Predator (DWT x OC)

92

"Schlatt told me that I shouldn't be letting you out of the house." Dream comments, in a passing way, like he was mentioning today's weather. We both laugh. 

"He's only saying that because he's scared of running into me." I don't look up from the sword I'm sharpening. The blade sings as it slides against the wet-stone, a high pitched ringing that ends in a flourish. 

The binding on the handle is soft in my hand. Worn. Moulded. The uncomfortable bites of the edges of new leather have dulled, the roughness smoothed over weeks, months, years of use. Of pressure. 

Like me, really. Something to be wielded, to be moulded, to be tamed. To have my sharp edges rubbed away by a firm hand, pressed down into something palatable, gentle enough for the palm.  The handle of the blade is all I'll ever be. 

The support to something worse, something more powerful, more dangerous, sharper, stronger, better. 

The blade scrapes against the stone again, like the oars of a rowboat, a looping, dragging circle that I drive. A constant. 

"I mentioned the villages on the coast," he says, "next time we meet I'll start talking about the supply lines, I got conformation from Sam."

"Good." 

"He's trying to get me away from you."

I hum in response. "Mm well he doesn't like you very much."

"You shouldn't let him think that he can change this. Us."

"I didn't, but he's my big brother Dream, he'll never stop trying to look out for me. He's stubborn."

He looks at me, the edges of his eyes creased in a smile. "Runs in the family."

I pause, flickering my focus from marred grey metal to the man leaning against the bench across the room. "You think I'm bad? He was the original."

"I don't know, you do pretty well for yourself."

I grit my teeth. I'm here, aren't I? How's that for stubborn you stupid, selfish, arrogant assh-

"As if you don't love it." I smile back at him instead. 

"It looks better on you than on him."

"Aw don't tell Sam that, you'll break his heart."

I can love him. I can love him. I can do this. I could love him. I have loved him. I can. 

We both laugh, and he uncrosses his arms, turning to pick up a collection of little iron daggers I finished earlier, dumping them into a wooden box. The thundering clatter of metal rings in my ears. It goes on for too long. 

He's always so tense when he gets home, arms tucked across his chest, back tensed, teeth clenched together. He doesn't even realise he does it. I never point it out to him. 

It's just something I know. Something I shouldn't. Something I do. 

You know, I thought losing my mind would be bigger than this. Like an explosion. An all-consuming fireball that envelops and incinerates everything in it's path. Something that leaves a black char mark on what's left. Something noticeable. 

It's more-so something folding in on itself, compact, neat, nice. Quiet. A quiet little implosion that  shatters everything inside, rids your insides, leaving an empty shell. The chaos bounces around my skull. The exhaustion paints itself on my face. The breakage is tolerable, palpable, easy to digest. 

The world can accept my brokenness when I break in the right way, it seems. When I fall into the right pieces, when I swallow my own anger and let sympathy take its course.