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It was something of a routine they had.
They would return to the castle and Killer would disappear down the hallways towards Nightmare’s office, to give him a report on whatever they’d been assigned. But before he would, he’d give Horror his knife. One of them, anyway. The one he’d used, usually, but there had been a few times he’d handed over a clean one.
Horror would take it, grip the weapon he didn’t prefer like the treasure it was, and go out to the yard. There, in the remains of the courtyard littered with rubble and among dead and rotten shrubbery, he’d sit on one of the benches and take a moment to wait. It never took long for Killer to reappear, even if he had gone to his room on the way, to pick up some of the supplies.
“Here,” he’d say, and hand Horror a cleaning rag.
And this time was no different.
Horror took the black cloth with a grateful hum, trading him for his knife. Killer sat down next to him and unscrewed the bottle of cleaner open. It smelled of alcohol, strong and pungent, but Horror had grown used to it. The first few times, it made his eye water, but now, it was just… familiar.
“Night says good job,” Killer told him, quietly, as he tipped the bottle onto his own rag, an off-white that spoke of its use. The smell of alcohol got that much stronger.
“Y’did good too,” Horror threw back, taking the bottle to douse his rag. He caught a glimpse of Killer’s momentary surprise, before it was replaced by his usual grin, a touch wider than normally. Living with someone for years, you learned their tells. Taking someone to bed for years, you learned their tells. Horror knew that one very well, but he didn’t let it show. Or, at least, he thought he didn’t.
He brought the rag to his axe, starting on the blade. For years, he had neglected this part. His old axe had been dulled down, with caked in blood and dust in the crevices from everywhere he’d carried it. By the time Killer had seen it for the first time, it was less of a blade and more of a maul, really.
But Killer, he took care of his weapons. He treated them after every battle, cleaned and polished them to a shine, always made sure they were sharpened to a paper thin point.
He’d declared Horror’s axe a ‘fuckin’ travesty,’ on the spot, and got him a new one. At first, he had been offended, because he’d had the thing for ages, and it had helped him through more than its fair share of rough times. But Killer insisted, even after a shouting match, and Horror could see the satisfaction in him when he wielded it now, the glint of pride hidden under gloating and smugness. Killer knew exactly how much better it was than the sad excuse his old one had been compared to it. He wasn’t as emotionless and unaffected as he liked to make himself appear.
The new axe was good, though, Horror had to admit that. Its handle was longer, and being able to cut through stuff instead of smashing it was nice.
“You missed a spot,” Killer mused idly, reaching over and tapping on the blade where a smudge of blood remained. Purely on habit, Horror jostled the weapon, almost cutting the outstretched phalanx clean off. Almost, because Killer expected the stunt and pulled away in time, and there was the beginnings of a chuckle welling up in his ribcage.
“Next time… I won’t miss,” Horror told him, with a quirk of his own teeth, and that only made Killer bark out the laugh proper.
“What, y’wanna cross swords?” He brought his knife over, running the blade over the axe’s. The shing it created was loud and entirely too comforting. When he had grown so comfortable with the sounds of a blade being sharpened, he’d never know, but stranger things had happened to him, inside and outside of the castle.
“You’re gonna stain it again.”
“I don’t mind cleaning it for you again if that’s all you’re worried about.” There was the teasing tone to Killer’s voice, but the offer was genuine.
Horror just shook his head, though, because he didn’t want to take it. “‘m good.”
The routine of wiping the blood away, getting rid of all the dirt and grime off the steel, had grown on him more than he’d ever thought it could, and he was loath to give it up. So he just barely acknowledged Killer’s noncommittal shrug as he returned to his own weapon. It was smaller and Killer had had more practice with this (and, admittedly, had more deft hands), so it didn’t take him long to have it cleaned, while Horror was still scrubbing the stains off the handle.
Like it was the most natural thing, Killer adjusted himself on the bench, leaning his back against Horror’s side and hanging his legs off the metal armrest. It didn’t seem comfortable, but Killer looked content. He procured a sharpening stone from the depths of his pockets and started running the blade over it in broad swipes, practiced and perfected.
Shing. Shing.
“Careful,” Horror gruffed out, when Killer’s elbow hit his own on one of the passes. It wasn’t enough to throw either of them off, but it could have been.
“Not in the business of cuttin’ you up, buddy,” Killer retorted, monotone. That type of monotone that meant he was serious. Horror had nothing to say to that, so he simply cocked his head to the side. It collided with the back of Killer’s, a quiet, dull thud to complement the shings. Killer pulled away only to mirror the movement for one more thud. “Yeah, I know.”
Horror held the axe up when he felt it was clean, twisting it this way and that way to see if he got all the stains out of it. There was one left, but that one was old and wouldn’t get out no matter how hard he had tried to scrub it off, over and over. The smaller skeleton had offered to carve it out of the handle, make it ‘all pretty,’ but Horror still hadn’t decided on his answer. The offer stood, he knew, even if Killer had never brought it up again. Maybe he thought it had slipped Horror’s mind, like so many other things, but it hadn’t.
He thought of it every time they did this, though he wasn’t too keen on sharing that little fact. He would think of something specific to ask for the carving eventually, or he’d wait until he knew Killer was in a particularly good mood, to limit the chance of finding a dick carved into the weapon he’d grown attached to. Not that the chance was high to begin with, but really, it all depended on how favorable Killer was feeling at any given moment.
“Here,” the other said, pulling him out of his musings. He was holding the whetstone over his shoulder, turning his knife back and forth to inspect it, and Horror wasn’t sure when the rhythmic shings had faded back into silence.
“Thanks, cutlet,” he said, and Killer huffed out an amused little sound at the nickname. He’d said once that he didn’t mind it all that much, and that was enough for Horror to keep using it. The thought of calling the other by anything other than it or his name didn’t sit well with Horror, even if he found himself robbed of the breath he didn’t really need whenever Killer called him babe, even in that infuriatingly teasing way. Maybe he just couldn’t imagine himself saying such a nickname, or maybe he thought his own voice wouldn’t make it sound the same.
It didn’t matter anyway, because it wasn’t the nickname he used for Killer.
He took the stone and brought it down onto his axe, dragging it over the length of the blade. His own shing s were louder and lacked the precision and regularity Killer’s had, but with each one, his axe’s blade shone a little more, the steel thinning out at the edge.
Killer balanced his knife at the tip of his finger as he worked, and it was a small wonder the blade didn’t dig into his bone, but Horror had seen him do many other tricks worse than that. At one point, they didn’t surprise him anymore. He could appreciate the balance it took, though, even if he only caught it from the corner of his eye.
“You’re gettin’ better at this,” Killer remarked, once he had set the whetstone down. The axe looked brand new, and he could feel a bubble of pride well inside his SOUL at the offhanded praise.
“Learned from the best,” he muttered, pulling another huff of a laughter from Killer, and he couldn’t help but grin himself, his skull reflected in the blade as it caught the rare light from behind the dense clouds overhead, “‘swhat I’d say… but yer head’s big ‘nough already.”
This time Killer laughed out loud, a startled sound punched out of him. Horror’s grin widened; he liked catching Killer off guard, if only because he was the one who had a snarky retort ready for seemingly anything and everything.
The knife fell from his finger with the movement, but he caught it by the handle, turning himself sideways to all but slot against Horror’s side like he belonged nowhere else.
Horror always ran warmer than all the others, so he couldn’t be sure if it was because the chilly wind was getting to him, or if he just felt like he wanted to be closer. Either way, Horror was never opposed to it. Killer never made fun of him for his all too obvious greed of bodily contact, something that, just like food, he hadn’t been allowed to have for years.
“And you’re quicker on the draw, damn,” Killer teased, when his laughter abated, and his ribcage was no longer shaking against Horror’s. He was finding himself almost sad to have it gone. It was always a nice feeling, one that he enjoyed more than he probably should’ve. “You’re makin’ me proud, big guy.”
“...I better stop then.”
Killer jabbed his elbow into where he thought the side of Horror’s pelvis was. He missed it and simply bumped into the bulk of his jacket, but the sentiment was clear. “You’re a dick.”
“Heh. Takes one… to know one.”
Horror debated putting the axe into its little holster, strapped to his shorts, now that it was cleaned and sharpened, but he didn’t want to just yet. Killer, too, was done with his knife, but he made no move to hide it in the myriad spots all over his jacket, either. He didn’t want to think too deeply into it — neither his own nor Killer’s motives for staying still like this for a couple calm moments more, not past the most obvious, ‘he was too comfortable,’ excuse.
They stayed like that, huddled close on half the bench, until Horror’s mind started nagging him about dinner, as loath as he was to move even an inch. He slipped the axe into its resting spot and closed the holster, the weight of the steel and wood comforting where it had once been unnatural.
But as he did, Killer stood up with him, and the quirk of his teeth was lopsided and genuine, and Horror knew right away that he’d have an audience for the duration it took him to cook whatever he decided they’d have for dinner, and whatever little ritual this was they had wouldn’t be over just yet.
And that was fine.
It was fine, because admitting it made him happy was a risky thing when it came to Killer and his too perceptive sockets. So even if he couldn’t tame his smile, it was fine.
He led the way back inside so Killer wouldn’t see.
Like that, though, he missed the matching smile Killer himself wore, watching his back.