One-shots [Reqs: 5]

First, Last

HEY SO IF UR FOLLOWING MY AO3 ACCOUNT OR MY TUMBLR, YOU PROBABLY WILL NOTICE THAT I POSTED THIS STORY A LOT EARLIER THERE SO THERE'S SOMETHING YOU SHOULD CONSIDER.

AS I TOLD MY TUMBLR GUYS, I'M DOING A TEST RUN FOR SOMETHING. I'M GOING TO TRY AND POST A STORY ONCE A WEEK, EVERY SATURDAY. IF I CAN PULL IT OFF, YAY CONSISTANT UPDATES AND I'M MAYBE NOT A FUCK UP, BUT IF I CAN'T? WELL FUCK, I GUESS I'LL FUCKING TRY AGAIN. WISH ME LUCK, TRY NOT TO GET TOO EXCITED, AND ALSO ENJOY THIS BULLSHIT STORY :D

I

I THINK MY MENTAL HEALTH IS DECLINING-

ANYWAYS, HERE YOU GO, ENJOY, I ONLY POSTED THE FIRST PART HERE, BUT THE SECOND PART IS ALREADY POSTED ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN SO IF YOU WANNA BE LIKE, ACTIVE, YOU CAN READ IT OVER THERE BECAUSE MY DUMBASS POSTED IT EARLY ON ACCIDENT AND I'M SURE AS HELL NOT GOING TO DELETE IT BECAUSE MAKING THOSE CHAPTERS ARE HARD ON AO3 AND I'M NOT DOING IT TWICE ANYWAYS ENJOY

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Nightmare was old. He knew he was. Eons ago, he'd been old. Eons later, he'd be older still. A lifetime or two ago, he'd been old. Years spent, some wasting away, some building back up. Somewhere, buried in those years, he sometimes thought he could remember the first. The first red scarf to haunt his castle halls, the first red soul to glimmer at his side, the first red eye to meet his own, the first red sword to defend him. He thought he could see the smiles, hear the laughs, feel the warmth.

Maybe he still could. Or maybe, he was just remembering the second. Or perhaps the third. He never knew which lifetime he was recalling. Never knew which floor of the library was which. Yet, he treasured each one dearly. It didn't matter which one was first or second. All that mattered was that it happened. That it was real. That he loved them. That they'd loved him. No matter how old he got, Nightmare swore to himself that he'd never forget that.

It wasn't hard to keep his word. He saw bits and pieces of each one. He saw the same smile on the same face, and felt a wave of déjà vu. He spotted the same letter in the same place, and felt his old soul warm. What remained in his mind of the first ones, he saw now, he saw then, he'll see tomorrow. Perhaps that's why he did it. Not to replace them, but to remember them.

Nightmare knew he'd never get them back. It'd never happen the same way it did the first time. He realized it quickly, after the first time. He'd known, and, with time, he'd accepted it. With his acceptance, he built a memorial. A floor in his precious library, dedicated to them, filled with a lifetime of memories and happiness, talismans and sentiments. He'd only intended to have one.

Somewhere along the line, that one floor duplicated. A second set of scarfs, jackets, knifes, and axes. Then it tripled. More, and more, and now, sitting in his old study chair, Nightmare knew he'd have to stop. Not only did he know it, but so did the others. He saw it in Error's disgusted looks, in Dream's pitying expressions, in Blue's anguished stares. He had to let his boys go. Staring down at a page of his own ragged scrawl, his eye glazed and tired, Nightmare knew he had to let their memory rest. It was time to move on. Nightmare's Gang had died off years ago. When Cross took his last breath, when Dust melted into the snow, when Killer faded, when Horror collapsed, when they were gone, it had been the end.

He took a slow breath, closing his journal firmly. It fit perfectly on the shelf where he tucked it in alongside the thousands of identical covers. He stared at the rows and rows of accounts and stories, following them until he could no longer make out each individual spine. Eons were contained in those journals. A millennia and more packed into bookshelves that stretched as far as you could see. All hand written. Nightmare's pace was slow, his feet dragging silently along the shelves, one finger trailing over the books. A memory flitted through his mind, brief and yet never-ending.

"C'mon boss! Rory made peas just for you!" Smile as bright as the knife he held, Killer called to him from the door. Horror averted his gaze, muttering that Killer should be quiet. Cackling, a playful shove, and Horror gave his own grin, his eye glittering with hope.

Nightmare paused, hand stilling. Softly, he wondered aloud, "I wonder which ones those were..." Of course, no one answered. No one but the running feet that thundered past just outside his door and the laughter that followed. He blinked, pulling his hand away from the dusty books. He couldn't say which ones he'd just remembered, but he could, however, say which ones were outside his door. Those were the last ones.

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THE FUCKING END OKAY BYE

I HATE BEING GROUNDED IT'S SHITTY AS HELL AND I SPEND WAY TOO MUCH TIME ALONE WITH MY FUCKING MIND, WHICH HATES ME SO GOD DAMN MUCH FOR SOME REASON I JUST CAN'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND, AND I'M PRETTY SURE THAT'S NOT HEALTHY. YEAH I GET IT, I WAS AN ASSHOLE, NOW PLEASE GIVE ME MY FREEDOM BACK I'M LITERALLY GOING TO DIE DALSKDJAIASLDF;AFLKS AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH