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Killer has a tendency to leave his door open. Most times it's cracked open just a sliver, a barely noticeable yet still there opening. Sometimes he leaves the door swinging open, doorknob scratching against the paint. On the rare occasions it's closed it's typically unlocked, easily accessible for anyone who wants to enter. It's a stark contrast to both Horror and Dust, who both keep their doors locked or at the least closed when unoccupied. It's a Sans habit, Dust assumes, even back then he'd kept a lock on his door.
Dust often wonders if that's why then, if it's because Killer is so apparently different to him that he keeps his door open. Or if it's a habit of living with the controlling bastard that is Nightmare, the price of being his favorite toy.
It's on a night Dust can't sleep that Killer leaves his door wide open. It takes him just a few steps to reach the others door—they've all been placed next to one another after all, Killer, Horror, and then Dust. It's the order they arrived in, the order they were stolen in.
It feel like an invitation, almost. The darkness pooling out of the doorframe tugging on his soul, a spirit pushing him onward. Dust's feet drag him forward before his mind can catch up, slippers sliding across the hardwood floor.
Killer's room is messier then even beyond a normal Sans' standards, and it's a wonder Nightmare even allows it. There's little furniture, a bed frame snapped in half and a desk missing it's chair. Shredded clothing is strewn across the floor, the curtains torn underneath the window and allowing for the cloudy night sky to flood the room. There are knife marks embedded into the wall and shelves high above the chaos, holding glass containers of souls that cast gentle hues around the room.
The Sans himself is sleeping sprawled out on his bed, black sweater riding up his ribcage and coat hanging off of his shoulders. The mattress is striped bare, no sheets or blankets or pillows to have cases on. They all sleep like that though, Dust thinks.
In the moment, Killer looks sickeningly peaceful. He's bathed is shadows, basking in the red glow of his own soul. Dust lets his eyes circle over the target hovering over his chest, an X that marks the spot of slow rises and falls. Dust feels his stomach curling over with nausea.
He weight is a small dip in the bed, a creek of the broken frame. Killer takes up little space despite his sprawling out and Dust takes up the corner of the bed next to him, crawling up to be side by side with him.
"Disgusting, horrible, vile" His brothers words are a mantra in his head, blending into his own thoughts until he's unsure of who's they belong to.
It takes strength not to plunge his fingers into Killers soul. It's a taunt, it feel like. A perfect target awaiting an arrow plunged into its center. But Dust guides his fingers down instead, tracing across a rib.
The other shudders and his eye lights dart up. He stares into his own face for a long moment—hollow eyes and dripping determination—and he sees a path he could have took. A path where he shook hands with the human, a path where he murders to fulfill his cruel boredom. A shudder of hatred rips through him, makes his soul tremble.
Fingers lift from the ribs to glide over to his neck. Killer gives a shiver in his sleep, shifting against the mattress they share, but remains still. He curls skeletal hands around his vertebrates, an action he knows has no effect.
Dust feels his hands shake the more his grip tightens, LV strumming through his system. His fingers dig against the cold bone, hard but not painfully. He feels chips and scars as he adjusts his grip, grooves that still seem to burn.
He other hand drifts up to Killer's face, slowly tracing across his cheekbone. The determination is sticky like glue on his fingers for all of two seconds before dripping down like water. It stains against the mattress, smearing into the white.
"Y'know choking has effect, right?" Killer's voice startles him hard. His grip loosens as he pulls back, scrambling out of the bed, "It's the big, red target that you wanna aim for."
Dust looks up to see his cheekbones lifted into a grin, his sockets hollow as usual. And he scoffs as he collects himself, "Asshole."
"You're the one sneaking into my room to kill me, you had a nightmare again?" Killer's voice turns mocking as Dust steps back, breath hitching at the word.
"It's not sneaking if you leave your door wide open," Dust retorts, shoving his hands into his pockets as he spins on his heels to leave.
He makes it to the doorway, "You couldn't do it anyway," Killer's voice is low, a jeer that stabs at his ear canal, "You'd dust me and then what? Nightmare would be on your ass right after, do you in for killing his most loyal mutt."
Bony fingers clench around the doorknob, cold steal pressing against his bones so hard it hurts. He doesn't answer, can't find the words as he slams the hardwood behind him and storms off back to his own room.