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Every time Gaster had ever thought he’d known the peak of suffering, things always managed to get worse.
Neglect, war, loss, shattering. Some days it felt like his life was just one beat of agony after another, and good days were only preludes to yet another downfall.
He’d had a good day today, spending time outside with Sans and Papyrus, then he’d come home to see Asgore humming away as he folded laundry on the couch.
His housemate had greeted him warmly, as he always did, with a delighted smile — but not the smile he knew.
The centuries of fondness were gone from his eyes. The bond they’d shared, the things they’d survived only by leaning on each other, it had all been forgotten, existing now only in his mind, like some pathetic fantasy.
He’d spent hundreds of years perfecting his mask. Any inconvenient emotions were pressed down like second nature, allowing him to maintain control of any situation, even when others fell apart around him.
But this… looking upon the face he’d worshipped all his life and seeing no recognition… oh God. He didn’t know anything could hurt this badly.
He’d held it together for a few minutes through sheer force of will, placating Asgore with a retelling of his day, before making some excuse to go lie down and retreating to his bedroom.
That had led him here.
He hated the dark now. He felt stupid and childish, but he hated it. He’d once loved it, the tranquility of a dark, quiet room, but now it reminded him of the void, the eternity of torture he’d endured. (His linear mind still struggled to comprehend what he’d experienced, but his body felt the consequences all the same.)
And yet, for some reason, he spent so much time burying himself in shadow.
Asgore had bought him a nightlight some time ago — embarrassing as it was, he did use it overnight, but not now. Now, he just laid in the dark, barely able to make out the shapes of his own furniture, barely able to think through the fog of memories.
He knew he deserved this, this empty feeling that plagued his every waking moment. He’d never been worthy of Asgore, nor of Toriel, Alphys, or even Sans or Papyrus. Their love was wasted on him — always had been, always would be. They’d never known him for the cruel monster he really was, what gave him the right to be upset that they’d forgotten even the version they knew?
There was nothing to fix and so much to grieve, but no room to do so. How was he supposed to grieve loved ones that were still alive and well, unknowingly reminding him of his loss every second they were together, ripping open the wound over and over, mangling him further with each smile he kept scanning, desperate for even a flicker of recognition, even knowing he would never find it?
Every moment with them was bittersweet, an undeserved blessing laced with a poison only he could taste. All those memories, snuffed out like the lives of his people, and they were all no worse for wear for having lost him…
He’d given nothing to their lives, not anymore. All he’d ever done was take from these people who all somehow loved him so much, take what little they had to give only to still be left needing more. More help, more attention, more comfort, nothing was enough, he was needy and annoying and no matter how hard he tried to suppress it all it always bubbled back up to the surface and then they were forced to deal with the consequences of his countless failures because he could never do a single fucking thing right and would it have killed him to not hurt someone for a change?!
He wasn’t sure when he’d started crying, or when semisolid bones had started jutting out of his bed, tracing the outline of his body like chalk around a corpse. He pulled one from the mattress, the glow of magic illuminating his hand as he studied it.
Something he’d thought he’d long since buried began clawing to the surface again.
He was already battered all over. Broken skull, crushed eye, hole-punched hands, his body had endured more injuries than any skeleton in recorded history. He’d even inflicted some himself — curled up in a far-off corner of the lab, putting cigarettes out on his ribs, coughing and sobbing as he tried not to pass out. (The burns ached even now — maybe wounds reopened outside of time never healed.)
What difference would a few more scars make?
The end of the bone fizzled away into a sharp point. It struck him then that skeletons much more noble than he had once used these bone-spikes to defend their kingdom, and here he was using one to cling to some semblance of control like the weak, insignificant speck he was.
A magic hand pulled his sleeve down, soft blue light illuminating bare bone, before dissolving into the air. He shifted onto his side, the faint glow of the bullet in his hand his only guide in the near pitch dark.
Hand shaking ever so slightly, he pressed the sharp edge of the shiv into his wrist. He took a deep breath and slowly dragged it across, hissing at the quiet scraping sound and the burning pain that shot up his arm.
Blood rose to the surface, beading over the wound and dripping down his forearm. The sight was equal parts sickening and cathartic — even if it was only at his lowest, he could still grasp a hint of control over his life. Besides, he’d inflicted so much pain on others — wasn’t this only fair?
Again, he pulled the bone across his wrist, carving a second cut. The sound could make him gag, an almost splintering noise as bone shavings fell away from his body, but the warmth of the blood running down his arm almost made his head spin. The relief was like a drug, a high he didn’t know he needed.
Another cut, a little slanted this time, retreaded over a healed fracture line and made him gasp. He thought for a moment about retracing that line, reopening the whole wound to bleed again, but his mind was starting to fog up now, the idea swiftly forgotten.
He was breathing deeply now, stifling a groan of pain as he carved another line into his arm, phantom bile rising in the back of his throat. His eye was flickering red, just a quick, faint flash every so often. He wondered, how consistent could that glow get? How much worse could he feel before he couldn’t bear any more?
Over and over, he sliced into his arm, his mind hazy from pain and nausea as he watched blood drip down from the wounds, watched black tar drip up into nothing from the holes in his palms. It was hypnotic, in a way, being both inflictor and receiver of suffering, rather than only one. He was his own victim, his own abuser, relinquishing neither role to someone else for once in his life.
Drowning and choking and floating, all at once. The bone shiv fell from his hand and dissolved into mist as his arms collapsed with the rest of him on the mattress. Each heaving breath pulled him deeper down into the fog, each throb of pain or new trickle trail of blood tilting the room a new direction. Tears dripped down his face, spectral fire pulsing weakly from closed sockets.
Blissful agony echoed through his bones, radiating down from his arm and his head. In the mist of colour flickering from within his skull, he could see green interlace with red. His head was swimming like a drunk’s, sighing softly as the hazy feeling wrapped around his trembling form, a wave of calm washing over his body. He could get lost in this, be unravelled by it, be remade by it.
A knock on his door startled him, pulling him the slightest bit out of the mist of agony, but he barely even had it in him to flinch.
“Gaster? It’s been hours, are you alright?”
Had it been that long? He’d lost track. He couldn’t have spent that long carving up his arm… could he?
When he couldn’t answer, his King called out again.
“Gaster…? You’re scaring me…”
Oh God, he was coming in, wasn’t he?
Had he been in his right mind, he’d have locked the door with magic hands (or at least tried to) and surrendered fully to this slow sinking feeling. But in his delirium, all he could do was watch as the door opened.
Warm light poured into the room, washing away the darkness, though much of it was blocked by Asgore’s massive frame. When those kind eyes fell on Gaster’s bloodied arm, his face snapped from concern to terror.
“GASTER!!!”
The shout could have deafened him. In an instant, Asgore was at his side, huge paws cradling his bleeding arm. He was rambling a mile a minute, but Gaster could discern nothing.
Healing magic was a shock to his weakened system, but it brought with it a wave of warmth that he had always found a guilty pleasure in. The pure safety and empathy resonating from his friend in this moment could lull him right to sleep (actual sleep, rather than the feeling he’d been chasing), though the blood loss was certainly a contributor as well.
It was nostalgic, in a way, to see his blood muddy Asgore’s paws again. All those years of healing, of gentle touches like this… his eye drifted shut again, though some part of him was sure that that was scaring Asgore, keeping it open just took too much energy. Maybe, if he drifted far enough into the haze, he could pretend he was still his scientist.
What a selfish dream.
Slowly, the drowning feeling subsided, though his head was still swimming, a headache pounding at the inside of his skull, drumming along the cracks. The nausea drained away, leaving only a lingering dizziness, and though his arm still felt tender and wet with blood, the burning pain of open cuts no longer stung at the bone. He tried to focus, at least enough to hear what Asgore was saying.
“— stay with me, please, don’t do this to me —”
It hadn’t been that bad, had it…? No, it couldn’t have been…
He forced his eye open, and was met with Asgore’s terrified face staring back at him, eyes red and tear tracks staining his fur.
“Gaster…?”
<I’m okay,> he signed weakly, magic hands barely managing to hold their shape. <I… I’m sorry I scared you.>
Relief washed over Asgore’s entire body, tension visibly draining out of him.
“You don’t have to apologize for anything, just… God, Gaster, why…?”
He would never understand. Even if he did, he’d never believe him. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
<It’s… impossible to explain.>
“Try. Please, just… tell me any way I can help. Any way at all.”
Such familiarity…
A small, weak smile spread across his face.
<You already have.>
Bloody paws held his hand so gently, squeezing it just a little. That look, that pain in his eyes… God, how could he do this to him? How could he scare him like this?
With great effort, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, though he had to grip the edge of the mattress to stay upright.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, though his spectral hands lagged slightly behind his words. “It wasn’t supposed to get this bad, I wasn’t trying to…”
It wasn’t his intention, not consciously, not when he’d started… but maybe it was what he’d been hoping for on the inside.
He sighed.
“… I suppose I just cut too deep.”
(The words stirred an echo of nausea. Judging by Asgore’s shudder, he felt the same way.)
He looked down at his arm, what little of it he could see under his housemate’s massive hands. The cuts were closed now, though still visibly fresh. He supposed he’d gotten what he wanted — they looked like they would scar.
Careful with his bloody hands, Asgore gently guided Gaster’s head downwards to press their foreheads together. The gesture was so familiar it hurt, worse than any wound ever could.
<… Asgore.> (That still felt so wrong to say, even in sign, even with just the two of them here.)
His housemate looked up, odd eyes he adored full of sympathy and fear.
“Yes?”
He took a deep breath.
<… Thank you for… being here. With me. Your company, it…> It hurt, but he’d suffer eternally if it meant staying by his side. <… it helps. More than you know.>
Though tired and still trembling a little, Asgore smiled.
“That is what friends are for. Should you need me, I will never be far. I promise.”
His friend lifted himself off the ground, offering one hand for Gaster to grab onto.
“Now, would you like to join me downstairs? Dinner is in the oven, it will be ready soon.”
He was fairly hungry… and a bit of food would definitely help to clear his head.
“I would like that.”
Grabbing onto the offered hand, he pulled himself onto his feet — looking back at the bed, he cringed at the bloodstain crawling down the side. Thank God for the mattress cover, but he’d still need to change the sheets…
“Don’t worry about the sheets, I’ll handle them.”
“Please, let me.” He’d caused enough trouble tonight, this was his responsibility. “It’s my fault, I should-”
“Nonsense, you’re injured. Let me.”
Knowing that his King could be just as stubborn as him and that this would likely carry on forever if one of them didn’t yield, he begrudgingly relented.
“Alright, alright. But I will be making it up to you.”
Asgore chuckled a little, and for a moment, things almost felt normal.
The moment was gone in a flash, of course. He could never hold onto normalcy for long. He’d lost all right to it years ago.
But he would cherish the little glimpses he got.