Kréme / Driller Oneshots

Six nights only

Here's 8,000 words of these enemies in denial
 
 

The rain had started an hour ago. It was rugged, sharp rain that fell like diamonds and stabbed like knives. The windows were locked shut, the door latch fastened, curtains half drawn. Through a gap in the fabric the rain was visible lashing into the ground through the drowned glow of the orange street lamps outside. It hadn't rained in weeks, and the parched ground was finally getting its fill of water, drinking every last drop. It was likely the roads would be flooded by tomorrow morning.

Sat in the heat of the living room, Dream stared at the grand clock beside the TV. It was 11:23 pm. He had been expecting a visit tonight, but with the weather so appalling and the atmosphere so foul, he had concluded he would spend tonight alone. Lips pressed to the rim of his mug, he sipped the steaming tea. It was mint, one of his favourites. It was calming, as he found a cup of it before bed rather productive.

With the steaming mug held between his fingertips, he closed his eyes and let the warmth bleed into his bones. He allowed the process to continue until they felt tingly, burdened by the heat and forced to pull back. Sighing, he looked at the clock once more. 11.25 pm. No more than two minutes had past, yet he felt like he'd been sat there for an age. With the last of his tea washed down his throat he stood, back clicking softly in a crescent arch. He wasn't coming tonight, not in this weather. It was almost a pity, he hadn't seen him intimately for two weeks - the phone call eight days ago didn't count.

Slipper padded feet crept across the floor, over the Italian rug that stretched atop varnished oak. Shuffling, his feet met the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. The kitchen was the heart of his house, and his favourite place to be really. He was infinitely rich, but still he was proud of the high expense the kitchen cost. It was designed specifically for him, and no other house should have the same. That gave him a certain sense of pride. He didn't expect to have to share designs with human mortals.

The mug tapped against the marble countertop, the tap running with hot soapy water to clean the object of the faint brown stains the tea leaves had left behind. The soap studs rushed up to the rim where they clawed over the edge before being torn back down by gravity. Each flick of his wrist sent the soapy water swirling, his eyes dull for a moment as he watched. White soap dropped across his knuckles, marching in a steady stream down to his wrist bones.

He was considering whether to let it run further down his arm when the doorbell rang.

Pausing, his head tipped towards the hallway where the front door stood solemnly. It was storming outside, the winds could potentially pick up a small chihuahua, and the rain was thick enough to drown. Why was someone at the door?

Stepping slowly he stared down the dark hallway, his shadow throwing up an intimidating figure across the frosted glass. He stood for maybe ten seconds, considering whether he'd imagined it. But of course he couldn't have, his mind wasn't pathetic enough to conjure a visitor out of the air. He had a social life, he didn't need contact with others. Even Ink and Blue could become overly tiresome.

Knocking rapped at the wooden doorway, and his doubts were scattered. Someone was indeed at the door. Staring through the frosted glass, he could make out his silhouette.

Killer.

Walking slowly to the door, he mulled the possibilities over in his head. On a day as miserable as this the other surely wouldn't have felt the need to come over. They could postpone, delay the meeting and arrange a knew one while roughened against a tree, blood soaking their clothes with knives and arrows jutting between their ribs. Sure, they might have had to delay the meet by a week, but that was hardly melancholic.