#polymurderous

the dim fluorescent lights above flicker, casting shadows on the white sterile walls. killer lies crumbled on the ground in a pool of his own dark fluids, his body curling into a fetal position, still unconsciously trying to shield his broken, wobbling soul from the world. his eyelights are gone, covered in the thick tar that obscures his vision and flow down from his sockets. his arms are still littered with needle marks, some areas almost worn down by repeated punctures. killer doesn’t hear the door opening and closing at first, his mind going in and out of consciousness, but the approaching sounds of footsteps on the tiled floor make him tense up, squaring his shoulders uselessly.

dust watches the pathetic sight in front of him, his own soul panging. “petal,” he tells the little scout perching on his shoulders. “secure the perimeter. make sure there’s no one here, and no bugs listening in.”

“roger that, commander.” petal gives a salute, then burrows himself into the walls, disappearing into the shadows.

for a moment, there’s nothing. then killer jolts back into the land of the awake when he feels a hand brushing the back of his shoulder. he flinches instinctively, a hoarse sound escaping his throat.

“get back…”

“easy,” dust murmurs. “it’s me.”

killer goes silent, then his head perks up, his lips twitching into a faint, humorless smile. “dusty…” he rasps. “is this a dream? didn’t think… you’d visit…”

“hold still,” dust says, ignoring the comment. killer feels his head being positioned on something soft, and a cool damp cloth pressed against his frame, wiping away all the fluids on his body. the touch is careful and gentle, making killer’s soul pang at the uncharacteristic kindness.

“must be a dream…” he mutters. “dust wouldn’t be like this… not with… eyes all around…”

“it doesn’t matter now,” dust says, a slight tremble in his voice. there is something to it that killer couldn’t place in his current disoriented state – something he’s missed. “here. take this.”

killer feels something pressed against his teeth and he swallows instinctively. the taste of warm nectar bursts in his mouth as relief floods through his body, dulling the senses of pain and suffering he’s in.

“you’re full of surprises…” killer says, his speech slurred as the medications take effect immediately. he leans further into dust’s lap, basking in the rare warmth of another body.

“you’d feel better in a minute,” dust murmurs. he continues to tend to killer’s battered body, his movements careful and methodical. the silence blankets over them, heavy but not uncomfortable. killer feels he can fall asleep like this, with dust taking care of him – it’d be a rest he hasn’t been afforded since so long ago. his head lolls to the side as he feels the caress of his ex-beloved, lulling him to slumberland.

then, unexpectedly, dust breaks the fragile silence.

“you know,” he says, his voice distant as if speaking to himself. “there’s this place i saw on one of my expeditions. a meadow, under the stars. the grass was soft, the air was clean. there was a river running across it. it was so peaceful… so quiet.”

killer furrows his eyes. “sounds… nice? what about it?”

“i’ve been thinking…” dust continues, his voice softening into a melodic cadence. “if this war ever ends, i’d like to return there again and build a house. for us. me, you, and horror. it’d be the perfect place. somewhere to get away from all of this… somewhere we can just… be.”

killer’s mouth quirks into a smile. “you think… we can survive each other under the same roof?”

dust huffs a quiet laugh. “maybe not. but… i’d still like to try.”

killer responds with a breathy laugh, though he winces a bit when his ribs ache. “alright then,” he says, his voice quiet. “what would this house look like? giant kitchen? tiny porch? two bedrooms? you better not put me in the attic.”

dust chuckles, a suspiciously wet sound. “no attic. we’d have a decent bedroom for all of us. decent kitchen. giant porch for you to sunbath whenever you like.”

killer smiles, entertained by dust’s little fantasy. despite his tiredness, he continues. “so, in this house of ours… who would do what chores? who would be doing the cooking? because i’m not doing it. you’d be eating burnt pancakes every day.”

“i’d do it, no worries.” dust laughs with much amusement, a nice sound that killer wouldn’t mind hearing again. “i’d make sure both of you get well-fed.”

“heh, so i assume horror would be the man of the house… being the breadwinner. bringing home the dough. and i’d be the clown in this household. the fun one, obviously.”

“obviously,” dust repeats, a smile in his voice. “and here i thought you want to challenge traditional relationship dynamics.”

killer’s laugh comes easier this time, though there’s still a twinge of pain on his face. “i mean, who’s to say? maybe i’d look good in a dress, or an apron. and i know you’d look good in a suit too, dusty. i’d clean the house waiting for you and horror to come home to eat my terrible pancakes.”

dust chuckles back. “you wouldn’t have to do anything. none of us would.”

“sounds unrealistic…”

“it does. but that’s the point, isn’t it? we’d just… exist. no war. no pain. nothing. just us. free.”

“free…” killer chews the word over, a foreign yet comforting taste on his tongue. he tilts his head, as if looking at dust even though his eyes are all messed up. “that’s a nice dream you have. almost make me believe you’re serious about it.”

“i am,” dust replies softly, his hands, bare without gloves, caress the side of killer’s face. “even if it’s far-fetched, even if it’s impossible… someone has to be a dreamer to your nihilist.”

“didn’t take you for an optimist.”

“well, i’m working on it.”

killer doesn’t say anything. he closes his eyes and imagines it – dust’s dream. a small house in the middle of a meadow, illuminated by the stars. the three of them – him, horror, and dust – crowd the tiny living room as they squeeze together on the single couch, lounging in each other’s company. dust reading a book, horror starting on his crocheting project, and killer snuggling with their cat. or cats. there would be so many cats, because killer would like there to be. killer would repeat a joke he’s read somewhere, and horror would groan at him while dust would laugh, because he’s just corny like that. would there be guests allowed? maybe. maybe color – the guy’s nice enough to killer. red… killer’s not very familiar with him, but dust is comfortable enough around the guy so he must be good. horror is tight-lipped about his network, but he must have some friends he hangs out around with, and they can be welcome to their secret home on the condition that they won’t rat them out of course. maybe all of them could have a party out in the fields, under the stars that dust likes so much. killer’s not sure about it, but he could adjust to it for his sake. horror would love it too.

killer doesn’t know how long he’s been drifting off, but he startles when dust’s hand cover his eyes, tilting his head just slightly backwards.

“dust…?” killer asks, tentative. “you okay there…?”

dust doesn’t answer right away. his other hand brings another dose of medication to killer’s mouth, and once again killer swallows it without question. the silence lingers, filling the air with uncertainty.

finally, dust speaks. “killer… i’m sorry…” his voice is small, a rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks in it. killer can feel something wet falling on his face, and his arms are too heavy to reach up to dust.

“for what?” he says instead, a soft smile gracing his face. “i’m… happy…” his voice trails off as he feels his tongue getting heavier and heavier, the medication bringing him closer to sleep.

he can hear, strangely distantly, dust humming a lullaby, a familiar one that scratches at the underlayers of his buried memories but refuses to surface. a faint light briefly illuminates the room. a popping sound of an attack manifesting is barely audible over the quiet humming sounds of the machinery in the room. killer’s breathing slows, his body relaxing under the effects of the medication and his own exhaustion. he doesn’t see the way dust’s hands tremble, the way he grips on the bone attack poised just over killer neck, the way his tears fall and fall despite the grin on his face.

imagine it's after a particularly hard battle, and horror and killer are regrouping, both injured and killer teasing horror for being a deadweight. they search for dust together.

oh, and there he is, standing with his back to them, amidst a field of bones and blaster scorch marks. killer whistles, impressed at the scale of destruction.

"dusty, you always know how to play."

but horror notices that dust is a bit... unstable. he's not standing straight, his stance wavering. dust slowly turns around, and- oh, that is a severe wound across his chest. and blood and determination is seeping out of the corner of his mouth. his body is starting to dust, only held together by determination at this point.

killer and horror are still as statues as dust staggers towards them, a smile across his face. he crashes into them, his arms around their backs, gripping, constricting like a boa. he lets out a wet laugh.

"your turn next."

with that, he falls, his dust spreading over killer and horror, into their eyesockets, their joints, their crevices.