One-shots [Reqs: 5]

weeping on a friday night god me too

not me projecting more of my issues onto my favorite blorbo

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Cross was trying to climb out of it, he really was. He stuck to his routine, he pushed himself to socialize with the others, he cracked jokes and laughed, had fun, yet when he was left alone in his room, it was like

Nothing. He was just exhausted.

Like he did every morning, he sat at his desk, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling, his vision unfocused and his mind thoughtless. He felt heavy. Moving his hands at all was a monumental effort. Stars knew how much effort it would take to get up and leave his room. The mere thought of it made his eyes burn.

He was being ridiculous. It wasn't that big of a deal, there was nothing to keep him this way. But here he was, limply reclined in his chair and trying to claw thoughts out of his mind.

He wanted to just stay this way, for a little longer. Forever. Maybe time would claim him. He pushed the idea aside, refusing to even consider the idea.

Taking his life wouldn't get him out of this funk.

He wasn't sure anything would.

He wasn't sure he cared either way.

And isn't that just terrifying? At least he can still feel emotions, but it's in the wrong places.

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Something was wrong with him. He'd noticed it when he left his room—he'd brushed it off then, but he couldn't ignore it now. He tried to, but it wasn't working. Nothing was.

When he sat down at breakfast, it was obvious to anyone and everyone. He couldn't even fool himself into thinking he was okay.

He sat down, heavy and silent, and gave a half-hearted chuckle at Killer's usual snippish jokes. It came out watery and strained, and Killer's head tilted. Cross couldn't muster up the energy to even speak properly, much less to tell him he was fine, only mumbling nonsense as he poked at his food. His eyes drooped, his normally perfect posture ruined, his head low and shoulders slumped.

Killer snickered something and Cross hummed. Dust stared at him, like he always did when he wanted to make Cross uncomfortable; he got no reaction. Cross barely even noticed until Killer said something else and Dust looked away.

Breakfast was slow. Cross's jaw felt wrong, like it was fake, as he chewed and swallowed. He couldn't pin down the taste. It was just some kind of flavor. He couldn't taste it, but it was there.

Nightmare seemed confused, his brow creased with something. He said a few words, Cross's mind slow to process it, but it took too long in the end, and Cross just forgot whatever was said. He asked Nightmare to repeat himself.

He zoned out midway through the mission briefing, swaying on his feet, his mind empty again. Some part of him was faintly alarmed at the blank slate of his mind, but he couldn't feel that. It was far away. He wasn't there.

The day went by slowly, oh so slow. Cross drifted from place to place, bouncing from conversation to conversation, gradually sinking into his mind as the day dragged on. He felt like a deflating balloon, abandoned by glum children once his lack of buoyancy was discovered and left to settle on the floor.

And settle on the floor he did. The day, as painfully slow as it was, had gone by in a blur; Cross found himself in his bedroom, sitting again at his desk, leaning back and staring at the ceiling blankly.

He paused his rocking, frowning as he tried to remember how he'd gotten there, but nothing was clear.

He could recall moments, but it was like they were fake memories, like something his mind tried to conjure after reading a script. It was foreign, as if he were recalling a tv show or a video he'd watched.