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Dust was sat on the couch in the living room, listening to Horror, Cross, and Killer talk. Well, listening wasn't the right term, as he just zoned everyone else out. Killer tended to lead the conversation, usually by just talking about the stupidest shit, and as much as Dust found it funny, he wasn't in the mood to listen to his idiocy.
Dust lifted his gaze from the floor, and he glanced at Horror, then he started to stare.
Horror looked so happy talking with the others, and Dust is sure that if he was listening, he'd sound just as happy.
Did he ever look at Dust like that?
Dust shifted his gaze back to the floor, his whole mood dropping. His chest hurt, and it was already difficult to breathe. What happened? He was just fine a second ago.
Dust took in a deep breath, standing from his spot on the couch and making his way to his room. He's sure the others wouldn't miss his presence, they seemed too absorbed in their conversation anyways.
And if they did call out for him, it's not like he'd hear them.
Tears stung the corners of Dust's sockets, and he felt humiliated by it. Nothing even happened, he shouldn't be crying. What was he, a babybones? Dust took another deep breath and scrubbed at his sockets, trying to make the tears stop.
Dust carefully opened his bedroom door, then stepped inside and gently closed the door. As if someone would hear it and come looking for him. He doubted anyone would.
He dragged his feet across the floor as he made way to his bed. He slowly lifted up the covers, climbing under them and burrowing himself in the bedding. He didn't even know what caused this, he just felt sad and tired now.
The pain in his chest was overwhelming, and he felt like he was drowning, or had the weight of the world on his chest. He didn't feel like crying anymore, he just felt so tired. He dragged in a slow breath, trying to ease the crushing pain in his chest, but to no avail.
He wanted to die, he wanted to just disappear until he felt better. He didn't want to exist.
His thoughts shifted to Horror. That one expression that made him crumble, and why? It was good Horror felt happy and comfortable here, so why couldn't Dust just be happy for him, instead of jealous?
Dust started to think more. More about his and Horror's relationship. Horror was so sweet, so caring and loving. He was always there for the others, welcoming them with open arms and a gentle smile. He was so sweet and gentle with Dust, too, always taking care of him and loving him.
...
But what was Dust? Dust wasn't sweet or caring. Dust didn't really do much. All he does is hurt, whether it's himself or others, he hurts. Everyone else always has to pick up the pieces... How could Horror love that?
Well.
Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's only with Dust out of pity. Dust always had a tendency to be a loner, maybe Horror just felt bad for him. Maybe he likes Killer. Or Cross. Or maybe even Nightmare? Anyone but him. Maybe he's with Dust because the boss ordered him to be. Maybe Nightmare just wanted information. He doesn't know.
Horror's always smiling and laughing and joking with the others. He has to be happier with them, has to be. It's only a matter of time before he leaves, before he crushes his soul and gets with someone else. Maybe it'd be better.
It would be better. Horror should leave. Then he wouldn't have to put up with Dust and all his bullshit. His episodes, his depression, his attitude, him in general. He was always a problem, wasn't he? Just something in the way.
Dust knew he was in some kind of episode right now, but that just made him want to leave even more. He didn't want Horror to put up with him like this. It's what he always did, he always picked up the pieces. He needs to stop treating Horror like a therapist instead of a boyfriend, that's not right, that's not fair to Horror. This whole relationship wasn't fair to Horror.
Loneliness was a feeling Dust knew all too well. It was a crushing, suffocating feeling that hurt like no other.
Yet he found comfort in it. He liked to hurt, he hated being happy, he hated being clean, he hated being okay. He was sick, and he wanted to be sicker.
At the same time, though, he just wanted to be okay. He wanted to be happy. He wanted to be clean.
Maybe him being "okay" isn't him being okay. Healthy people don't want to be sick, after all. Happy people don't find comfort in their illness. Clean people don't find solace in a blade.
Would he ever be okay? He didn't think so.
Dust sucked in a deep breath, but it did nothing. As if he'd tried to light water on fire. Useless. He curled in on himself, embracing his sickness. He didn't call for help. Because he didn't want it.
He wanted to be sick, just a little longer.