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“Dust?” Cross’s voice is muffled, probably because Dust is holding his hood as tightly to his head as he can. The dust of the attic softens any noise here, anyway.
You could kill all of them so, so easily.
“no. no. no. i’d -” He’d hid here to get away from the phantom, to stop hearing his brother’s voice goading him to kill his family, and punish Dust for replacing him. He knows it’s just his mind, taking his guilt and sorrow and anxiety and making a false version of his brother to torture him with, but it’s hard to remember that.
Even Nightmare would be easy. Do you really think that he would have any will to live after -
“Dust,” Cross says again, and there’s a change in his voice, like he’s realized something. It interrupts Papyrus, at least.
- after you kill the rest of them? Don’t make me laugh.
“stop it,” Dust grunts, curling his claws into his hood. Dust falls from it as he moves, drifting past his eyes slowly, like snowflakes. “stop it, stop it.” He hits the wall as he scoots back, trying to escape it. He’ll never escape it, and that’s what he deserves, after what he did.
“Dust.” There’s a hand on his shoulder, now, and it makes Dust jolt hard enough that his skull slams into the table he’s hiding beneath. He stares for a good moment - Cross looks somehow relieved and anxious at the same time, staring at Dust searchingly. “You okay?”
“peachy,” he replies, dropping his face to rest on his knees. His head hurts where it hit the underside of the table, and moving makes it hurt more.
“...I guess it’s nice to see you’re speaking alright,” Cross mumbles, mostly to himself, and the hand on Dust’s shoulder flexes a bit. Dust nods in agreement, though in truth he kind of wishes he hadn’t been found at all.
He lets Cross pull him from his hiding spot, into the attic proper, and then up onto his shaky legs. Dust falls from his hoodie as he stands there and shivers, even though it’s not that cold. He’s been colder.
Cross watches silently as the dust drifts to the ground, in a small circle around his feet. He doesn’t comment when Dust leans heavily into him, or when the dust smears onto his sweater, staining the black fabric pale gray. He does twitch a bit, though, but Dust is too exhausted to apologize, or to feel bad for making Cross remember his own fucked up past.
He’s already practically half asleep as Cross picks him up, cradling him with one hand on the back of skull, and the other under his femurs. He feels more than sees Cross taking the stairs one at time, trying his best not to jostle Dust where he leans against his shoulder. Even when they get down to the second floor, his gait is slower than usual.
The bed is soft beneath him, and that’s what wakes him up. His own bed is bare, with the blankets piled up on the floor at the foot, and the sheets bunched up beneath the pillows, leaving a mostly-bare mattress.
It’s what he deserves, after all he’s done.
Dust opens his eyes to the view of Nightmare’s room, his entire body tense. Someone sighs, but he’s not quite sure who. Is Cross still here?
“Dust. Calm yourself,” Nightmare commands. And he does, of course, because he always listens to Nightmare. His body sinks into the softness of the comforter, and he cringes inwardly.
“sorry, boss,” Dust says belatedly, focusing on keeping his hands unclenched. He doesn’t want to rip Nightmare’s blanket with his claws.
He can’t quite stop his eyelights from flicking across the room as he sits up. Nightmare is leaning against the footboard with his arms crossed, legs outstretched beside Dust’s. Killer stands behind him, elbows braced on the same footboard. His crooked grin quirks when Dust meets his eyes, but there’s something strained in it.
Horror and Cross aren’t in the room, which is more frightening than it should be.
Beneath Nightmare’s gaze, Dust recoils, clawing at his hood, but the motion only aggravates the dust stuck to it. Large whitish-gray flecks float onto the bedspread, and Dust stares.
Who was that? Which monster did that dust come from?
“Dust,” Nightmare repeats, just as two tentacles come forth from behind him to ensnare Dust’s wrists. His claws are dragged from his hoodie, down until his hands rest in his lap. The tentacles binding them are cold, but he barely flexes his wrists against them.
Instead, he bows his head slightly, partially in deference and partially to cover his skull once more. The entirety of the blanket beneath him is flecked with dust, now, completely white around his body and fading outward until the deep midnight purple is simply stippled with it.
Someone pats his head, heavy-handed. "'s okay, dusty. gonna be okay," Killer says, and Dust scrunches his eyes shut. It's easier to focus on the blackness of his own sockets than the swirling motes that fall from his hood when Killer moves his hand.
The door opens and his sockets snap open, too. Cross is back, and he's brought Horror with him. Unconsciously, Dust presses himself back against the pillows. The movement makes Nightmare's tentacles slip away from his wrists, and the second he's able, he grips his hood again, tugging it so far down his skull that it hurts.
There's a smear of white-gray dust where he was sitting. He feels himself flinch.
Someone's bones are rattling. Papyrus's, in fear as he realizes he's the only one left to -
It takes him a moment to realize that the rattling is coming from his own bones, and that the taste of blood isn't a phantom sensation borne of a LV high - he's bitten his tongue. The metallic taste only serves to send him reeling, and he hits his skull on something hard.
It's what you deserve, isn't it?
"bunny," Horror's voice rumbles, suddenly very close. "lamb…"
Dust reaches for him, unheeding of how his claws must hurt when he digs them into Horror's back. He doesn't remember shutting his eyes, but he keeps them closed now, to keep the dust out of sight.
No one speaks as he comes down from his panic. Horror simply lets him cling, rocking slightly in a way that he knows Dust finds calming. It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours, but eventually Dust opens his eyes again, fingers still clutching at Horror's back as he takes shaky breaths.
"sorry," he wheezes, as much to others as it is to Horror.
No one says anything for a moment, and it's terrifying, even as Horror pulls him closer.
Here it is, the moment you've been waiting for. They're going to get rid of you, and then you can -
He scrunches his eyes shut again. "no, no no no -"
"hey, hey." When Dust opens his eyes, Killer is practically on top of him, holding his hands to keep him from clawing at himself. "hey, nothin' to be sorry for."
If he speaks, he'll babble, he's sure of it. So he doesn't speak, just wrenches his wrists from Killer's hold and replaces his claws on the edge of his hood, pulling it down over his eyes and curling into Horror.
But there's dust floating down from it, and he jolts so hard that Horror nearly falls over. Dust hears him grunt as the wind is knocked out of him.
"sorry - i'm -" He can't speak clearly, it's all gasped and garbled. When he manages to look at Horror, there's a look in the other's eyelight that he can't make sense of.
"nothin'... to be sorry for," Horror says after a moment, though the glint is still there. "...y'ever… washed this?" His claws trail along the hem of Dust's sleeve.
"no - no no, no -"
That alone seems to push Horror into making a decision, because he presses a kiss to Dust's temple, and then says, "sorry, bunny."
And then Dust is exposed and vulnerable.
He lashes out, landing only a single hit on his attacker before something cold and slimy wraps around him, holding him down. "Dust," Nightmare's voice says, far away and stern. He doesn't hear the next part, too busy hyperventilating, though it sounds like another order, directed at someone else.
He can't fight back, not like this, held to the bed. Every movement of his arms is tiring, and hyperventilation doesn't help, only makes the exhaustion worse. Someone is screaming, and it takes him a moment to realize that the voice is his own, distorted and garbled.
Then, something hits his head. He tries to hit his assailant, though his movements are weak and lethargic and restrained. And it's covering him - he's protected now. But his arms are still cold; it definitely isn't his hoodie.
There are hands on his forehead, and he tries to fight with what he has, snapping his teeth uselessly at them. But it provokes a laugh of all things, as they cover his skull even more.
"Breath, Dust." It's Nightmare's voice.
Fuck, did he try to attack Nightmare?
"wish i had a funny hat to give you, 'stead of this plain one," Killer laments. "'skeletons want me, humans fear me', or somethin'."
"You are not getting him a hat that says that," Nightmare replies, deadpan. Now Dust can focus; his restraints are Nightmare's tentacles, and on his head is, based on their conversation, a hat.
"'m sorry - 'm," Dust wheezes, unable to stop himself from interrupting. "sorry - sorry."
Nightmare's tentacles loosen, and then prop him into a sitting position. Beside him, Killer uses a hand to assist in sitting him up, and then fixes the hat so it sits correctly on his skull. "'s okay, dust bunny," Killer assures him with a crooked grin.
"Don't apologize for panicking," Nightmare agrees firmly, his tendrils unwinding save for one around Dust's waist. "Though I wish you'd have told us earlier that both the dust and not having your hoodie would make you panic."
"sorry," Dust says again. He goes to yank his hood down, but finds only the baseball cap that Killer has given him, so instead he presses it firmly against his skull. "sorry," he repeats.
Nightmare doesn't reiterate his previous statement, though he adds, "Horror would have stayed to apologize, but I told him and Cross to wash your hoodie, since we had it off of you already." His jaw is set in a frown. "You need to tell me these things, Dust. Your triggers," he clarifies at Dust's confusion.
"yeah, i could've given you one of my hoodies," Killer says, reclining into the pillows. "'s pretty much the same one anyway."
"Or," Nightmare suggests with a small grin. "We could have washed your hoodie with you still in it."
"you - you, you woulda put me in, in cold water," Dust accuses, voice slightly weak. But the banter is good; it drowns out everything else, from his panic to the voices, although he gets the feeling that Nightmare might still me siphoning the former away very, very slightly.
"I wouldn't have," Nightmare says with mock offense. His eye cuts to Killer. "Killer would have." There's no denial; Killer simply guffaws at the accusation.
"probably," he agrees when he catches his breath. "if only t'see you sputter."
Dust slumps against him, prompting an "oof," but otherwise Killer just throws an arm over his shoulder. It's warm, and his grip is firm and grounding.
Nightmare settles on his other side, though since Dust is already halfway on Killer's lap, he's nearly pushed the rest of the way there. Killer, to his credit, doesn't seem to mind, pulling Dust fully against his chest with a grunt of effort.
"At the very least, your hoodie will finally be clean, for once," Nightmare comments wryly. A tentacle winds around Killer's shoulders, and the tip rests on the visor of Dust's hat. Another wraps itself around Dust's waist; it's freezing compared to Killer's hand, still heavy on his shoulder, but just as grounding.
Dust doesn't respond to that, leaning heavy into Killer. He's freezing, but Killer runs hot; he always has. His bones are rattling again, though he can't tell if it's due to cold or anxiety. But Killer drapes his other arm around him anyway, humming tonelessly.
"di - di -" Dust starts, and some small part of his mind says, Are you surprised you're babbling? You should have just kept quiet.
It's Papyrus's voice, again, and so he drops his head onto Killer's shoulder to try and drown him out, body heaving with each breath. Then, he starts again.
"di - i, did," he mumbles, and though he can't see Nightmare's face, Killer is looking at him with a look of confusion that borders on pity. "did, did i," his hands scrape down his face, the pain slightly grounding, but not enough. Nothing is grounding enough.
Cold hands take his wrists, pulling them from his face. "Take your time," Nightmare says.
Dust nods jerkily, "did - did - did, sa - sorry."
"'s okay," Killer murmurs.
"did, did i - i hurt -" He's hyperventilating now - the idea of hurting any member of their messy little family is possibly one of the worst things he could ever think of.
"You didn't hurt anyone," Nightmare affirms.
"i hit, hit something," Dust argues. He feels lightheaded, and his vision is growing blurry -
"Breathe, Dust," Nightmare sighs. Then, "You hit the headboard. I'm sure that it's fine, considering it's inanimate."
"eh, i dunno," Killer says, his tone joking, as he cranes his head back a bit. Dust follows his gaze; a bit of the headboard has broken off, and there are deep scores in the dark wood beneath the uneven break.
Nightmare rolls his eye. "It's fine."
"i'm sorry," Dust mumbles, curling further into Killer's hold.
"Again, it's fine, Dust." He can only nod in response, too tired to argue, and too afraid that everything he tries to say will come out jumbled instead of comprehensible.
The conversation ceases, and he dozes a bit, pressed to Killer's ribcage. The soft, steady glow of his target-shaped soul burns through his closed eye sockets, but he finds it relaxing nevertheless. It calms him to know that Killer is there, so close that he could reach out and grab his soul if he wanted.
The red light is like a beacon leading to the people who care for him, kind of. It makes him feel safe.
At some point, the bed dips, and hushed voices nudge him back into consciousness. Whether or not he's actually slept, Dust doesn't know; he's still exhausted as he raises his head from its spot against Killer's shoulder, blinking blearily in the dim light of Nightmare's bedroom.
Horror and Cross are back, and with them, his hoodie. Horror has it in his lap, his claws worrying the faded, tattered hem as he mumbles softly to Nightmare and Killer.
Dust stares at it without really seeing it for a moment, before blinking to focus his sleepy eyes. His hoodie is actually blue again, and a few spots that were threadbare have been sewn up - clumsily, but he has no doubt that Horror's handiwork will hold up anyway.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Cross asks, and Dust blinks. The occupants of the room are focused on him now, and he squirms under their stares.
"'m fine," he mumbles, staring down at the comforter beneath him.
"here," Horror says, pushing his hoodie towards him. It smells like lavender, but aside from that, and the new lack of dust, it's completely the same.
He scoots forward, off of Killer's lap, to pull it on himself, yanking the hood up over the hat. Immediately, he feels better, cradled in the familiar softness of his hoodie, and the lavender scent wafting off of it is pleasant, too.
Nightmare chuckles a little at the way he holds himself tightly, but Dust doesn't care. He feels so much better.
"y'gonna keep the hat?" Killer asks with a laugh.
"i like the hat," Dust snaps, and the others laugh.
"i'll get you somethin' stupid, mark my words."
Nightmare sighs at Killer's declaration, but doesn't argue it, especially when Dust curls back against Killer with a purr rumbling from his ribcage. Even if he feels better with his hoodie back, he's still exhausted - an episode and multiple panic attacks are nothing sneeze at.
"'s good?" Horror asks, though he insinuates himself into the little pile, followed quickly by Cross.
"yeah," Dust agrees, though he's not sure if he's referring to his newly cleaned hoodie, or the impromptu cuddle pile, of which he's become the center. "it's, yeah, 's good."