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Sometimes, Dust sees the future.
He can't tell if it was really the future in his periphery or another delusion. It's gotten difficult to discern reality and imagination.
Occasionally, he'll get rather nice delusions. Sweet pipe dreams of the golden days, he'd close his eyes and drift off to sleep. They fade when he awakes, but if it's such a nice dream, he'd pull up an acid trip. He would then lie down on the couch and stare at the ceiling as he plops a tab into his mouth.
It's amazing, he used to think taking drugs is pointless. But he understood now why people consume it. He can see bright, bright colors, yet blurred reality. He'd stare up at the ceiling, looking like it was covered in rings of smoke. Sounds from the distance, a loosely closed water tap, singing birds, all sound close enough to echo in his mind.
The first time he tried it, he blacked out, life flashing back, rewinding a hundred hours. Sometimes, he's just a spectator; other times, it's heart-crushing. He wanted to just breathe and let go, but his thoughts wouldn't. It kept on the reminder: You're pathetic, you don't deserve to live.
He thought too much. He'd hurt. He'd cry. And he took it all, because he deserved it.
Today, he went outside for a walk, taking a tab for good measure. The people of the Omega Timeline are nice, although they judge for the murders Dust has committed, and Dust will not beg for their forgiveness. They'd call him Murder, or other derogatory names. But there are people who like him, who talk to him.
Every chatter, every footstep, it resonates within his skull with disharmony. It irritates him and reminds him of nothing but himself. If he was truly himself, anyway. He would pass by a window and see his reflection, but is it truly his?
It's all overwhelming. The vibrant colors feel so wrong, his vision feels like a puddle with discordant ripples. He tries to smile, but the corners of his lips just want to give in and frown, then cry.
Luckily, before he could really collapse and roll down helplessly on the floor, he passed by Cross's door. And even though it normally disgusts him to ask Cross for help, he's far too high (or perhaps, low?) to care. Dust knocked more than thrice, and Cross opened the door hurriedly, curiosity washing over his facial features.
He lets Dust in, nonetheless.
Cross's house is neat, the furniture is minimalistic but arranged so tidily. Dust thought he saw a tornado of paperwork, scattering socks, a treadmill, and a shabby bed. Sometimes a vision of a world he cannot return to. But it's all in his head. He knows that (he can't return).
Cross doesn't talk much; he probably doesn't know what to say. But he lets Dust cling onto him, and Dust sobs into his shoulders. Dust kept on mumbling, his eyelights flashing a manic purple. His breath came in short gasps and shudders. But Cross isn't like them, Cross has matured. He won't mock Dust for having a psychotic episode (nor does Dream).
So Dust, high on acid and low on ego, hugged Cross tighter.
Murder and Killer are two sides of the same coin. If 'Sans' were to flip this coin, they can either end up on either side. The rest will be left up to fate.
Murder has always been excellent at reading people. He thought since the two of them were similar, they'd at least have some semblance of a mutual understanding. After all, they were both from the same root.
But Murder and Killer never truly got along. Their relationship is littered with constant mockery and insincere laughter. Killer ridicules Murder for talking to a ghost, and Murder, in return, jests about Killer's broken soul. It's occasionally verbal spats and sarcasm, though they soon enough started to actively try and murder each other.
Nightmare thrives in their feuds, small and large, feeding on that negativity like the finest ambrosia. Every sour smile, bitter laughter, and toxic speech. He really only stepped in when Murder and Killer were about to do serious harm to one another.
The two sides of the same coin can never meet eye to eye anyway.
Murder is never interested in this fate, nor does he ever feel inclined to indulge in Nightmare's ludicrous fantasy and ambitions. He was only interested in the promises of LOVE; a small part of his soul screamed for him to stop, but the megalomaniac heard the voices of his dead brother resonate in his skull (kill them all, like you killed all of us, he said, he repeated).
He never really questioned his purpose ever again. At least, until Horror came in.
Horror is gruff, and like the rest of them, he is just a broken shell of what he used to be. Flawed magic and a cracked skull, he smiles like every other Sans out there. But not to Murder, or Killer. He is outright sour, gaze narrowed and mouth forming a scowl.
Murder eventually learns that Horror's alternate universe is still mostly intact, despite the ever-present insanity and desperation. Horror has a home, he has people who depend on him, a family, a life, a—
Everything that Murder used to have. And Horror isn't far gone; he isn't like Murder or Killer, who have nothing left to live for. Murder empathizes with him, a part of him even feels jealous. He confronts him, asking why would Horror join them in this hellhole. Horror just scoffs, saying a psychopath like him would never understand.
Murder hadn't met Cross personally, but he had known from Classic and Killer's memory who he was. Murder thinks he's weak, whiny; an idiot who can't do anything right. The present Cross, however, is much different.
Dust admires him. Mature, strong, condemned.
He thought Dream and Cross would be skeptical; they would doubt him, shun him, laugh at him, or be revolted. Murder would take it, take it all, swallow the true truth, and revel in the pain because it's all he deserved—
But they didn't. They never did. Fate delivered him to the Omega Timeline through their hands. CORE Frisk, its owner, even welcomed him personally. It's off-putting for Murder, it brings back terrible memories. Seeing the human, colorless and merciful; it's scary. There was no blood on their hands, but the responsibility for countless lives is still ever-present.
Many denizens of the Omega Timeline scorned him; they hate Murder for murdering their families and turning their universes into graveyards. Murder can only hang his head down; he didn't apologize. But Cross believed in his redemption; he came to his defense; he held his hand, squeezing it encouragingly.
("If you can give me a second chance, then he deserves it, too.")
They allowed him to live in Dream's place, though under strict scrutiny. A part of him wanted to kill them all, scatter their dust in the wind, their pain all the LOVE his megalomania wants to consume. He was about to, hands itching with tremor, about to impale someone's head with a sharp bone.
And he never did, never could. Cross went outside with him all the time, and when Murder was about to have one of his episodes, he'd look at Cross, at his goofy, hopeful smile. He didn't find it in himself to commit to his namesake.
Cross and Dream picked him a new name too, 'Dust,' since the word Murder is just bound to scare people off. Murder doesn't know how to feel about it.
Dust can tell Cross doesn't understand what's wrong. But Dust can't blame him, Cross is trying, after all.
This isn't the first time Dust stumbled into Cross's place high; he has done it several times in the past, and Cross might've pulled up a guide on the internet on how to help him. Dust doesn't know why, but perhaps he had relied on Cross too much.
After Dust had finished crying on his shoulder, Cross helped him to sit on the couch. Dust's vision is swimming. However, he notes the vivid details of Cross's face. The curves of his jaw, the tips of his fangs, the depth of his gaze. The purple flush coloring his cheekbones. The scarred fingers holding him by the arms.
Dust adores his visage. The imagination of him alone turns any bad trip increasingly better.
His soul beats peculiarly, thumping against his ribcage in a painful rhythm. He wants nothing more than to rip it out of his chest, show it to Cross, and ask if his tainted soul is truly worth saving. Cross, having inherited his conviction from Dream, would always say yes.
Cross stops Dust's thoughts, though. He brought a glass of lukewarm water to Dust's lips, coaxing him to drink. Dust's hand shakily held onto the glass, and Cross steadied him before the glass could fall. And when Dust finished, he told him to breathe. He counted, placing his fingers on Dust's chest.
Dust hates it. Hates that everyone around him cares so much when even he himself doesn't.
Murder tried very hard to make friends with Killer and Horror, even if he didn't see the point. He attempted small, trivial things, like sharing his food and expressing gratitude. But no matter how much he tried, they could never be fond of him.
Killer is skeptical and runs his mouth about Murder going soft, saying he's stuck in his own head like he always is. Horror seems to appreciate the shared food, but his opinion of Murder doesn't get any better.
Eventually, Murder just stopped trying.
Nightmare seems to revel in Murder's despair and guilt, as he doesn't make an effort to stop Murder either. He knows, he knows they're too far gone. He's gotten the three of them wrapped in his fingers. And they can't do anything about it. He seems to like the atmosphere his subordinates are constantly in: hatred, apathy, and fear.
Murder asks his brother for advice; Unsurprisingly, his brother tells him to just kill them all. He laughed it off.
The Omega Timeline's sky is blank white, with vapor blue clouds. It's bright, and for Dust, a little bit disorienting. He's been in and out of the underground, he has seen the sun more than once. Although it was euphoric the first time, he hated it after. The sky is too bright and a sore reminder of the home he used to have, a world he can't return to.
He'd hide his face under a hood because he knows he can't bear it if they see his face like this. It became a habit, and he never took off the hood ever since. And in the Omega Timeline, he stayed inside most of the time.
He doesn't have much thing to do inside Dream's house (Dream himself is rarely present, busy saving the multiverse, probably). Sometimes Cross would come over, but that's a very rare occasion. When he did, though, Dust enjoyed his company. They'd spar from time to time, and Dust liked it, his fingers were itching to hurt—
Of course, he can't. Cross is a formidable enemy himself (or Dust doesn't really want to hurt him, he doesn't know).
When Cross is absent, and so is Dream, sometimes CORE would attempt to talk to him; Dust refuses, he doesn't want to talk, there's nothing to talk about. Not with some human who was once them.
Dust still converses with his brother, albeit not as often as he used to. His brother seems less bloodthirsty too; maybe Dream's therapy sessions are working. He knows his brother isn't actually there, nor it is a ghost talking, just manifestations of his LOVE. His delusions are decreasing with each day, too. The nightmares not so much.
Because of this, Dust felt like he missed getting in touch with the inner voices in his head; that, or he might just be as destructive as he usually is. He began taking psychedelics, particularly LSD. It was amazing, but Dream seems concerned.
Dust brushes him off.
"You should stop taking those drugs."
Dust is drifting. His eyelights aren't focused, and he's still clinging tightly onto Cross, practically sitting on his lap. The space between his eye sockets hurt like something is pressing on it. And he's barely in the present.
He looks into Cross's eyes. His cheeks are flushed with a purple tint, brow bones furrowing in worry. He likely heard from Dream about Dust's drug solution. Those two are painfully close, mirroring each other's concern. And sometimes Dust hopes he won't have to rely on them all the time.
"...Cross?" Dust's voice is hoarse and small. He hates a lot of things, and his voice is just one of them.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think that even the worst person can change?"
It's a question that Dust always asked himself, to everyone passing by the final corridor. He repeated it to the human with every reset. The human never answered, even so, Dust saw through them. Whether or not were they able to change does not matter; they chose not to.
Cross blinks at his question. Each motion in Dust's peripheral emphasized, it feels slow, deliberate. Cross's gaze is sureness, faith.
"Of course they can."
Cross's answer hadn't changed, and Dust lost count of how many times he had asked.
That day, Killer stumbled into the room, clothes tattered and bones broken. His eyelights are unusually visible, and there are messy, ugly streaks of liquid determination dirtying his cheekbones. Killer grits his teeth, he's pissed.
"Your cat got killed again?" Murder smirks.
Killer's face contorts, his gaze narrowed. He pulled his dagger out of his pocket, stabbing it onto the table. The luxurious dark wood split in the middle with a harsh crack. Nightmare would scold them for that hole later. Killer glares at him; his knuckles turn blue from how hard he's clutching the handle.
"Want me to change your name to Murdered? I'm sure as hell happy to do so."
Ooh, he hit a nerve.
Murder shrugs, unfazed, "Not interested."
Of course, Murder knew what happened to him. Killer and Nightmare went to the Omega Timeline to go after Cross and Dream. Murder has to admit, it's amusing seeing Nightmare fail to consume the last bits of Cross's fragile ego. If he did, Cross might've been another addition to the castle; Murder doesn't want another weak-resolved skeleton in this wretched place.
(But Dust knew now that Cross's will is far stronger than any of theirs, and it will continue to grow. He saw how Cross fought, the look in his eyes, it's determination, and unlike Murder, Cross didn't steal it.)
Killer's hand is shaking, a subtle tremor in his grip. He looks down at the ruined table, and from the looks of it, his vision is scrambling.
"That guy." Killer grumbles, his tone bitter, "Needs his daddy to fight his battles for him. I swear, the next time I get my hands on him..."
And he collapsed on the table. Murder laughs. He turns to his side.
"Hey, Paps. Wanna draw a hot dog on his face?"
Dust never liked living in Nightmare's castle. It's hollow, dark, and suffocating. Dream's house, on the other hand, has golden flowers growing in the front garden (Dust helps water them when Dream can't; it's the least he can do), the atmosphere is warm, and Cross and other people would come to visit once in a while.
(It's Cross's company that made living better, somehow).
It's a reminder of the home he used to have. And Dust doesn't know whether to like it or hate it.
Sometimes, Dust remembers the others. They'd appear in his dreams too. In his sleep, the three of them bought pizza from some random alternate universe, putting it in the center of the dining table, laughing and telling jokes about their boss. Dreams like those are so nice, he ate a tab of LSD to turn it lucid.
When he was awake, and Dream was present, they would talk. Dust doesn't say much, but Dream asks questions. He likely used his aura to soothe Dust, to get him open up and his soul laid bare. Dust lets him, there's nothing much he can do when he's just as susceptible to Nightmare when he does the same.
Dream is surprisingly easy to talk to, he's open to conversation (unlike Nightmare). Dream mentions Cross. A lot of times. Maybe it's because Dust thinks about him a lot. Dream mentions fondness. Is Dust fond of him?
Dust blinks. He truly just realized. He can see through others, but not his own heart.
Sometimes, Dust experiences jamais vu.
Especially during tripping, memories would flash quickly in his mind. When he was called Murder, when he killed others when he gained LOVE. Nightmare's Castle, Killer, Horror. It's all too vivid, and those memories are all his.
Yet, he feels like they aren't. He's just a bystander, and he's watching the life of a different person, throwing his life away, making excuses.
And it confuses him. Because if he isn't his past, then what is he?
"Dust?" Cross calls out to him, and Dust looks at him. Cross blushes as Dust laces their fingers together, even Dust feels purple rising to his own cheeks. From the look on his face, Cross seems like he immediately forgot what he was about to say.
(But Cross calls his name. It truly feels like it is Dust's, his name)
Cross looks like everyone else, but his soul is unique. Dust finds it beautiful. The way Cross looked at him, believed in him, cradled him gently in his arms. His touch so real, and it is for Dust, all of it. He no longer feels so transient when Cross is near.
It's a memory that Dust wanted to own, forever. He wants to make it his, make Cross his, store the image of his smile in a little treasure chest in his soul.
He clutches Cross's jacket, leaning forward.
Shyly, Cross meets his motions.