Killer x Reader || drive, darling

prologue: we begin with Now, but Now isn't where the story is

Drive, Darling: we begin with Now, but Now isn't where the story is

Prologue:
[Now doesn't matter; it's the useless stuff between everything that's supposed to matter. the dull routine repeated until something shiny comes along to brighten the boring. because life isn't a story, just pieces of paper stacked on top of each other, occasionally coming together to string along a story. and at Now, you could only wait for a new story, unless you were mistaken and the Old Story had yet to end. by Now, you should be used to being wrong. then, going off of that, three years ago was the Beginning, and The End will eventually come. then perhaps, Now will matter Later. before The End.]

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It'd been 3 years. How had it been 3 years? It was 3 years ago when you expected that 3 years from then you'd regret everything, wanting to go back home. It was 2 years, 11 months, and 3 weeks ago when you expected your plan to collapse, and you'd be forced back home. It was 2 years, 11 months, and 2 weeks ago when you were just a little disappointed. It was 2 years and 11 months ago that you thought you'd be killed, chopped up, and fed to pigs with your remaining bones buried somewhere.

It was 2 weeks until Christmas, and you'd grown increasingly sick of having a hard time sleeping because you were shivering so violently. Plus, you were on Drum Island, so it was especially cold, and it snowed so much you were pretty sure the Dividing Lines around it were half filled with snow. You didn't actually know, since every time you had to cross to a new island, it was at night when Killer demanded you were sleeping.

Of course, you went with it, too afraid of what would happen if you went against his orders. It was always a little weird with him; he got mad at the oddest things. You were sure he had his reasons, but he never shared them. You could take a guess, one probably pretty close to the real answer, but sometimes he totally redirected your train of thought with little offhanded comments or an order itself. Whether or not they were to intentionally throw you off, you weren't sure, but you tried not to look too deep into the weird things he demanded. Like how sometimes, the radio was to be turned off, others he made sure it was on some pop station.

The first time the rule that only he could mess with the radio was established was just a few days after you met him. You reached up to change the station after the same song played for the third time in half an hour, stopped when he grasped your wrist so hard you felt like the little bones would crumble clutched in his fingers, on which you could see the outlines of his more prominent veins threatening to protrude his skin.

But you hate pop, you'd thought frantically, but fighting to keep your mouth shut. You've complained about it before. You said nothing as he released you, opting to look at your lap where your hands were resting, your newly calloused but still rather soft fingers skimming over the quickly reddening skin along your wrist. You sulked for the next hour, the songs hardly registering enough to annoy you anymore.

A muffled "Sorry," from behind his mask was the next word between either of you, followed by: "Just don't change the station. It must be difficult to, but you've got to trust me. I know a little more about the world than you do."

You could hear the small pops from your back and shoulders as you snapped from the hunched position, staring at him wide-eyed. You were pretty sure that was the first time you witnessed it: one of his weird spazzes. Killer would occasionally get these spouts of anger, sometimes in small little bits like that, but usually in large bursts that cause some catastrophe where the only thing either of you could do is run away. And they always resulted with him apologising. Not usually to the other people he affected, but he did apologise to you for acting out and causing a scene.

At first, it was a little odd to deal with. He snapped into a wild beast, then an hour later apologised like a tamed dog trained so well it wouldn't beg even if a feast had been presented to it. But you eventually got used to it, and you realised that he was uncontrollably impulsive at times, little things managing to push him over the edge. You couldn't avoid every landmine, but you got a feel for the things that might tip him. And if you were unsure, you avoided it entirely.

Besides, you understood relatively well what it felt like to swing back and forth between moods, and you found strange pride knowing confidently you could comfort him when he felt guilty for something he did when he was in a different state, understanding his state of mind perfectly well.

"You've got too short of a temper, you know that?" you murmur, idly watching the rest of the world turn through the back window for the third day in a row.

He'd done it again, and you know saying that would guilt trip him. You almost feel bad, but you know it'll be a short trip and he'll return in a moment. He huffs, a short little 'yes, I know I fucked up,' breath of air that holds a balance of amusement and apology.

"It's fine, hardly the first time it's happened. Won't be the last, either. It's routine by now."

"It's rather unfortunate, is what it is," he says, tilting his head back.

You wait for him to continue his thought, but you're pretty sure his thoughts are cut off by sleep. You sigh, though you aren't sure why. One of those sighs that feels right, but you don't really feel why. You wrap your arms around him and manage to help him lie down. Not that it'd make sleeping in the 8 square feet of the trunk of a car comfortable, but you hope it'll help at least a little. His legs are bent with his feet resting against the wall, and you let him use your lap as a pillow as you thread your fingers through his greasy, knotted hair, making sure not to tug hard enough to disturb his sleep.

"It's been three years," you say to yourself, taking a deep breath as you begin your confession to the stars. "And I've---fuck, goddamnit." You choke on your words as you shake, the cold hardly the cause compared to the little hitch in your stomach that made your entire body twitch and your throat hold that little bubble that prevents you from talking. But it wouldn't feel right to say it again for the three-hundredth time in your head. At that point, it's just another thought.

You squeeze your eyes shut, ignoring the slivers of emotion that escape down your cheeks as you do, and try to calm your breathing. "It's so much harder to say it out loud," you whisper. "Why? It's not like I'm actually talking to anyone."

"The sky listens."

An extra shiver slides down your back as Killer sits up, positioning himself next to you, nearly trading spots as you subconsciously lean towards him, using him as a pillar of support. He wraps an arm around you and lets you fall onto his lap. It's a little awkward because your legs are still out straight, but your body is bent at your waist so your torso is on its side and you're not sure what to do with your hands, so you're left with them at your sides.

"I didn't know you were awake," you say quietly.

You're not sure if he heard you through your inability to speak up and your mumbling into his thigh, because he doesn't respond, continuing on like as far as he knows, you hadn't said a thing. "The skies and heaven and whatever religious stuff they shoved in your face as a kid," he says, and you unconsciously look out the window as he pauses, "they're gonna judge you. But I won't. Talk to me, what's up?"

Your eyes drift away from the window and towards Killer, turning your head on his lap. You don't know why you still look up expecting to see his face, but you're still a little disappointed when you're only met with a blue and white striped mask.

"You always say weird things, you know that?"

"You're not shaking or crying anymore."

You scoff, more of a dry laugh than anything. "I guess I'm not."

"Exactly."

Does he pride himself in knowing he could comfort you so easily?

"You know, this whole holiday stuff is pretty stupid. Too culture based at this point. The gifts and stuff, it's all artificial and society-driven. Alright?"

You can only offer a bitter smile you're not sure he sees and a halfhearted, "Thanks," you're not sure he hears.

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I'm rather excited for this story, it's been an idea in the back of my mind for about a year at this point, and I'm glad to finally be writing it. Remember to vote and comment your thoughts and suggestions! 
Next chapter will be out 1 December 2019.