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(Art by Bubble)
Sleep has never really been friendly to Cross. He's been an insomniac since he was a teenager, courtesy of hypervigilance brought on by trauma and stress. And that's only in this timeline — stars only know whether he was an insomniac in previous ones, too.
There are a lot of reasons he and sleep haven't been on speaking terms in three decades, but none of them hold a candle to what Epic experiences. That's just his opinion, though, and he doesn't voice it — mainly because if he does, someone will nag at him that suffering isn't a competition and there's no trophy for having experienced the most trauma before age ten.
(If there was a trophy for that, he would win it. He’s always been fiercely competitive, so he ranks it on the list of the very few good things XGaster has given him.)
Still, though. Cross can sleep, at least, and if it's fractured by nightmares, they're just that. For Epic, it's like living a second life where everyone else is determined to break all of his bones, but even that doesn’t diminish his joking nature.
Cross has always kind of envied Epic's ability to take everything lightly. He can’t help but take everything seriously — too seriously, if Killer and Dust are to be believed. Epic has made the same jab at him before, but it never came off as mean when it came out of his mouth.
He knows, despite his envy of Epic's easygoing personality, that much of it is for show — much of it is for him. He hates that Epic feels the need to act for him (and he hates that he appreciates it), but he's also well aware that he does the same pretending. He's just much less successful at it, and certainly not as lighthearted.
…According to Killer, he usually just looks constipated when he tries to act like he isn't upset. Which is stupid, because they're skeletons, and constipation isn't something they experience.
Regardless of any tangents, the facts stand: Cross is an insomniac; Epic has it worse; and Cross will never, ever voice that he thinks his own experiences pale in comparison to Epic's, because even though it's true, he'll be told again that suffering isn't a competition.
Either way, Epic is still the stronger one between them. The one who can shrug off anything, who doesn't let one little nothing ruin his day. Cross wishes he could be that way; instead he takes everything personally, and lets the smallest thing toss him into a pit of depression. He can't even keep it to himself, like Epic tries to — sure, he'll admit something's wrong if Cross pries, but to someone who doesn't know him as well as Cross does, it doesn't look like there's anything wrong.
(Most days, when Cross does pry, he spends too long psyching himself up to just ask what's wrong. And then, when it's finally confirmed that, yes, something is bothering Epic, he just kicks himself for not asking sooner.)
Even now, Epic seems, at first glance, to be resting peacefully in the grip of sleep, but Cross knows better. There's still a little furrow between his brows, and his sockets are screwed tightly shut. His body is stiff, as if he's feigning sleep, but he's not. Cross knows he isn't, and it's horrible.
(Art by Bubble)
He should wake Epic up — in fact, he'd probably get more rest if he were woken up now than if Cross were to let him keep sleeping and wake up on his own, likely from a nightmare. But he can't guarantee that whatever dream Epic might be having now will take a turn for the worst, and he doesn't want to ruin what little rest Epic is managing to get…
Cross sighs, turning back to the ceiling above him. Epic had plastered little glow-in-the-dark stars onto it at some point. They hadn't been there when Cross had first started coming over again, after all was said and done between the X-Event and whatever Nightmare and Dream had had going on. Back then Epic had mostly slept on the couch, if he slept at all. But one night, when the stars had appeared above them without a word, Cross knew it was because he had had a panic attack from waking up in a dark and unfamiliar place during their previous sleepover.
(Art by Bubble)
It was kind, and it was unobtrusive, and that was Epic. Cross wants to be that way, too, but waking his friend up from an almost-guaranteed nightmare feels too obtrusive to be kind, even if it would certainly be received well. He can't recall a time that Epic has ever been mad at him, even in his exceedingly vague memories of the earlier timelines.
(Sometimes he wonders if it's just for pity's sake that Epic doesn't ever seem upset with him — pity for his lost, universe-less, amnesic friend. Epic is so genuine, though — Cross doesn't think that little part of his mind is right, even if it's difficult to ignore.)
(Art by Bubble)
Above him, the glow-in-the-dark stars seem to twinkle faintly, but he knows it's just a trick of his bleary sockets. He could get up and do something to try and dispel the insomnia — Nightmare has always told him that getting up to read for half an hour helps more than just lying there, waiting to fall asleep — but what if Epic's dream suddenly takes a turn for the worse, and Cross isn't there to wake him?
He's still a guard at heart, and no matter how much XGaster had thought otherwise, Cross personally believes he was always meant to be a guard — even if it's just through the pejorative of guard dog, not as an actual Royal Guard. Either way, he's still a guard as far as he cares, and he doesn't mind watching over Epic's sleep at the expense of his own, even if it means neither of them will actually be rested tomorrow.
Epic is still stiff, his face pinched, but he doesn't seem to be actively having a nightmare. Cross twists himself, laying on his side to focus on Epic fully, though the stars still glow their soft green in his peripheral vision. It's not bright enough to cast a glow onto the room, but Cross's eyes have adjusted enough that he can pick out the details of his best friend's face in the darkness.
Even in sleep, Epic's artificial eye shines dimly, illuminating the central part of his scar in a dreamy shade of purple. It doesn't light up his whole face, but it's strange enough that Cross takes notice — he's seen many a skeleton asleep before, and most dismiss their eyelights, himself included. The only other skeleton he knows who doesn't is Horror, for similar reasons.
(Art by Bubble)
Idly, Cross wonders if it's annoying to have a physical eye like that. Epic's doesn't seem entirely physical, as compared to Horror's more fleshy eye, but both are more substantial than a normal eyelight. Their skulls, like all their bones, contain magic, and while things can enter their craniums, it's usually not entirely pleasant due to the tightly-woven matrix of small ley lines within being disturbed. He supposes it's possible that the magic inside of their skulls could realign itself around an intrusion if it had no other option, but he doubts it's pleasant.
Beside him, Epic twitches, a sharp jolt that tugs on their shared blanket. Cross watches with bated breath, but the only other movement is a minute tightening of Epic's jaw as he grits his teeth.
Cross sits himself up and stares down at his friend. Should he…? It doesn't seem like it's bad enough that Epic needs to be woken…
As he watches, Epic makes a choked off sound, and the line of his scar flares with purple light from the eye within. Cross frowns, reaching out to cradle Epic's cheek, stroking his thumb down the scar as if it will soothe the frantic magic contained within his friend's skull.
Epic flinches, and Cross pulls his hand back like he's been burned. He doesn't think Epic flinched because of him, but he doesn't want to make whatever he's dreaming of worse, either. He has no idea what influences Epic's dreams, or if his dreams are influenced by the real world at all. Does stress make them worse, like it does for most people? Or is it solely up to whatever strange discretion the eye has?
Cross doesn't know; Epic hates talking about his dreams. He hates sleeping in the first place, but Cross tries to encourage him to do so. Even if he wakes up exhausted and in pain, it seems to help refresh his mind. Cross only wishes it did the same for his body, like it's supposed to.
He's seen Epic on bad days, when the days he's been awake can be counted in the double-digits and the hours number in the hundreds. He's seen him with bruise-dark sockets and eyelights sparkling with mania. He's seen him zombie-slow and dragging his feet.
But he's also seen Epic on good days, days where he's slept. It's not perfect, because on those days it's obvious his friend is in pain, but the dark smudges beneath his sockets lighten, and his movements re-coordinate themselves. He's jovial, if self-deprecating, but relaxed. The hypervigilance, always dialed up to ten when he's sleep deprived, lessens to the point where the only obvious tell is how he prefers to sit with his back to the wall, white eyelight flickering across the room almost imperceptibly.
It's not a perfect fix, but it's better than watching Epic run himself into the ground until he's nothing more than a purple-black streak in the dirt.
Witnessing his nightmares, though… There's no good solution to his problems with sleep. There's nothing to be done about the eye, and despite how frightening it is to watch him go through the nightmares, Epic shakes them off nonchalantly every morning.
The glowing stars on the ceiling are starting to blur now, and Cross lets his sockets slip shut. For a moment, the inky blackness behind his eyes is peaceful, broken only by Epic's not-quite relaxed breathing beside him.
Then, something shakes the bed, and Cross is up like a shot, any lingering sleepiness quickly dispelled by adrenaline. He stares frantically towards the foot of the bed for a moment, unsure of what it is that startled him, before Epic thrashes again. Cross turns to look at him, soulbeat hammering against his ribs.
Epic's skull twists with such force that Cross worries his cervicals have fractured, but the rest of his body remains tense. Cross can't help but hold his breath, too afraid to move closer and disturb whatever fragile equilibrium seems to have been attained in the few seconds between the first jolt and now.
Finally, Epic's entire body goes limp. His skull returns to a natural position, and his body relaxes for a split second.
In the next moment, he rockets up, nearly hitting Cross's skull with his own due to the sudden movement. His hands move in an uncoordinated frenzy, reaching up before finally wrapping around his neck. The sight of his vertebrae peeking through the empty holes in his hands is uncanny.
Cross can't tell if he's awake. Both of Epic's eyes are open, the purple eyelight bright in the dark room, but he seems unseeing, pressing himself against the wall at the head of the bed. His bones clatter together, and Cross can't help his own shakiness as he reaches out to Epic like he's trying to charm a stray cat.
“Hey, dude,” he says quietly, tentatively putting out his hand, like Epic is a dog who needs to sniff it to trust him. “You're awake, it's okay.” The words sound empty, even to himself, but he can't help it.
He's scared, and that feels horrible to admit when his best friend is sitting in front him, distressed from a too-real nightmare.
Epic's eyes flick to him, still wide and frantic. For a moment, Cross feels as if he's the prey to Epic's predator, but it passes when Epic's body crashes into his. Cross catches him with a grunt, wincing as Epic's claws dig into the thin fabric of his tee-shirt and right into his scapulae beneath it.
“It's okay, dude,” he says, hoping he sounds more reassuring that he feels. “I'm here. It's okay.”
Epic's breath is loud and shaky in his ear, and he presses his skull against Cross's shoulder as he pants. His bones rattle against each other, and from this angle, Cross can see the tiny pinpricks on the back of Epic's cervical spine. He must have clawed himself when he woke up, given the frenzied grasping of his neck.
Cross reaches up, resting a hand on Epic's neck. Epic flinches, and then relaxes, which makes Cross feel a little better — his friend recognizes him in even in his agitated, post-nightmare state. Even so, it takes him a moment to focus his magic enough to heal the tiny injuries on Epic's cervicals, working against the anxiety that makes him feel queasy with the responsibility of taking care of his usually steadfast friend.
The glow of Cross's magic waxes and then wanes as he heals the claw marks on Epic's neck, and as the light disappears, Epic sags against him fully. It takes Cross's eyes a moment to adjust back to the darkness, still hardly penetrated by the stars stuck to the ceiling, but he can feel the absence of the tiny wounds, completely gone in less than the span of time it had taken Epic to make the injuries in the first place.
Epic shivers as Cross runs his fingers over his cervicals, making sure he hasn't missed any other wounds. His rattling hasn't ceased, nor has his grip loosened.
“It's okay, dude,” Cross repeats. The success of healing Epic's neck is rapidly draining back into the feeling of being in over his head once more. He's never seen Epic this bad. He's woken up shaken from his dreams occasionally, but never so frightened that he clings and rattles this way.
Not for the first time, Cross wonders just how real Epic's dreams are. It's one thing to say I'm forced to fight monsters in my dreams, and they cause me real pain, but it's a quite another to think about just how awful and painful and real it all must be for Epic to react like this.
He doesn't know how to help beyond being there and holding Epic. He feels woefully inadequate, but he must be doing something right, since Epic is clinging to him, is letting him see him like this at all.
With a shaky breath, Cross drops his head, slotting himself even tighter against Epic's trembling body. His face lands against Epic's neck, and he would curl closer if the geometry of their bodies allowed it. This close, Epic smells different than usual, but it's not fear sweat, or even the stale smell of drool that Cross would expect from someone who drools in his sleep like it's his full-time job.
Instead, inexplicably, Epic's neck smells like blood. Coppery and tangy, and for a moment Cross thinks that maybe his own mouth is bleeding, because of how potent it is.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Cross asks. Despite his near-whispered volume, his voice sounds loud in the dark.
Jerkily, Epic shakes his head, but Cross elaborates despite the negatory. “I smell blood, dude. Are you sure?”
Epic shakes his head again, somehow even more erratically this time. Cross frowns, unconvinced. He's willing to take Epic at his word, but he's not sure if Epic would even notice injuries at this point, because of how worked up he is.
Slowly, Cross moves his hand from Epic's back to his neck, though he almost chickens out from how much tighter Epic clings to him, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like don't leave, don't leave when Cross's hand leaves his body. He relaxes again slightly when Cross rests his hand on his cervicals, but it's hardly perceptible with how much he's shaking. If he wasn't pressed so close, Cross doubts he would have noticed the minute drop of his shoulders.
Cross feels around Epic's skull and foramen magnum first, tracing the bones with the pads of his distals. Having something to do — even something like searching for a bleeding injury — makes him feel better.
“It's not real,” Epic says, voice muffled by Cross's shoulder. “It was just in the dream.”
(For a moment, it takes Cross back to a different time. One where he bled without feeling pain, only knowing the blood was there from its metallic smell. One where he thought It was never real.)
(Epic needs him, though, so he forces himself to focus on his friend instead of dwelling on times long past. Somehow, it works better than any of Nightmare's breathing exercises, though he still thinks sparring with Killer or Dust might be the best method.)
“What do you mean, dude?” Cross asks, fingers still dancing on the processes of Epic's cervical vertebrae. Epic slumps further into him, his breathing slowing down. It's still too close to hyperventilating for comfort, but it's getting better.
“They want me dead,” Epic answers shakily. He twists, keeping himself firmly in Cross's lap, but freeing his face from being muffled. “They want me dead,” he repeats, “and this time they got me.”
“The… the monsters?” Cross asks hesitantly. He doesn't want to make Epic answer questions rather than focusing on calming down, but he needs to know his enemy — the cause of Epic's anxiety — to really help his friend.
(So he tells himself, anyway.)
Epic nods. “My eye. It let me see them. But when I finally got more powerful than them…” He heaves a sigh. “Then it started giving me nightmares. And they want me dead.”
He twists his skull to look at Cross's face. His eyes are wrong — the white eyelight is hardly a pinprick, and the purple one is three times its size. For a moment, Cross feels hunted, but then Epic closes his eyes, heaving another deep breath. When he reopens his sockets, the eyelights look the same, but there's no longer a primal anxiety in Cross's marrow.
It's just his friend. His poor, sweet, overtired friend.
“And they got you this time,” Cross confirms.
“Got me good,” Epic says with a humorless chuckle. “Didn't even skewer me — just got close enough to snap my neck.”
Cross frowns. His fingers have long stopped moving, but his hand still rests on Epic's neck. He doesn't feel any injuries that could be even remotely consistent with a snapped neck, just the little dimples of still-healing claw marks that will be gone by morning.
“There won't be anything there,” Epic mumbles, leaning a little heavier into Cross's body. He sounds exhausted, but considering how tense he is, Cross will be amazed if he manages to fall back asleep. “There never is. It's just — it's just pain, once I wake up.”
Pain and phantom smells. Like a flashback, Cross thinks, but infinitely more painful, because instead of being done and over with, it's new pain each time.
And it keeps happening, and there's never anything there. Never anything to show for it, except pain.
Like an Overwrite.
Cross tugs Epic closer, holds him tighter. He can’t put into words how upset he is that his friend still goes through reminders of trauma every single day, and he won’t bother trying, because that won’t help Epic now.
It’s another thing Epic has worse — every time he looks into the mirror, every time he falls asleep, he gets reminded of his father. At least Cross has the reprieve of sleep, even if damn near everything else can be twisted into reminders of XGaster.
“…You okay?” Epic’s voice is slurred, though with drowsiness or pain, Cross isn’t sure. Whatever the case, it startles Cross into flinching and clutching Epic closer, squeezing a grunt out of his friend.
“Just…” Cross pauses, unable to decide how to finish his thought. Epic so rarely lets himself be vulnerable; he doesn’t want to fuck it up by talking about his own irrelevant problems. Even the thought of admitting how unmoored he feels makes him want to vomit.
Epic shifts, sitting up from where he’d ended up slumped in Cross’s lap. He looks so tired, sockets half-lidded and still bruised with sleeplessness despite the precious few hours of sleep he’d managed tonight. He still smells faintly of blood, and it makes Cross’s bones itch, but having Epic out of his immediate reach would probably be worse.
With Epic’s gaze on him, Cross feels like he has to answer, so he averts his eyes and admits, “I’m just… just worried about you.” It’s an honest answer, but it’s definitely not the whole truth.
He’s worried about Epic. He’s worried that he isn’t actually helping, and that Epic is only still in the bed with him because he’s too tired to kick him out or move to the couch himself. He can’t stop thinking about what Epic’s father put him through, and the things XGaster did to him are knocking against the wall he’s built in his mind.
“Cross,” Epic says, his voice steady but thin. “I’m okay.” One of his hands leaves where it had been clutching at Cross’s shirt, fumbling for a moment before finding one of Cross’s hands. He plucks it from where it had been resting at his waist and holds it tight. “This… just happens. And it sucks, but, hey, what can I do?”
Cross squeezes Epic’s hand so tightly he fears that he’ll break his friend’s fingers. “I hate that I can’t help you more,” he confesses softly. “I hate watching you avoiding sleep until you can’t anymore, and I hate that you can’t escape what he did to you even when you’re asleep.”
Epic squeezes his hand back, a weary smile gracing his face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“No, no.” Cross will absolutely not let this become focused on him. It’s not right — Epic is struggling, and he’s, what, thinking of the past because he can relate his trauma to anything? Afraid that he isn’t helping because he can’t just kill whatever is hurting his best friend?
“Look,” Epic takes his hand back, only to bring up to Cross’s cheek. “I’m okay, bruh. I promise.”
Bluntly, Cross says, “I can’t tell if you actually mean that or if you’re deflecting.”
“…Both?” Epic replies sheepishly. More sure of himself, he continues, “This sucks. Always has, probably always will. But… you’re here.”
“Yeah. And I hate that I can’t do anything.”
Epic chuckles. His hand is warm on Cross’s face, his thumb a brand beneath Cross’s left socket, to match the scar under his right. “You’re here, bruh. You’re worried. It’s more than I’ve had before.”
“I hate that. This is just,” Cross frowns, trying to think of the word he wants. Epic grins up at him tiredly, dipping his thumb down to try to wrestle Cross’s mouth into a smile. “Just — stop that! This is just, like, basic etiquette for best friends, dude.”
He’s glad Epic is smiling, weary as it is. It’s certainly a welcome change to his previous frantic breathing and trembling, though Cross won’t complain about him remaining in his lap. It’s grounding, and the closeness helps him relax — Epic is easily in the safest place in the room, in Cross’s opinion.
“Even if it is basic etiquette, you still don’t have to do it,” Epic shrugs. “But you do. It’s real sweet of you.” For a moment, his smile looks more genuine, and beneath his thumb, Cross’s face heats up.
No one’s ever called him sweet before. Most of the compliments he’s received over the years were related to his work ethic or his discipline. In fact, most of the time his feelings and emotional involvement were what got him reprimanded, at least in his own universe.
Cross stumbles over his words, and Epic takes that time to resettle himself, curling into Cross’s lap like an oversized, bony cat. His sockets are closed, and Cross is sure he can hear the thump-thump-thump of Cross’s soul, given how Epic’s skull rests snug against his chest.
He’s still not sure if the harsh tattoo of his soulbeat is related more to his anxiety or to the fluttery feeling caused by Epic’s offhand compliment. He’ll wager the former; Epic has called him many things over the years, some more flattering than others, and he’s never had what feel like palpitations in response. Sure, sweet is different from best bruh, but the thumping of his soul feels more like the come-down of a panic attack.
Eventually, for lack of a better response, Cross ignores Epic’s previous statement and says, “Is this actually comfortable for you?”
“Yup,” Epic replies immediately, sagging further into his uncomfortable-looking spot. He’s tucked into Cross’s chest, curled up in a position that makes his bony rear dig into Cross’s femurs. Considering they’re both skeletons, it’s actually not all that bad, except that Epic seems lankier without his bulky layers. It makes him seem too big for the space, like a teenager trying to sit on their mother’s lap.
Epic’s eyes drift shut again, and Cross hesitates briefly before asking, “Will you be able to fall back to sleep?”
Eyes still closed, Epic shrugs. “Maybe. Wake me up if I seem like I’m…”
“Having a nightmare?” Cross guesses.
Epic just shrugs again. “I was trying to decide between that and dreaming,” he says with a bit of a laugh. “But — you’ll be here? If… if I —”
“Yeah,” Cross interrupts. “I’ll be here. I’ll wake you if you’re dreaming again.” He finds Epic’s hand again, squeezing it briefly before letting it fall again.
He feels like he’s seeing a hint of his own insecurities in Epic. It kicks up his anxiety again, briefly, until Epic shifts, attempting to get even closer. He’s already pressed himself entirely to Cross — it’s like he’s aiming to get under his ribcage now.
Cross shifts to lay down again, but he keeps Epic pressed to him in his arms. Seeing Epic this way scares him, but he can handle it. He can protect Epic, repay him for the act he puts on for Cross’s sake… though now that he contemplates it, Cross isn’t so sure it’s entirely to put him at ease.
Just like him, Epic is terrified of being vulnerable. He’s just more effective at hiding it, but he holds himself in such a way that it seems as if he’s doing it for everyone else’s benefit.
And Cross doesn’t want him to have to do that. Not anymore.
“I’ll be here,” he murmurs once more. “Promise, dude.”
Epic doesn’t respond but for a sleepy sound. It might be agreement, or it might just be the sound of him settling firmly into the unconsciousness of sleep. Either way, it’s Cross’s cue to close his own eyes, finally succeeding in drifting off himself.