An Error's Journey
Chapter 75
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I'm not sorry. At all. Good luck. I have my keg of tears prepared and ER dialed, prepare for your hearts to be crushed and tears to be shed.
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Whatever Error was doing, it seemed to work well. Each day he made others happy.
He spent days with Ink in his lap as they drew, holding them close even as his glitches writhed and scratched at his bones. At moments, he began to lose himself in the glitches, but it was worth it every time to see the Creator’s soft smile and her gently kiss away the glitches. Then when all the glitches were finally calm he would lean in and wrap up the intent-filled attentions with a final chaste kiss.
Ink was always so kind about it, talking still hurt to do so much, digging into his soul every time he opened his mouth. Ink had voice enough for the both of them, rambling on and on as they worked, the process was always so wonderful to see, and watch as Ink worked with anything and everything. Starting from many shapes and pulling them all together into unique abstract works or carefully shading and penciling in a realistic drawing.
Other days he let himself be wrapped up in Death’s wings, just simply existing together. After so long of being apart, it felt awfully fulfilling to be so close. They could go hours just contently cuddling. Sometimes, his mind didn’t want to stay blank–the paranoia far from gone. Some days he could swear he could hear them. Hear the voices words, hear their shrieking cries and insults but every time he would snap back to his skull in Reaper’s hands. Empty eye sockets gazing at him, one of the few forms of eye contact he was okay with handling now.
His cheeks burned whenever he snapped back. The voices just suddenly disappearing. Nothing but the sounds of life in the castle. The quiet sounds of the fridge working in the kitchen, maybe echoed creaking floorboards as someone walked around upstairs. Perhaps even a breeze coming in if the day was nice enough, the sounds of wildlife drifting in.
He hated when he drifted off from the others, but he loved the moments with them. Even if his body felt rubbed raw from the glitches after.
It started as a one-off kind of thing, but soon weekly after dinner Error sat posted at the island in the kitchen. He would carefully read out the recipe for Nightmare and Horror as they went about the kitchen baking. A small smile shyly crept on his skull and grew every time Nightmare passed by, always leaving a kiss in his wake. A little kiss on the top of his skull, one on his cheekbone, another on the rim of his glasses–his partners always assured he looked absolutely handsome with them on–and finally each time he spoke up he was treated to a soft chaste kiss. It was surprisingly domestic, and secretly he reveled in it whenever Horror rolled his eye.
It eased him back into eating too, and bonus points for distracting him so easily. The company was wonderful, the tranquil noise of the kitchen and banter between each other always made him forget about everything. From the size of the room to his dilemma to what he was planning. He’ll make sure they’re happy.
He went as far as training with Cross. His magic sparked and fizzled and refused to work, but that never stopped him. Each session with Cross he chose a new weapon to try out, picking up something–anything at all–from their little weapons closet and making it work for him. The voices prickled at the back of his mind, if only he had the much control and vigor with his magic.
If his footing was off for a moment, Cross didn’t comment. Only a bright smirk as their weapons clashed. Their swords advancing and guarding, empty fades blending with their lunges, a quick pivot as your opponent's sword narrowly misses.
At the forefront, he didn’t want to think at all. Knew not to. Despite the voices, the trauma of war was stronger. You need to focus on your opponent, not your paranoia. Hesitation means death.
In his off time, he wandered the castle, listening to the echoes of his footsteps when the voices wouldn’t shut up. Sometimes it led him to others.
Some days he would be running around with Killer helping him wrangle the new batch of kittens. Killer’s laughter and playful taunts barely enough to keep back the cries to just kill. Just hurt others. That was all he was good for. He could easily kill any of them with his bare useless claws. Killer’s soul was right there just waiting for him to crush it.
Other days he would stumble upon Dust’s little lab, although he’d have to purposefully head far up to do so. A tower sectioned off much like Nightmare’s little safe space. The windows were always open and airing out whatever smell the most recent experiment gave off. At times he wanted to question why Dust even used some of the ingredients he did, but he couldn’t deny the qualities they had. So he just sat at the windowsill, watching as the clouds drifted by and counting down the hours as he watched the sun rise and fall.
Although, even with Dust’s constant mutterings and talking through the science behind the madness the voices found him there too. How trivial it would be to mix the ingredients, to switch them around on Dust. How could he be blamed for an obvious freak accident? Even if he was to blame for the freak Cobalt.
Once that name crossed his mind again, he searched for a new place to be. Anywhere that wouldn’t make him think about that.
After many hours of wandering, he made his way outside in the sunset light. The buzz of a summer night approaching and a gentle breeze coming through. He watched as Dream nearby shivered, even as it felt warm to him. The perks of being a walking dead man.
Why was he even trying then? Couldn’t Death just take his soul and he just be done with everything?
He found himself by Dream’s side soon enough, laying in the grass as Dream worked on the garden he had begun. Luscious plants growing large with careful intent and care. He followed suit as Dream moved through the rows and planters, and when the guardian worked in the large greenhouse that Nightmare had happily supplied–much to Dream’s disdain, he didn’t need something this big–he found himself tucked away in the corner.
Despite everything, this stupid little corner in the abomination of metal and plastic felt near perfect. Yet he still couldn’t place what was wrong.
When nighttime fell, Dream would go inside, and eventually, one of his partners would pull him in as well. Nightmare would help him get ready for bed–even if he refused to sleep–a quick shower or a soothing bath after a long day then a comfortable change of clothes and they would all get in bed. Despite staying over so much and practically calling the place home, Dream and Ink had yet to claim one of the many open rooms. They switched between Nightmare’s room, the library with Error, and the room Death had come to call his.
Although, on the days when the voices were particularly awful, and no matter what he did he couldn’t get out of his own head, they all came to him. One by one each of them came in through the library doors, gave Error a kiss goodnight–or a shy nuzzle as Dream did–and settled in. As Error spent the night typing away to Sydney and working the best he could despite the voices screams, he could just barely make out the calm serene breathing of his partners.
Those Nights his soul felt full. Those nights it was much easier to ignore the voices. Those nights were one of the few he actually fell asleep.
Whenever by some mistake he did fall asleep, the voices and trauma continued to attack him, but Dream and Nightmare would always come to his rescue. Nightmare would assure him it was just a night terror–that it wasn’t real and that it was long in the past or completely fabricated–and then Dream would flank him with love and attention, easing him to a dreamless sleep.
But as the days continued on, his body hurt more and more, soon hardly being able to stand the texture of his own clothes. Hating every second they itched and scratched against him even as they were soft in his hands. His bones felt like they were always burning, and it wasn’t long until he couldn’t stand to have anyone touch him at all. Even the kisses he loved so much only hurt.
He felt so apart from his lovers, unable to hold them at all. Just them just being somewhat close was too much, even the sound of them existing nearby hurt too much while his soul started to hurt every moment he was alone. There was no pleasing a mistake like him was there?
The voices seemed to love jumping into this, assuring him they were there. They could help. They were always there, weren’t they? They came back in droves, and he hardly noticed when it had turned sour.
One moment things were fine, the next he snapped for things to be quiet. And all the talking stopped. Ink’s shocked face in front of him.
His lovers, despite everything, stayed with him that night. Sleeping in a distant part of the library when he started to hate the sounds of their souls.
The sounds of the castle began to hurt and he hated every moment it wasn’t dead silent. The only thing he came to stand was the sounds of outside. It wasn’t the anti-voids peacefulness. Not by a long shot, no, but it was better than having to stand another minute of footsteps or the constant buzz of the lights, the pain in his skull from even the darkest of rooms.
That fucking trashy terrible excuse of a spot in the corner of the greenhouse turned into his safe spot. Morning to night he was there. Each meal Horror would inch out and carefully set the food nearby and then return for the dish a little while later. Sometimes the plate would be empty, sometimes he couldn’t stand to touch it. The scratching of the fork or the little grains of seasoning getting on or between his bones was just not worth it.
He was just leeching off of them anyway. Hurting them more and more. As long as he was in the AU it was fine, wasn’t it? If he was in the AU, if they knew he hadn’t left, that could keep them all happy?
For now, the sounds of nature soothed instead of irritated, the noise of the day tolerable and the calm of night preferred, even if he didn’t get to bask in it for long.
Dream worked some distance away, and it was quiet. Not silent, but quiet. Each moment was another moment of hate, wishing, and wanting, followed by more hate.
He hated the sound, wished he could go back to the antivoid, wanting to just leave, but he hated even the thought of leaving everyone. He hated what he’d become, a mess of a person just hurting everyone around him, if only he could go back, just go back to before, but then he wouldn’t have Dream and Ink with him. He wouldn’t have Reaper so close and Nightmare even closer. But all he’s done is hurt them. He’s lost his hearing, not his sight.
He doesn’t miss the anxious glances his lovers share when things get too much again. When he can’t stand any noise. Doesn’t miss the bubbling tears that appear when he has to stop Ink mid-sentence. Doesn’t miss the sad expression Dream tries to hide when Error has to walk away mid-conversation. Doesn’t miss the way Reaper falters when he has to avoid even the slightest graze from his wings. Doesn’t miss Nightmare’s emotions draining by the day, that old stoic expression returning–just like the first time they fell apart and the second.
It hurts so much, he wants to hear Ink’s rants, but any noise at all is grating his skull like cheese, and his soul hurts every time he dares open his mouth to explain. He doesn’t deserve the privilege of being able to explain himself. He wants to be close to Dream, to be able to follow through on their little deal, to make Dream happy and talk with him, but his soul is too strong, the intent too much and too overwhelming–and that’s without thinking about the noise and textures of everything else. He wants to cuddle with Reaper and just hide away in those wings while Death just whispers sweet nothings and promises of making things better, but he can’t. He can’t at all and it hurts. And He doesn’t even know where to start with Nightmare.
He barely registers the grass crunching outside as the voices quiet down, and faintly, he can feel his eye sockets hurting and skull burning again. How many times was that today?
You really can’t keep count?
That’s fucking pathetic.
You expect anything more?
I expect him to just die and get this all over with, just another waste of time.
“Error…?” Nightmare’ voice whispered, pleasantly quiet, “May I sit near you?”
He shrugged his shoulders, even as the friction of his hoodie moving itched and scratched against him. “Are you at your limit for the day?” Nightmare continued to whisper, voice even and emotionless. Error couldn’t tell if the other was hurt or not or if he was sad that he couldn’t sit near.
You’re good at that, aren’t you?
Oh, he’s the best at being a disappointment.
#1 Abomination as always Error.
The grass crunched annoyingly, and he could feel Nightmare’s souls settling nearby, just outside the greenhouse if he was right. The intent felt dizzying. Too much and too little. Far too much love, but at the same time, it never feels like enough. But if it’s too much love, then what isn’t enough?
Obviously, you’re not enough.
You really couldn’t put that together?
A disappointment as always.
“...Error?” He could barely manage a small hum of a questioning tone, the bare second-long vibration already skirting on too much, itching his skull. For the sake of less friction, he tensed and waited for the feeling to pass.
Nightmare didn’t continue until his body relaxed. “...I’ve heard you’ve been avoiding Chronic?”
He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped, a twisted smile forming on his skull, “What?”
“Didn’ even know they were ‘ere.” He choked out as his soul squeezed, a pain he was unfamiliar with shaking him to his core. His cheeks burned more.
“They’ve been here for some time, approached all of us during your last memory recovery and I allowed them to stay. It seems that the gang has grown fond of the odd creature.”
Why was Nightmare even bothering to tell him all this? Not like he cared what Chronic did. Bastard did whatever they wanted and had Core to help them get away with it. His sockets stung more, as a stray thought stuck out a sore thumb. He didn’t care, even after all Chronic had done to help. He wants to care, but he can’t muster the energy to. Not when all he does is hurt the people he cares about.
“Error, I can feel your emotions churning, what’s on your mind?” How could he explain anything to Nightmare? He’d probably just break down before he got a single sound out. “... I won’t be mad if you can’t Error.”
Opening his eyes hurts and burns, the sunlight shining through and bouncing around the greenhouse, but he keeps them open. He turns his head from the corner where it was snug and safe, and he can barely see the black of Nightmare’s skull and legs where he sits outside the doorway.
“...how’d I make you happy?” The words come out slurred and meek, and it feels like a death grip on his soul as the air hangs with quiet. Not silence. Never silent. But the lack of any response when Nightmare is always so fast to reply leaves anxiety in its wake.
As his throat burns and his body aches, he forces out more, his cheeks burning and vision blurring. “I don’t know what you want me to be…” and he barely can hold back the hiccup of a sob, the voices simply background noise as he listens for Nightmare’s response.
“…I don’t want you to be anything.”
“Then how do I make you happy?” His voice strains at speaking but each word is more confident, the less he thinks about it and the less he can hear the voices–but it just makes the outside world so much more thundering. The sounds of Dream moving about in the distance too much, the wind too loud, the rustle of dirt below where he sits as he barely moves infuriating.
“…You make me happy by being here.” No matter what, he was just going to hurt Nightmare.
“…There’s no other way to make you happy?” His eyes finally drifted up to Nightmare’s. The barest bit of his skull peeking into the greenhouse. There was a glint in Night’s eye that he couldn’t place, but whatever emotion that was betrayed was quickly snuffed, the stoic expression returning.
The quiet left in the question's aftermath is deafening. That lovely marbled eye is calculating, and it’s one of the few he can stand to look at. While it rakes over him, it feels comforting. It feels like the hold of the lover. It is the hold of his lover. The only hold he can bare right now.
Finally, after a long silence, Nightmare sighs.
“I’ll admit. I’m not sure what to say for once. You being here makes me happy, yes… of course.” Nightmare chuckles sadly, “But I also like you being happy. I’m happy when you’re happy... when everyone is happy… I hold the same conundrum you do. I want to help you–but you don’t need help. Never have, never will.”
Nightmare sighed once more, skull drifting down as he broke eye contact, barely looking over his shoulder, over in the direction of Dream. “I’m not sure what exactly is going on in the wonderful skull of yours,” the intent made his skull swim, “but, I think you’re… not seeing what’s actually happening. Drawing conclusions if you will. It makes us–and I mean all of us–happy to be near you…”
Nightmare turned back, barely meeting his eyes, “We understand that everything is a lot right now. That everything is a struggle. You don’t have to do anything at all. It hurts sometimes, yes. But that is a hurt of privilege. Picture it as you starving… and we are hurt that we don’t get a share of your food. Yes, it hurts. But only a little–and it is highly nonsensical and momentary hurt, we can live without a full conversation or being near you.”
“...’M sorry?” Nightmare huffs out a surprised laugh, near gallow in tone.
“Error, Ru, my love. There is nothing to be sorry for at all. We can wait or if you want, try and help it so you are not ‘starving’ anymore. We can go at whatever pace helps you.”
He doesn’t have the heart to tell him why it hurts so much, and he can see the flash in Nightmare’s eye as the thoughts fly and crash in his skull. The thoughts of Cobalt, of all the pretending, of both lives, of past lives, of the deaths he’s caused. All of it weighs, and it crushes.
“Error.” For a moment, his vision barely clears, his cheeks stinging and burning once more. Nightmare’s eye is trained on him, it’s soft, and it’s perfectly purple. “No matter what has caused this, whatever memory has triggered this, no matter what you’ve done, we will all still be here for you.”
“...Even if I did something horrible?” Nightmare chuckles softly, a kind gentle, and genuine smile gracing his corrupted features, and he can see the slight waver in the smile avoiding the chip in his cheek.
“Love, you could destroy the entire multiverse… even a megaverse if it exists out there… and I would follow your every step.”
The sudden power and control he feels from that statement alone is intoxicating, but it's the exact same reason he needs to leave. He can’t pull them down this path with him. They don’t deserve that.
“...I’m always here.”
Error sucks in an unneeded breath before sighing, his voice choking and breath stuttering as more tears roll down.
“…I-I kn- know…”
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Yeeeeeeaaaahhhh not sorry. Although I was even like--damn I'm surprised at myself--when I was writing this. Anyway from now until the end of the series should be weekly updates. Prepare your hearts and tears for next week.