harbor hangout
horrordust to close off the deadend mtt poly... for now :)
At midnight, the harbor smells like diesel, salt, and dead fish.
Murder must have walked past hundreds of boats and ships by now. Big oil and cargo ships are parked next to smaller, cruder fishing boats, like a hodgepodge of cars anyone would find at a festival parking lot.
Murder doesn't look at anyone's eyes when they stop and blink at him, sticking out like a sore thumb, what with him fully-clothed and too sluggish to walk upright. He's not nervous per se; it's just his first time seeing Horror's workplace. His eyes -- dull white -- peek under his hood, darting around to catch a familiar sight of cracked bones.
Eventually, he spots it: Horror, crouching besides a bollard with thick ropes at his feet. Murder stops a couple feet away on the boardwalk, looking down at the pier where Horror is. The other skeleton sports a tank top, bit torn at the arm holes. His jacket is tied around his waist, smudged with oil and grease. He looks focused, with a frown between his eyes that Murder dares call cute. Horror wouldn't like that though.
And, the one-eyed monster stirs a little at the new presence he cannot see just yet, but his expression twists into one of annoyance. He throws the rope on the ground, grumbling.
"What? I told you. I don't know where Marc kept the fucking tool box. Just--" He turns halfway and meets Murder's eye with his singular de-powered one. His rant cuts off. "... What the hell are you doing here?"
Murder shrugs, hands in his pockets still. "Can't I visit?" he asks, voice muffled behind his mask. Horror cleans his hands with a filthy rag before tossing it aside, still frowning at Murder.
"You've never done it before," he says.
"I'm doing it now," Murder mutters, suddenly feeling out of step. Maybe he's doing wrong, coming here without saying anything. Maybe he's made a mistake.
... As if he'd never done it before. Ha.
A voice sounds behind Horror. "One-Eyed, who's this?" An arm slings over Horror, but the skeleton just scowls and slaps it away. The stranger, probably Horror's coworker, laughs and whistles at Murder. "Well, shit. That your beau? You have someone cook and bring breakfast for you, Rory? Kiss you goodbye at the dock like a wife with sailor at sea?"
"Shut your bitchass mouth before I knock all your teeth off," Horror grounds out, but barely any true malice behind the words, just pure annoyance.
The other fisherman just keeps going anyway. "Color me surprised, I guess. Didn't think anyone would tolerate your ugly ass long enough for a relationship. But hey, one man's trash, another man's treasure." He looks up at Murder with a crooked grin. "Sorry you got stuck with this guy, man."
Murder shifts, mostly from the cold. His hand adjusts his mask. "It's fine," he replies, almost mechanically. "I have shit taste, I know."
The fisherman laughs again. "He's such a miserable little shit, yeah. How did you two get together anyway?"
Horror turns fully towards his coworker, a storm taking over his face. "Go the fuck back to work."
"Can't. Busy talking to your mysterious boyfriend."
Horror picks up an anchor. A real metal anchor that scrapes loudly on the wooden boards.
The other guy takes one look at it and immediately backs off, hands in a placating gesture.
"Okay, okay. I'm backing off. Chill, man."
Horror only lets out a gruff, "Leave."
"I'm leaving."
"Don't bother me."
"You're such a charming guy."
"Die at sea."
The coworker laughs all the way down the dock. Murder watches his back, then turns his attention back to a still-fuming Horror.
He distinctly remembers what Killer told him before dropping him off here. You guys should hang out more, the tar-streaked skeleton crowed. You look really cute together, you know? And so, Murder is here, staring down at Horror and not knowing what he should do except existing in the same space as this specimen of a Sans. So confrontational. So antisocial. So unlikable. Murder could see how others eye Horror here. And in a sense, he could relate to that acute sense of alienation -- he's not exactly the best person around either.
Still, he feels the need to give unsolicited advice. Not like Horror can't tell him to fuck off.
"You should be nicer," he says.
Horror scoffs, "Fuck off." Yup, he was right on the money.
"Just saying. People will like you more."
"I don't want people to like me."
"... I want people to like you."
Horror sends him a look, the same one that carries so much silent derisive judgment. Murder resists the urge to duck his head, feeling stupid again, even though he knows he shouldn't. Still, being with a person like Horror -- being with someone who is so socially challenging -- sends his nerves all jittery. He wants to be with Horror. He does. But Horror is always making it hard to be seen with him. Always so brash and brutish and ill-mannered--
What kind of person thinks of his partner like that.
Murder winces to himself, not turning his head at the disembodied voice. Somewhere, far away yet too close at the same time, he can hear the droning of his incompetent therapist, listing out what's wrong with him specifically, as if no one also has these floating thoughts about others.
At least, unlike some people, he does go to therapy.
He doesn't say anything though, just idly watching Horror do his work. The skeletal fisherman scowls at something, muttering to himself before jumping into his boat, ropes slung over his shoulder.
"--the fuck..." is all Murder could make out amidst the mumbling. The wind disperses the rest in the night.
"What is it?" Murder asks, just to fill in the silence. Horror just frowns deeper.
"Nothing."
Murder stays quiet afterwards, shuffling his feet as Horror goes back to his task once more. Awkwardly, he steps closer to the ledge and leans against the bollard.
"... You heading out all night?" he asks, lamely. He knows the answer anyway, but feels the need to talk.
"What do you think fishing boats do?" Horror grumbles.
Murder tilts his head. "Fish?"
"There. You're learning."
What an asshole. And yet, Murder cannot stop thinking fondly about it. There's something refreshing about such a disarmingly, unashamedly boorish Sans. They don't allow themselves to be such across universes much, but still Murder wants to cling onto some remnants of his old self.
Why though. You hate Sans.
"Do you usually take so much time preparing?" he asks another question.
"Yeah. Because I don't want to get stranded at sea. Shit's creepy."
"Is it?" Murder looks up at the horizon. "Looks peaceful to me."
"From here, maybe," Horror scoffs, finagling with some metal hooks. "Out there, the mistress' a bitch."
"Careful," a gruff voice chimes in, startling Murder. Fuck, are they all creepy silent in the dark like that? "Don't talk about her like that. Bad luck."
Horror snorts. "I can talk about it as much as I want."
Murder hesitates. "It sounds like a dangerous job," he settles.
"Eh, guess so," Horror mumbles. "Not any worse than back home. Least, the fuckers there weren't as superstitious as these ones."
Horror's old coworker smacks his arm. "It's called having sense, you stupid hotshot. Ain't any of us surviving without precaution!"
Horror rolls his eye, shooting Murder a look that perfectly conveys the message of 'Do you see what I have to deal with?'. Murder just grins back, nodding an amused yes.
Satisfied, Horror continues his work, snarking intermittently at his coworker. And Murder continues to watch, letting the conversation turn into soothing white noise in the background. He shifts his position, leaning backwards slightly so his legs would feel less cramped.
His sneaker steps on something slick.
His foot slips.
The world spins, going terrifyingly dark for a moment. Then--
Splash! Cold, dirty water envelops him. Murder tries very hard to activate his eyelights when water rushes directly into his skull. He floats to the surface, violently coughing out the disgusting water.
Above him, Horror was already shouting.
"--der! Murder!"
"I'm fine!" he shouts back, a bit hoarse. Stars, he hopes he doesn't get some rare viruses from this awful water.
Horror is halfway over the boat rail, throwing down some ladder. "Grab it!" he yells.
Murder flaps his arms to turn around and see the ladder. Good. It's only a few feet away; he can definitely reach it.
He moves a little closer, just as Horror asks loudly, "How the fuck did you fall? Be careful next time, fucking hell. You gave me a fright."
"Stop fretting," Murder mutters back, his fingers grabbing onto the net on the boat's surface. "Was just tired..."
"Ugh, sorry for worrying, I guess." Murder can hear Horror roll his eye. "But seriously, next time, look where you stand, dumbass."
Murder huffs. The cold water has shocked him out of his sleepiness somewhat. He's able to get one foot on the ladder, hoisting his hips out of the dark water at last. He tries to lift his other leg, only to find something snagging at the cuff of his pants.
He blinks. Tries to yank his leg again, to no avail.
"Stop dawdling and climb up here already!" Horror yells.
"I'm trying!" Murder yells back, a bit irritated. "But my leg is stuck on something! Anchor or some shit."
"Anc-- What? We didn't have any dead weight, right?"
"Uh, no?" comes another strange voice from above. "We shouldn't have any anchor--"
Something pulls Murder's leg, hard enough that he slips off the ladder and his head disappears entirely under the surface. Cold water rushes back into his skull. The harbor and night sky explode into bubbles and mushy dark shapes.
He kicks his leg out instinctively, trying to dislodge whatever is grabbing his ankle. The grip only tightens, much to his panic.
what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck is grabbing me
His magic lights up pitifully, snuffed out instantly by the magic suppressor right in his SOUL. He can't form any attack. He can't do any offensive magic. He can't kill whatever thing is killing him. This cannot be.
He tries to use blue magic on himself. Tries to shoot himself back up above the water surface and takes an unnecessary gasp of air. Horror's shouts sound broken mixed with those from others, clamoring at his flailing form in the water.
"Something--" he gasps out eventually. "Something-- Something's grabbing me--"
Hands reach for his raised ones. Some fishermen -- sailors too, he thinks amidst the panic -- hold him tightly above surface as something bubbles near his legs. Just what the fuck is going on?
There's a splash of water. More yells. And then, his leg feels lighter, and he's pulled out of the water. Blankets immediately cover his head and back. He grips onto them, shaking, still hearing the frantic beats of his SOUL, still hearing the rush of water in his skull.
He sits there, in the boat, and only jerks his head when a shadow falls over him. Startled, he looks up, only to see Horror, drenched, a bloodied harpoon in his hand, looking decidedly pissed.
"... You okay?" the one-eyed monster asks, voice uncharacteristically quiet.
Murder nods, mutely.
"You sure?"
Another nod.
Silence. The crew around them runs around, their footsteps and voices loud enough to drown Murder's own hallucinations. For now.
"Oi, Fay," Horror calls out eventually, still staring dead at Murder. "Tell the old piss-drinker I'm not working today. He can bitch at the gulls about it."
"What--" A voice echoes somewhere, presumably Fay's. "You serious, Rory?"
"Yeah." Horror pulls Murder's arm up, the blanket still over his shoulders. "I'm taking my boyfriend home. Tell the decrepit fuck to fix the lights on the ship too. Tell him to stick his money up his stingy ass."
And then, everything goes by in a flash to Murder. He's on the boardwalk. Then, he's in the truck. Horror starts the engine. The harbor disappears from Murder's periphery.
They're quiet. The roads are relatively empty, save for a few other trucks running overnight.
Horror turns the radio. Some horror story podcast is playing. Ironic.
Eventually, Horror says, "Stop coming to my work next time." Bland. Matter-of-fact.
So, Murder responds, in kind, "Yeah. Okay."
And that's that.