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Nightmare's manor is a twisting labyrinth of cold walls pressing around Killer. Rotting oak floors that creak under his sneakers and peeling cream paint acidic claws have made their mark upon. The frigid air bites at Killers soul as he bears it, his ribs aching.
When Killer breathes in he chokes on the taste of iron, on mouthfuls of determination. He suffocates on the negativity that permeates the air, the scent of it potent. The weight of every sin seems to crash down into Killer and he thinks the word he's searching for is overwhelming. Though by now he's grown used to His presence.
He watches as others curl away from Nightmare's tendrils, freezing up like frightened animal. He watches the way his alternates hiss as the shadows swirl, growing agitated when He draws near. On the battlefield he watches monsters shriek and cry and try to run. And that one brings Killer particular amusement because he know there's no escape, not from misery Himself.
Killer can't quite remember his first meeting with Nightmare. If he was scared, if he cried, if he tried to run. He knows that the manor choked him though, the sheer amount of negativity making his stomach do flips and his magic spark angrily in his skull.
He also knows that he got used to it eventually. He stopped hurling when Nightmare grabbed him, growing used to the stinging pains and the swirling darkness as he settled into the whispering corners. His mind acclimated to his environment, his soul thrumming to the beat of Nightmare's commands.
He watched the cycle repeat as the other two arrived, watched as they shivered and curled away from the darkness in fear. He watched as Horror was slowly but surely melded into his role, as Dust glared at the shadows with magic cackling between bony fingers. Killer melts into the negativity—allows it to consume his waking soul—and he watches as the others do their best to deny it, no matter how well they fit into Him.
The two find their small joys in the cobwebs and tightly drawn curtains. He listens to them make small talk, passing around jokes and chuckling under their breath. He watches as they look after each other in the smallest ways, extra portion sizes, tending to wounds, patching up clothes, snarky little comments that hold care. He sees them fight a lot, insults such as 'cannibal' and 'brother killer' thrown around. Killer tastes the negativity in the air thicken, Nightmare's aura growing stronger. But then an hour later the two are sitting on the lumpy couch cushions sharing a somehow comfortable silence.
Horror embraces Dust's weird little habits. He lets Dust stand over his shoulder, corrects him when he mumbles to his hallucinations, cues Killer in on what alcohol to get. And Dust slots too perfectly against him, letting his guard drop for just a moment, an easy sans-like grin returning to his face.
And Killer feels the stale air shift around him. It'd been a slow sort of churning, a thing barely noticeable until he wakes up and gulps down a breath a bit easily.
The negativity is still thick in the air, covering Killer like a slightly looser blanket. It's less stuffy now, the air breathable. Horror and Dust bring just a bit of light to one another, each lift of a smile plaguing the manor. Killer can't stand it, this new breathability, watching them chuckle together and walk together and cook together.
So when he comes across the pair watching a movie in the afternoon he declines the offer to join them. He ignores the eyes on his back and trails down the hallway, following the traces of negativity etched deep into the walls.
There is a section in the manor that's forbidden to them. Not because they aren't allowed but because it's an area so potent with negativity that it's toxic. It's where the king Himself most often slinks around, the halls He confines Himself too as His servants bustle around the rest of the manor, carrying out His bidding.
Killer does not fear the negativity as the others do, crossing over the boundary with a rattle of his bones. He feels the darkness push and pull around him, a coldness clinging onto his soul in a gentle yet possessive sort of cradle. Because his boss is always gentle with his soul, dictating it as He pleases with an artists hand.
The halls feel darker in this part of the manors, the curtains clasped closed and the negativity snuffing out the candles. So Killer drags his hands across the walls to help him find his way, though he knows the path to his destination by heart.
When he comes to a stop he pulls open large double doors, inhaling the smell of rot and old pages. The sound of a fire crackling tickles his ear canals, the distant sound of pages turning. Killer steps into the library and does not bother to close the large oaken doors behind him, knowing no one will follow.
The bookcases create a small maze of their own as he maps a path through them, walking with a causal pep in his step for he knows this way too by heart. He peers at the titles as he passes, looking for missing books or new features as his boss likes to change them around, always looking to add to His collection.
Killer emerges and his feet move from the oak wood to a worse for ware carpet. He looks up with blank sockets to the skeleton lounging on an armchair, His feet propped on a stool, elegantly crossed over at the ankles. One arm lays on the armrest, the other elbow held by His lap and in His hands there is a book with pages yellowed by time, the title covered by His fingers. Killer watches Him for an odd few seconds, thinking to himself that Nightmare paints an oddly peaceful scene by the fireplace. It feels domestic to stumble across Him like this, nasal held towards His book and tendrils slack at His sides.
The others have never seen Him like this. They know Nightmare as the fearsome king of negativity, He who stripped them from their homes with that sick smile. But Killer has seen Him differently over the many—what he assumes to be—years of being with Him.
He has seen that sick smile, he's seen Him riddled with arrows in a rage, he's seen the skeleton with a sour face, nearly drowning in the emotions He represents. And on some occasions he's seen Him like this, perhaps not happy yet calm in His peace and simply flipping through a book or jotting down notes, reveling in the negativity around Him.
Killer observes Him for just a few more seconds, knowing Nightmare is aware of his presence though the king does not look up. He walks forward slowly, creeping down to his knees and settling against the side of the chair.
Polyester scratches against his cheek as he curls his knees to his chest. When he breathes deep, he tastes the negativity on his tongue. And Killer retches, lurching forward. It's a feeling he's gotten used to, but sometimes it catches him off guard, makes his head spin.
Bile climbs up his throat and determination flows in thick rivulets down his cheekbones, Nightmare continuing to read silently above him. In the moment Killer feels like himself, in the moment he feels home