lasagna long forgotten as it chills with the air.
The food would spoil slowly before it rots.
What a waste.