Forgot to mention earlier but this concept is based off of a convo I had with zyebana_yaoistka Cuz our heads are filled with kreme brainrot

❌Trigger warnings of: Suicide, self harm, Depression❌

The house felt deathly. The curtains were all drawn tightly shut, blocking out any feeble rays of sunlight that might try to pierce their way into the silent house. The desktops and shelves were ashy, the flowers stood dead and wilted in their vase, petals scattered around their base in crisp folds. The TV hadn't been turned on in months, the remote lost somewhere under the depths of his couch he couldn't bare to sit at anymore.

The bedroom was the worst place to be in. It was awful. Everything in there screamed memories, punched at his past as if were a mere club to be beaten. But Killer couldn't bring himself to change it. He hadn't touched Dream's side of the wardrobe, hadn't moved the empty glass on his bedside table, wouldn't even think of putting all his possessions in boxes. Because, what if Dream came back? What if he came back to find his stuff all gone and packed away? No, he couldn't have that.

Rolling over, he felt constricted. The blanket was heavy and tight around his body, a monumental weight he was forced to bare that others could cast aside at the flick of a wrist. The pillow was damp beneath his skull, another indication that he'd cried himself to sleep for yet another night in a row - he couldn't think of the last time he'd slept without sobbing and yelling, without destroying something, tearing apart anything that would give in under his fingers. Dream would be disappointed if he saw him, he knew it.

Eyes dragging open Killer's pupilless sockets rested on the empty side of the bed, fingers trembling as they dragged over it. Waking up had never been so grey. He'd never been good with colours, really, they all moulded together into an ugly blur most of the time, making it hard to distinguish what other people would find joyous. He'd decided he outright hated colour altogether, sick of seeing his friends talk about things that his mind simply couldn't comprehend.

But then Dream had came into his life, and he'd been the most shocking colour yellow. Canary, cadmium, lemon, ochre. Every yellow possible, Dream had been it. It was as if he were seeing properly for the first time, able to distinguish something in his pitifully grey world. It was a burning, raging light he'd been quick to feel consumed by, and as if by magic, colours hadn't seemed to boring.

The skeleton had introduced him to blue, a colour he was rather joyed to find that he could indeed see. It was like he needed guidance to comprehend the colours, as before he'd never seen the rich colours within yellows and blues. He still struggled to see many other colours, but when he was with him, there was some light to his life.

Recently though he'd seen that light to be fading, and that scared him more than almost anything else. What would happen if those colours completely faded? If he lost sight of those yellows and blues? Would Dream fade away too-?

Wrenching those thoughts from his mind Killer forced himself to sit up, dragging the blanket aside and leaving it in a crumpled heap on the side of the bed that he told himself he'd clean up later. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even washed those sheets, or his clothes.

He briefly considered opening the curtains for once, remembering what Dream had told him the other weak. You'll waste away with no sunlight. It wasn't such a bad prospect really. They were left pulled shut, an iron gate blocking out everything Killer found unnecessary - the necessities.

Trudging downstairs into the kitchen Killer paused, face twisting in cringe as he remembered his episode from last night. Pots and pans lay scattered across the floor along with the stinking red clumps of soy mince from the spaghetti he'd thrown across the kitchen in his despair. He'd never been great at cooking - Dream normally did that, and now he was left to starve himself before gorging himself on microwaved ready meals. Last night he'd tried to put in an effort; he'd ordered food from Waitrose to be delivered to his door and gathered the ingredients to make spaghetti. A simple dish.

He'd tried so hard, truly, he had. He wanted something he could have told Dream next time he saw him, something he could spoke to the angel about that would have made him proud. Something so simple like cooking himself an actual meal. But he fucked even that up. Now it lay in a cold heap across the floor, pasta stuck to to the floor, half cooked mince meat splattered across the wall. He couldn't remember what had made him lash out, unable to grasp why he'd done such a thing. Either way, he didn't feel like cleaning it.

The water had scaled him last night, leaving an angry flushed mark on his left hand that constantly itched. He knew better than to give in and touch it.

Eyes blinking duly he sighed, slumping against the kitchen counter and burying his face in his hands. It had been a week since his car incident, a week since Dream had made him promise to take better care of himself. While he may not have tried to kill himself in that week, he'd still failed Dream's simple request. He couldn't cook, he couldn't eat, he couldn't even bring himself to open the curtains and look outside. He ignored all the phone calls he got from Cross, leaving him on delivered or read depending on his mood. One time three weeks ago the skeleton had actually come over, knocking on his door for just short of an hour to try get Killer to come out and talk. The whole time he'd been curled up under the blankets, shaking as he cried to himself. How pathetic.

As he stared at the kitchen counter one irrefutable fact stood out in his mind, one that made his bones prickle with excitement. It had been a week. One long, grey, dragging week. He wanted a little yellow back in his life.

He staggered through the kitchen, checking all the doors were sealed and the windows were shut before he switched the gas hobs on full burn. He stared at them for a long moment before he sank to the floor, back against his cupboards as he waited. It would take a long time before the fire burned out all the oxygen in the room, but he could wait. As long as he'd get to see him.

Minutes ticked past steadily and Killer closed his eyes, feeling each breath get ever so slightly more shallow. It wasn't until the half hour mark that he started to really feel a difference, a hand lingering around his neck as the smell of burning gas became slightly overwhelming. The air felt shallow, as if he were up in a high mountain or trapped in a coffin, it was welcome feeling.

It had been perhaps an hour when he started losing conscious, his vision blurry and smeared like an oil painting on glass. But the glow above him was unmistakable. A cracked smile formed on his face and he staggered forwards knowing he'd be caught by those strong arms he missed so much.

"D-Dream-" His voice was dry and raspy, like a worn marker desperately scratching away at old paper.

"I'm going to let a little air in." His voice was warped and stretched, a jumble of foreign languages. "Not much, just a little, I can't have you dying on me, cherry."

The nickname seemed to spike through his conscience better than the rest of what he said and Killer have a drunken nod as the angel stepped to the window, tearing back the curtains to open it a little, the toxic gasses seeping out. He was sure that was the first time the window had been opened in a long time - the curtains too.

Once that was done Dream stepped back to the smaller, a sigh leaving him as he stared at the mess of his kitchen floor. "Look at all this, Kills."

"I-I tried my hardest-" The skeleton hiccuped as he buried his face into his shoulder, body trembling heavily. "I- I was going to make you- you s-so proud-" He choked, squeezing him tightly and ducking his head in shame. "I really t-tried I- I promise I-"

"Killer, I know you tried." Dream took his chin and shook his head slowly, tipping his head up to face him. "And I'm proud of you, okay? I'm so proud that you tried for me, you did as I asked, and you did your very best. Now stop these silly tears."

Chest jerking he nodded, gripping onto him as if his life depended on it, which really, it did. "I-I don't know what happened I- o-one second it was all fine and- and I fucking ru-uined it-"

"You've ruined nothing, Killer, stop blaming yourself. I'll clean this up later, you don't need to worry about it, okay?"

He managed a weak nod, slowly going lax in his hold and settling under his wings, tears fresh as they ran down his cheeks. Dream wouldn't lie to him, so that means he must be right. He was fine. "Are you going to call the ambulance.."

Dream's gaze dragged over to the window where the thick atmosphere was steadily draining from the room and he shook his head. The air would be safe in an hour or so, meaning he had no need to force Killer to the hospital. "No, not this time."

Killer shivered and looked up at him and smiled, for no matter hazy and blurred his vision was, he could see the colour he'd craved.

He had his yellow back, even if just for a few more minutes.

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Anyways next one won't be sad aha actually next one is smut, different au/concept 😍

Nice smut

-Jess-