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“The stars are falling today!”
The shout cascades through the halls like a wild bullet, bright and sweet. Error is the first to stir, gathering up his pillow and lobbing it with horrifying precision. The cushion just barely swishes past Killer’s figure. It earns the room a kettle-like shriek. Normally, it would be an amusing little noise, but Error’s glare hushes any muster of mockery.
Cross peers from his blankets, meek in the eyes. He glances up at Error’s bunk with a smile timid enough to make anyone feel guilty for existing. Error’s jaw snaps closed.
“Someone shut him up,” he growls simply. Cross’s worries slip deep into his ribs.
Nobody has a response for Error. Killer continues his rite and bangs on Dust’s door with his heel. Before he can say a greeting, the door swings open and Dust stands, still and unsettling, as expected. Killer rolls with the empty look in Dust’s sockets and grins madly. “Hey, man! Good morning!”
“What are you doing?” Dust’s question is quiet.
“The stars are falling today,” Killer repeats. He props his hands on his hips as if it was obvious.
If it was anyone else, Killer likely would’ve been slapped to the floor for his insolence. However, Killer was one of the youngest of them, left at only fifteen. Anyone in their right mind, and even those who weren’t, knew better than to diminish the last remaining light in their rickety home.
Dust was one of the few to understand that fully, even if it confused the lot of them. How someone so violent could look at kindness with softness…such things were of a better time– before the world ran into ruins. And yet, he did it anyway. Perhaps it was all he knew how to do.
He places a hand on Killer’s skull and gently pushes it down. Killer squawks, but that's the extent. No snides or smacks, as it always seemed to be.
Dust doesn’t waste time dressing in his room. He steps out into the corridor completely polished, gas mask already hanging from his toolbelt. He gestures at Killer, a tilt of the head, and Killer’s expression falters before realization overtakes. The boy stumbles back the way he came, crashing into his bedroom with the hisses of Horror sounding after him.
“Get up, Horror,” they all hear from the hall. “I want to see something bright.”
Error’s face falters from his high perch. He swings his legs over and climbs down the ladder. “I’ll try to see if Nightmare is up for it.”
Silence follows. None dare to question such an idea.
They all know the truth.
When Killer comes careening from his bedroom, wrappings and mask teetering in his arms, they decidedly stay quiet.
Error is careful with how he wraps Cross’s limbs, even if nobody comments on it. However, it’s apparent and true, and not one member could soil the moment with their pettiness and jests. Cross stood at a small four feet and eleven inches, malnourished from the time before he came into the Gang’s careful eye. Although food wasn’t common, even for the Gang, it was better fitted– more filling. However, hunger had taken its victory. Cross would never grow past the height he was stuck at. Forever the small fourteen year old that was far too mature for his own good.
The air outside was cruel. It took its pleasure slowly dwindling defenses down until victims laid dead and gone. Being so weak– so little, it made sense for Cross to get that extra care. It made sense for him to get the last cut of bandages, while Error’s own arms remained barren.
“What about you?” Cross asks, eyelights trained on Error’s red, chipped bones.
Error’s smile is soft. It doesn’t quite fit his face, jagged at the edges and drooping like melted flesh. He cups the boy’s hands in his, careful to keep his gloves pulled down his wrists. “I’ll be fine. Haven’t had any problems. You know that.”
Cross’s eyelights flicker to Error’s grip. His mouth presses together, firm. The unspoken question hangs in the air. Silently, the two face off, hidden beneath the crux of their smiles.
Cross does not say a word.
Error’s breath of release hangs heavy. It taints the air between them and leaves it rotten. Cross’s eyelights dim a bit more, and do not lighten, even when Killer hurries his way over and slings an arm over his thin shoulders.
Horror looks away. Dust keeps his eyes on Killer instead.
Killer does not notice. As always.
Killer follows after Error, shoes nipping at his heels. The man does not comment on it, shockingly. He treads forward with a blank look, something amidst the fog. Killer snakes past him and heaves open the door, just before Error’s trembling fingertips could brush the rusted metal.
The room is dark– almost like a black hole. Error’s eyelights study whispers of candlelight, the reek of sickness turning his stomach. Killer jumps into the black. Cold awaits him, tentacles swaying like rotted hinges.
“Nightmare,” Killer breathes, a prayer.
Error squints. Within the depths is a cot, stuffed with quilts and heavy blankets. Feathers drift onto the floor, and skulls touch like the fleeting kisses of rain. What a foreign concept, now. Nevertheless, the bed hosts a parasite, one with fading breaths of old and shaky smiles. A hand breaks out from the blankets. Something inside Error tightens, but he doesn’t move. Those skinny fingers brush against Killer’s cheek, as if reverent, and he hums a satisfied, broken tune.
Once upon a time, when hope still carried throughout the gang, everyone believed that touching the sick would doom you to the same fate.
It didn’t matter anymore.
Everyone died eventually. No matter how badly you tried to ignore it.
“We’re going to see the stars today. You should come. It’ll be fun.” Killer bends his skull against Nightmare’s, eyesockets closed in peace. The soft smile that graces the weak skeleton’s face is unnatural. Too warm– too frail. It doesn’t suit the sharp jaw and cutting gaze that Nightmare was known for. The legacy. The power. Here, he is nothing but a slump of what he used to be. A doll sewn together with old strings, hardly holding his stuffing inside. “Please come,” Killer adds, and the slip of desperation rings true through smog.
Nightmare’s mouth opens. It closes again, as if gaping for air. His eyelights, trembling with precision, study the boy’s tight, beaming smile, as if he’s the only being left in existence. With a hardy cough, Nightmare wheezes out a laugh. “Look at me. Do I seem in any condition to join you?”
Killer wilts, but his smile doesn’t fall. It stays planted, like a rose left behind in a storm, forced to cling to the soil and wish for release. “We could…carry you. Horror could. Or– or even Error with his strings–”
“-Hush,” Nightmare coughs out. “Do not be daft. You know better, Killer.”
Killer’s shoulders lift, as if an unsteady record scratch. He buries his skull into the crook of Nightmare’s neck, and Error can tell the exact moment that it registers for Nightmare that wet tears are beginning to drench his bones. He murmurs sweetly, words only for the prized child to hear. The favorite. His fondness is the last bit of life that remains.
Quickly, Nightmare’s eyelight shifts, studying Error. In the muddled pool of cyan and purple, Error can’t make out any sense of love– no trace of the wild enamourment the man used to throw Error’s wicked way. There's nothing but emptiness. Hatred, some may claim, but that would hurt less than what Error knows to be true.
There's no place for yearning anymore. There's no point in anything. Their little game ended years ago– as soon as the air filled with disease and death. As soon as Nightmare watched his brother’s eyes glass over, blood pooling down his chin as his last hurrah to the fucked up world that laid before them, gun still cold in his palm. As soon as their beloved leader was reduced to the shriveling sobs of a child, shrieking for a miracle that would never come, hands dug into yellow and stained red.
Error looks away. The boards nailed against the wall will need replacing soon. He’ll have to get Horror to do it.
As Killer stumbles away, Error pauses to stare at the man. The two do not speak for a moment, left behind in memories of gold and promises of something kinder. Nightmare’s expression is calm. He heaves a barrage of gags into the crook of his fist before laughing, strangely serene.
“Give my boots to Dust, will you? They will fit him well.”
Error doesn’t react. Not outwardly, he hopes. All he knows is that his grip on the doorknob suddenly feels much more aggressive.
“All right.” Error pauses. Then, he bows his head, eyes closed. “Sleep well, my King.”
The startled snort that bellows from Nightmare’s chest is short lived, cut off by coughs so deep it rumbles the bedside table. His eye is glittering when he offers Error a sharp smile.
“By Gods, Error. What a parting gift.”
Error smiles despite himself. He closes the door without another word.
Killer’s misery has all but dried up as soon as he's greeting the world. Horror watches him skip ahead, Cross fast behind, dancing between debris and strangled tree trunks. His gas mask remains secured tightly, readjusted numerous times by Dust until he was satisfied. His shrieking laughter is enough to make one forget the green air hanging from the tree tops. Horror finds comfort in that. The joy of pretending. Killer was the perfect shield for them all.
The sun isn’t much of a sight anymore, swallowed by dust and clotting smoke. However, Horror can tell by the dense thickness in the air that it is at least set. The hazy yellow from beyond is nothing more than a trick to the eyes, and Horror is well versed in spotting such things. He pats at Dust’s back and signals for him to scout as far as his mind allows.
Dust doesn’t wince, even if he likely should. He teleports away in a flickering mess of purple.
Horror clears his throat, and Killer and Cross stop still.
They wait for a while. Error settles beside Cross, scanning the bandages as if rushed by a fever. Horror assumes his spot with Killer, and he allows the boy his ramblings. The ability to find such happiness in the littlest things is a conversation well heard among them, and Killer is a star at it. He speaks of his fantastical dreams from the hour prior. He grumbles about the gruel they had last week, when his stomach betrayed his sense and flipped inside out.
“I wonder what Ink would say about tonight.”
Killer mentions the name so easily that Horror isn’t certain Error will react.
He does anyhow.
He doesn’t look at Killer, but he jumps as if shot. Standing there, with Cross’s beady eyelights trained on his every move, the jaws of grief take its bite into Error’s throat. He resembles a limp body more than anything. Like the rabbits Dream used to shoot. Like the weeds Ink would pick for birthdays.
Then, he shakes his skull and hides his hands into the depths of his sleeves, and that's when Horror knows then he's shaking.
Killer doesn’t notice. He never does. He barrels on, and nobody dares to interrupt him.
Dust returns a moment later. He’s panting, body curved to the side as he attempts to conceal the flurry of his chest. Killer runs into him, arms wrapped like snakes. He stands on his tip-toes and allows Dust his brief rest. If Horror didn’t know better, he would think the boy was attempting to hold Dust up. However, when he spies that sunny smile, Horror doesn’t question it further.
Dust runs a hand against Killer’s hood. When he looks at Horror, his face is blank. “We’re good,” he states.
Horror glances at Error. They both nod.
With gentle pushes, the men huddle behind the boys and press on.
They find a nice spot to settle down at. The dirt is soft in some areas, as if still valuable. However, Cross doesn’t miss the crater just a few yards away, seeping with acid. If he looks harder, he could maybe spy a couple of hands clawed into the dirt, with the rest of the body nowhere to be seen. Cross swallows a ball of nerves down. It tastes like iron and reeks of rust.
There's a sense of calmness between them all. Cross gazes up into the night, squinting hard, attempting to spy stars still hung within. He says to himself that they are there, bright and clear, just hidden. If Killer can shine so brightly, then surely, beyond the fog, there's something beautiful left behind.
Killer comments on how he wishes he could take his mask off to see better, and that earns him a brutal look of fury from Dust. The topic is not expanded on further.
He isn’t sure how long they sit, waiting. Killer’s gaze stays focused. From within, it reminds Cross of nicer times. Back when Ink used to bring out his telescope. The sky wasn’t as cloudy, then. The air was still nice to the ribs. Only the children were expected to wear masks back then, and so, Ink’s knowing smile was forever cemented in Cross’s memories, bustling with rainbow. He’d point up to the milky sky and say that one day, he’d build them a spaceship, and they’d fly far away together, all to find something better.
Killer and Cross were younger– less smart. They did not know what a ship was, but the drawings Ink made to show them were simply enchanting. Stained in charcoal, Cross remembers the rough touch– the hyena laugh– the curled eyelights that became wide with affection every time Dream laughed. He remembers how Ink held the sun in his palms, and kissed it so softly on nights that the two believed were of their own. Cross never told of his eyes in the dark, but how could he not look? They were the prettiest things. Sunlight and flora settled in the kitchen and murmuring softly between one another, endless adoration fluttering through their ribs.
Cross’s mind flashes with screaming. He remembers the sound of Ink’s wheezes, laying in the same bed Blue used before he too became one with the night. He remembers the sun sheltered by the moon, but that wasn’t enough. The sun was not meant to be pelted by storms.
The gunshot still rings in Cross’s skull sometimes. The blood never did come out of his old coat.
“Look! There,” Killer yells, only quieted by Horror’s soft shush.
Cross looks up to see light.
A mix of yellows and oranges slide through the sky, faded and murky, and yet so clear among the emptiness. The soft swooshes of the objects remind Cross of wings, back when birds could still soar through the sky. Tears well up, even though he knows better. He knows he will simply fog his glasses, and will be left with sticky, dried liquid against his cheeks. However, Error does not scold him. He, too, seems fixated on the colors above, as if staring at a familiar blur of paint.
It’s been so long since Cross had seen something so beautiful.
He wonders if Dream is among them. Did his wonderful soul follow the stars, and now is wishing them well? Is he waving to them with Ink by his side, twin flames glistening in the black?
“Ink would've loved this,” Killer says for all of them. “Can you imagine his face?”
The three adults do not respond. Their faces are a void, plain to see.
“I wish he was here,” Killer says next. Then, much quieter, “I wish they both were.”
Cross takes a breath and remembers, as he's the only one left to.
The walk home isn’t as exciting. Dust walks steadily on, Killer flanked at his heels, much quieter than usual. He takes a moment to peer at the others, all faster and climbing the next hill. Dust pauses. He looks over his shoulder and sees fire.
“You okay?” He asks.
Killer glances up, unsteady. He ponders the question for a moment, as if it's a grand, philosophical question. He settles on his answer when his smile returns.
“I wonder if it’s gonna rain soon.”
Dust doesn’t speak. He knows the deflection as soon as it leaks from Killer’s teeth.
Slowly, he holds out a hand. Killer stares at it. His smile remains hollow, and any trace of his bright white eyelight is vacant. Dust doesn’t try to explain it away, blaming the stained glasses, blaming the thickness. He knows, and Killer understands.
His hands shake when they meet Dust’s fingers. The gloves warming Killer’s palm are a nice texture. Dust would know. They used to be his, after all.
Hand in hand, the two continue on.
“Do you miss them?” Killer asks, and Dust can tell by the way his words curl close to his chest that he expects no answer. Then, after a short moment, Killer sighs. ”Blue, too?”
Something dead twitches within Dust’s soul, like a rabid animal. He doesn’t look back at Killer, afraid that he’ll see through his bleak, pale eyes and know the depths of his sorrow. How it rips through him on darker nights, leaving the walls a battle ground for his instability. The voices that beckon him to take the plunge. To head into the basement and pluck that gun from the shelves.
It awaits him, he knows. Blue’s gentle voice sings about it sometimes.
Killer’s fingers dig in, sudden and tight, and Dust glances back.
There's something within the fog. Something so small– flickering like a dying ember. Killer’s teeth tremble, even as his smile grows.
“Do you still have his ring?”
Dust tilts his head. It burns at him; the query. The metal hangs from his neck, pressed against his ribs, heavy as an urn.
“Lots of questions today,” Dust muses. Killer’s sockets curve, just like a cat. Just like memories lost to the neatly organized graves dug in the backyard.
“Do you have answers for me?” Killer’s chin tucks into his neck and he swallows. He clears his throat with a resounding cough, as if proving a point. “Are we ever gonna talk?”
Dust eyes him, almost amused. It’s his turn to ponder, to turn the question over and over in his skull until he’s examined every crevice.
Dust delivers the judgment with a toss of his head, facing onward. “Let’s catch up with the others.”
Killer’s face doesn’t fall. His smirk is cozy, slotting into place. “Okay, Dust. Whatever you say.”
Error is coughing once they reach the front door.
It had started as a simple brush for air. Then, a barrage soon followed, and a hand was flying to cover yellow teeth, desperate and vicious. Horror had stared, as if back in war, observing a comrade getting shot in the jaw with an unstable shrapnel. Dust did not look his way, hand still rested in Killer’s grip.
When he breaks free, Error doesn’t comment on it. He tears off his mask and settles in on the hook, muttering that they’ll have more disinfecting to do after all.
Everyone carries on.
Killer pushes past, almost blind, skipping through the entry way like a boy on christmas. Cross seems frozen in place. He looks up at the man with all too knowing lights that are promptly ignored as he's shoved inside.
“What would you like for a bedtime snack, Cross?” Error questions, as if it’s any other day. He rips his scarf off and fights a cough, but everyone can catch the way his face strains.
Cross’s shock grows, and his breathing halts. He gapes at Error as if a corpse. Error’s browbones furrow.
“Cross?” Error asks again.
Cross does not move. He does not even blink.
Error’s teeth quiver when he frowns.
He slaps the boy upside the head, hard and fast. The sharp crack echoes through the room.
Killer pauses long enough to glance before he's busying himself with the laces of his boots. Dust kneels down beside him to assist. Horror sneaks by and heads for the showers, mind already trained on food, lumbering footsteps being the only sound to accompany the lot of them.
Error takes in a harsh breath, and it catches on mucus, forcing a wheeze at the ends, but his glare does not falter. Through gritted teeth, Error leans close. “Pull yourself together.”
Cross is breathing again, but he does not move, head hung low, eyelights small in alarm.
Suddenly, his hand inches upward until his fingers glide against the burning mark on his skull. Weakly, he bobs his head.
Error moves away. “Go get washed up.”
Cross does as he’s commanded without any fuss.
They are in fresh clothes when it happens, cleaned and polished with their bones smelling rich with alcohol.
Settled at the table, having one last feast before heading off to bed to get some rest, a blood-curdling shriek crashes through the house like an alarm. It’s like a siren call– hollow and so pain-ridden that Cross tears up from the mere sound. Everyone whips to face Error, eyelights searching and searching for a command.
Error only has to look up from his meal for everyone to know what has happened.
Killer’s seat remains empty. From deep within the hall, Nightmare’s door remains open.
They sit in the heaviness and listen to Killer wail.
Error’s fingers rattle violently. His spoon catches against his bowl and clatters out in an agonizing symphony. His face remains cool and passive as he nods towards Horror, breaths coming in practiced precision.
“Go check on him. We’ll need to disinfect the room later.”
Horror’s eyelights disappear. However, he stands, and obeys.
There's nothing else to be done.
Error dips his spoon into the soup, and takes a resounding sip.
“You have to get out, Killer.”
Killer’s head stays cemented against Nightmare’s neck, hidden from the world. No tentacles are active to wrap around his limbs. No life is within the wide, dull cyan eyelight. All that’s left is stillness.
Killer’s gloves clench around Nightmare’s shoulders. “I can’t. He can’t be…”
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Horror attempts, but a feral scream is all that Horror is met with.
Killer’s eyelights burn with rage, leaking with hot tears that sludge down his cheeks and bleed into Nightmare’s bones. “I just talked to him! He was fine!”
“Killer–”
“--No. No, you aren’t taking him from me. He’s the only one who speaks to me. He’s all I have.” Killer’s voice trembles with thick, sludge-like saliva. “You can’t take him.”
Horror’s voice tries again. “He’s gone, Killer.”
“Shut up,” Killer growls. He hides away once more, his little body curled around Nightmare like an abandoned baby animal, nestled against his mother’s rotting corpse. “Let me have him. You can’t take him too. Let me– let me have this.”
Horror waits. Frustration leaks. “He’s gonna rot. You wanna stay for that? Wanna keep him here, suffering?”
Killer heaves out a sob so great it claws at his back and jolts his spine. “Please stop…”
“You make your choice, then. We can bury him like he wanted and asked us to. But if you want to be fucking selfish–”
“--Stop screaming at me!” Killer howls.
“THEN GET THE FUCK OUT, KILLER!” Horror yells back, voice booming.
Killer’s wails grow louder, becoming almost inhuman. For a moment, Horror says nothing more, listening to the full-body cries that shoot through Killer’s body, forcing him to reach and gasp for air that will never satisfy him.
Killer slowly bends away from Nightmare’s body. Horror catches him before he falls from the cot.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Killer. I didn’t…I…”
Horror presses Killer against his shoulder, beefy hands steading the boy’s body. All that remains are wounded whines, muffled by Horror’s cradle.
Nightmare’s body is still. He looks so small.
Horror swallows. “I’m sorry.”
Killer does not answer. For once, he has nothing to say.
Outside are four gravestones, lined up in a row. The newest one still has fresh stone. The dirt is still unsettled. Beside it lies an empty hole, tombstone not yet attached.
And yet, someday, it will be. But for now, the truth is kept inside a stuffy room.
Error peels up the blankets and settles in. When he looks up, Dust is beside him. His new boots shine, freshly polished. Error smiles at that, even though it's not funny. It's not funny at all.
Life goes on.