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“Come on come on come on! It’s right up here, you’ll love it!”
“Stop dragging me! Your home is not that big, I do not need to be right behind you, dammit!”
Despite his disgruntled protests, Ink pulled Nightmare up his stairs by the sleeve of his sweater, unafraid of the tentacles that slowly sharpened in his anger. He was too excited — annoyingly so. The dark guardian was glad he couldn’t feel the emotions running through that thick skull. The many happy skeletons downstairs were painful enough.
This was the first time Nightmare had actually come to one of the Stars’ multiverse meetings, and he was already regretting it. Unlike every other time these rolled around, he actually had nothing to do that day. No paperwork, no plans to write out, and no new supplies to take inventory of. His schedule was strangely open. He wasn’t sure if it was from a lack of activity, or if he just got ahead of things without realizing it, but it was a relief either way. Usually, that’d be a prime time to huddle down in the library and read — alone, undisturbed, and quiet. Just the way he liked it.
Unfortunately, Killer found out about his open schedule.
Even more unfortunately, he insisted on dragging Nightmare along with them all.
“You can get your goopy ass outside and socialize for once! Suffer with us, Boss — this was all your idea anyway.”
The cheeky bastard.
The meeting itself was… interesting, at least. Amusing in a way. Obviously, his presence unsettled a majority of the skeletons present far more than the violent four idiots did. As it should, truly. He was sure his dark stare from the shadowed corner of the room did nothing to help, which is why he did it.
The only ones who weren’t affected by Nightmare’s appearance were his four subordinates, Error, Fresh, and, of course, Ink.
… Well, maybe “unaffected” isn’t the best term to describe the artist's reaction. He was ecstatic. So ecstatic even, that he rushed the meeting faster than Nightmare was sure it was supposed to go. The amount of times he’d cut someone off to move on was far more than could just be chalked up to his forgetful and spontaneous nature.
All because he wanted to show off his studio. What an idiot.
At least it got him away from Dream’s prying eyes. He was getting a little tired of feeling that gaze on the side of his skull.
“In here in here!”
“I don’t see why you are so — hey!”
On second thought, maybe Dream’s curious uncertainty was better.
The Guardian nearly tripped the moment he stepped foot into the room. Not only was he practically shoved, but there was so much paper and trash all over the floor, Nightmare was honestly surprised Ink was able to hop in so freely. Really, he knew the artist was careless, but not so careless as to let someone literally walk all over his drawings. Maybe they weren’t important, somehow.
He couldn’t imagine how all of these intricate (and impressive) pictures and paintings could be unimportant, but who knew what went through that squid’s head?
Ink, without wings nor Broomie, spun around as soon as Nightmare finally gathered his footing. He spread his arms wide with an exaggerated “Tada!” as if this messy, unorganized mess was something Nightmare should be awestruck by.
It was larger than Nightmare expected, he’d give him that.
His single socket narrowed to a scathing glare. “Yes, wonderful. Oh so grand. May I leave now?”
“Wait!” Ink clapped his hands together. “Let me at least show you around! You always talked about wanting to see my studio before, and I know it’s been, like, forever, but it’s really not that different since then!” He quickly picked up the easel in the center of the room to move it out of the way, dragging the stool that was in front of it along with him by his foot. The canvas, a half finished cityscape, flopped forward, but Ink easily caught it before it could fall. Then, he quickly went about picking up the papers across the floor, tossing them into the corner and kicking some unsharpened pencils with it. “Okay, look!”
Really, Nightmare was glad his patience was so strong after recruiting Killer. The next ten, maybe twenty minutes were spent watching Ink run around the room and show off his vast collection of supplies. Some of it was understandable, like the canvases of every size, all the types of paper he had in long drawers, the millions of paint jars and spray bottles in every hue, tone, and shade. He was loath to admit it, but even just looking at the art he had tacked up to every surface on the wall was nice to look at, and certainly more interesting than listening to the Protector drone on and on about every section of his studio. It was the odd collections of driftwood, mason jars, altoid containers, jars of feathers, and other junk he didn’t quite understand.
“I’m planning on doing something with them!” the short skeleton claimed, though even he looked a little sheepish and uncertain about it.
Really, it all just screamed fire hazard to Nightmare. He’d never allow this sort of disorganized hoarding in his castle. Though, he supposed Ink just wouldn’t be all too concerned about fires when he can replace everything with a swipe of his brush.
“And over here are my watercolors!” Ink pulled him to the far corner of the room, next to the window and his glass drawing desk. Here he had a tall shelving unit stacked to the brim with watercolor supplies. “I have a lot of Koi products, but those are mostly good for quick traveling stuff. Though you might like the metallic paints! But Rembrandt is really good in my opinion, and they come in these tubes that I just pour in any palette I need. Or on a sheet of glass! That’s always handy, if you don’t cut yourself with it on accident, heheh… I’ve got a lot of multimedia paper here too, if you wanted! Hot and cold pressed! Just smaller nine-by-twelves, since they’re easier to carry around, but if you wanted something bigger that’s back over—”
“Why are you talking like that?”
Ink blinked, looking up from the pad of paper he was holding with question marks in his eyes. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to be taking any of…” Nightmare vaguely gestured to the shelves before him, socket squinted suspiciously. “This. I am not going to come over and have little art lessons with you, if that is what you’re thinking. I have actual duties.”
“Oh, I know!” He smiled wide, grabbing another pad of paper, not caring about the brand or size. “But you liked watercolor! That’s still true, right?”
“I—” Nightmare froze, all anger seeping from his body. “What?”
Ink didn’t turn towards him. Instead, he searched through his shelves, eying some palettes, paints, papers, and a multitude of soft brushes, thumbing over their bristles. “You liked watercolor! It was the only art form you really got into, besides some basic drawing. You didn’t like acrylic because it was messy and the paint kept wiping off the canvas every time you tried to put on another layer. You never waited long enough for it to dry!” He snorted a bit, pulling out a stack of watercolor pads, each one looking more worn down than the last, and spun around to dump them in Nightmare’s stunned hands. “Charcoal was a mess too, and a pain to do with skeleton hands, I know. Plus it was so permanent on the paper, you hated that you couldn’t erase as well as with graphite. Ink was a little bit better, I think because it was similar to watercolor, but you always underestimated how dark it could get and couldn’t get a good mixture with the water.”
The artist just kept piling little tubes of paint, palettes, brushes of every size, and even a few plastic cups and pipeds onto the thick paper in Nightmare’s hand. He huffed a little laugh with mirth in his eyes. “Clay was such a no go for you. Gosh you were cleaning that out from your joints for days! Though maybe you’d be better at that now? Is your goop like clay?”
“Ink—”
“Oh!” He turned back and swiped a bunch of supplies on the floor, grabbed a smaller, old pad of paper with many of the pages practically falling out, and reached for a mini spray bottle. When he slapped that onto the growing pile in Nightmare’s arms, he actually had to use his tentacles just to keep it all up. “There! For wetting the paper! Have you done any paintings since we last hung out?”
“No, I—”
“You should! You were so good, Nighty! I still have—!”
“Ink!”
The artist stilled, finally looking into Nightmare’s hazy eyelight. The tentacles that weren’t curled around the mess of supplies carelessly thrown onto him were tense and sagged to the ground. He stared down at the small skeleton in baffled confusion.
Now that he had his attention though, the Guardian just… didn’t know what to say.
If he were honest, he’d forgotten about all of this.
Ironic, really. He, Nightmare, was the one to forget something instead of the one who’s memory usually failed to recall a conversation from five minutes ago.
But now, after all of Ink’s rambling, he couldn’t help but remember it all.
All those little moments spent by the tree, trying desperately to capture the right shade and shape of a little flower in front of him with just a well used pencil. The times he’d tried painting his mother with acrylics, only to end up with a scrapped project and stained clothes. When Ink took that canvas and finished it for him with the most amazing brushwork that Nightmare was so fond of watching. The first time seeing him actually bring drawings to life for a short amount of time. Stars, the messy, childish paint wars they used to have…
That moment Ink introduced watercolor for the first time, and Nightmare actually liked the messy forest scene he’d come up with. All the flowers and sunsets and animals and bugs he’d painted with that very same paint set. Painting little things, like Dream’s crown, one of his feathers, Ink’s many eye symbols.
He never got to keep any of it when Ink wasn’t there. He’d have no explanation for all these supplies, or how he learned to use any of it. He held onto one sketchbook, telling Dream it was just another notebook he would write in. His brother respected his privacy when it came to reading, at the very least. Night couldn’t imagine his curiosity if he found out he was drawing too.
It had been a very long time since he’d done any kind of art.
He scrunched his eye closed in frustration, looking down at the pile of supplies he held. Most of it was so old and worn, the brushes stained and palettes dirty, though it was clear Ink had picked out the best he had. Even the multimedia paper pads looked partially used. Nightmare almost laughed at that. Ink never did finish a sketchbook, no matter the type of paper.
Eventually, he turned his attention to the familiar sketch pad that sat on top. It looked homemade, the binding done with thick string and the pages unevenly cut. Some larger sheets stuck out from the sides, shoved in more for convenience than actual storage.
“Nightmare?”
Using a tentacle, he flipped the cover open. Again, he found all words left him. A detailed watercolor exploration of his own wings stared up at the dark Guardian. They filled the entire sheet of paper, in different sizes and poses, some with his form in it and others of just the wings. Different assortments of the types of feathers lined the left side, from large to small, the fluff at the base so much more realistic than what should have been possible for watercolor paints to achieve. Little white specks were done with a white gel pen over the intricate feathers, like sparkling stars in a dark purple night sky. Clearly, a lot of time had been spent making them all.
He couldn’t help but stare.
“You… kept all of this?” he asked silently, slowly turning the page to find even more wing studies. It almost made him flinch.
“I mean… yeah?” Ink tilted his head, genuinely confused by the question. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I thought you’d forget about it all.”
There was a brief pause between them before the artist stepped away. He wandered to another side of the studio, where a large dresser sat. Pulling open the middle drawer, he took out even more sketchbooks and watercolor pads. As he pulled out some loose sheets here and there, Night realized that none of it was Ink’s work. That was his.
“I keep everything in the Doodle Sphere,” Ink said, flipping through one of the sketchbooks, flashes of flora and fauna drawn in uncertain lines flickering past his eyes. “Art is art, and it should be treated with respect, whether you’re a beginner or not. Throwing something out just isn’t an option, especially if it’s not mine.”
When Nightmare said nothing, Ink looked up and smiled at him. “I forget a lot of things, yeah. But that’s what’s so great about art. I can remember almost everything I make, and when I made it. Every circumstance, every reason for it, or the technique I used. It’s kind of like my scarf notes. I just… know things better, when I had some picture to focus on during the time.”
“...Everything?”
“Mhm!” He dug deep into the drawer and pulled out a crinkled bit of notebook paper. A crude, childlike drawing of what he assumed was supposed to be Dream marked the surface. “This was your first drawing. I asked you to draw what first came to your mind, so I could see where you were skill wise. You almost didn’t want to show me. But when I had you do this next,” he flipped it around to show a shaded, shaky drawing of an apple, “but with an actual reference and minimal guidence, you were a lot more relaxed about it. You were always more connected to nature and plant life than you were to forms. Which is understandable! Anatomy is hard.”
“...I didn’t really see a point in it at first,” the Guardian muttered, his gaze glancing back down to the little paintings in his arms. The next one was a view of the village from the tree, some branches framing the corners. Ink had always been the more detailed of the two, getting every little color change and outlining every building. Nightmare just liked to see the colors flow into an artistic rendition of the subject he chose. “I was mostly doing it to make you happy rather than any… actual desire.”
“But you kept at it!” Ink beamed, pulling out drawing after drawing from the drawer. “I know the look anywhere, you were starting to enjoy it!” He did, in the end. It was a nice distraction from everything around him when Ink wasn’t there, and gave him something else to do besides reading and wandering the field. Grinning knowingly, Ink set down the artwork in his hands and walked back to Nightmare. “Your wings were so expressive when you were drawing. They’d melt to the floor, or twitch when you got frustrated. And you’d let me move them around too! You’d get so much more invested in a drawing than a book and hardly ever noticed me stretching them out or flipping the feathers around. I preened them sometimes, y’know. I don’t think you ever realized I did, but gosh, when your feathers were out of place, it looked so strange because you were usually so meticulous about them, so I’d fix it before you could notice!”
Nightmare’s gaze flickered back to the paintings of his wings. It had been a long time since he’d seen them. Truthfully, the Guardian had almost forgotten what they’d looked like. He thought everyone had.
He wasn’t sure if that a good thing.
He sighed, shoulders drooping.
“...Do you miss it?”
That cyan eyelight peaked up towards the artist. Ink, for once in his life, looked rather subdued. However, despite his tone, there was no pity in his eyes. Only concern and a hint of curiosity.
He didn’t quite know what Ink meant by that question — whether he was referring to his wings, painting in general, or even just how life was then. When life was sometimes lonely, but so much simpler. He supposed it didn’t matter. Nightmare had answered before he could really think about it, as it was all the same to him.
“Yes.”
The silence was filled only with the vague talking and laughing from downstairs. He could barely hear Killer’s loud voice, and what he thinks were Horror’s deep chuckles. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but anything was better than this heavy atmosphere that solidified itself in this room now.
Nightmare turned away from the small artist, taking a few steps towards his desk. He placed all the books, paints, and other supplies on the glass surface without a word. He didn’t want them.
He didn’t even make it halfway to the door before Ink had grabbed his wrist.
The dark skeleton bristled, spinning around to tell the Protector off. He was done. Ink made his point, showed him around, and Nightmare just wanted to go home.
However, before he could get a word out, Ink had his palm flipped over and a small brush of paint was dancing across his hand. He cringed at the feeling. “What are you—?”
When Ink pulled away, there was a long, smooth feather left in his hand. It was delicate, but with harsh, straight edges, its vane shaped more like an arrow than most monster’s rounded, soft feathers. The purple and indigo fibers sparkled in the light.
“I don’t know what happened,” Ink spoke, his voice hardly louder than a whisper, “but if you ever want to get away from everything, or have a moment to just… pretend things were simpler… you know where to find me, Nighty.” He smiled kindly. “I can’t fix it, but I can help remind you of what it was like. A distraction, if you ever need it.”
When Nightmare didn’t respond, the artist walked away and came back with a small pad of paper, some brushes, and a little palette of watercolor paints. It was quite the downsize from the mountain of supplies he’d tried to push on him mere minutes ago. “Here. Try doing something other than reading and work, yeah? It’s nice to have a hobby.”
Reluctantly, the taller monster took the offered supplies without a word. He thumbed the fake feather for a moment before placing it carefully on top.
“Tell the others I left early,” he muttered, turning back towards the door.
“Of course, Night. I’ll see you later!”
Nightmare dropped into the shadows before he could even leave the studio.
-:(o):-
“Hey Boss?”
“Come in.”
The door to his office carefully swung open. Cross walked through silently, closed it behind him, then turned to stand properly before his leader. The room was darker than usual, with Nightmare at his desk straight ahead. The Guardian had no work before him, surprisingly. He just sat there with his head propped on his hands, staring at nothing.
The former guardsman shuffled awkwardly. “Um, is this a bad time?”
Nightmare shook his head, sighing a bit before turning his blank gaze up to the other skeleton. “What did you need, Cross?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Well, we just got back…”
“I’m aware.”
“I just. Ink told me to give you this?” He held up the canvas in his hand. It was rather large, the shortest side just a bit longer than his shoulders. “He kinda just passed it to me and said not to show Dream. And that you can do whatever you wanted with it.” The painting looked old, the edges a little beat up and the face still a little dusty. It looked as though Ink had tried to brush it off in a hurry. It was clean enough to see the colorful and precise picture of a large tree framed by a slightly cloudy, fiery orange and pink sky. Golden and black apples dotted the leaves, each painstakingly drawn with shimmering highlights on their tiny surfaces.
It was an odd painting, for multiple reasons. Mostly because the tree looked so much more professionally done than the leaves and background. He supposed it was pretty in its own way.
Nightmare only stared.
After a few silent moments, Cross asked uncertainly, “What do you want me to do with it?” It didn’t really fit any kind of aesthetic of the castle. He couldn’t imagine this colorful painting up in the living room or beside all the dark artwork Nightmare had in the halls. Honestly, he expected it would just be stored in a spare room, if Nightmare kept it at all.
Maybe he’d take it, really. He may not like Ink, but art was art. Better to have it out somewhere than just left to rot away in storage.
“Leave it here.”
Cross’ eyelights shot up in surprise. He barely caught a shift in Nightmare’s expression before his mask of indifference fell over him again. “I— here?”
“Yes.” A tentacle gestured off to the right, clear indication to set it down over by the couch and chairs he had set up for the others. (They really only used it for napping when things got too overwhelming and they didn’t want to be alone, but Nightmare didn’t seem to mind.) “I’ll put it up later.”
“Oh. Uh, okay.”
Unsure of what to say, the monochrome skeleton crossed the room and propped the canvas against one of the plush chairs. Again, Cross found himself scanning the piece. He wondered if it had some kind of symbolic meaning that Nightmare liked? Weren’t the brothers’ souls shaped like apples? Maybe it was some testament to their truce? Was it something too personal to ask about? Probably, knowing the boss.
Deciding that it may be best to just drop it, he brushed off a bit of the dust in the corners, then turned to leave again. “Horror’s starting dinner. He said it’d probably be ready in about an hour.”
“I’ll be down.”
“Killer’s a little salty you left early, by the way. He might be a bit pouty. More than usual.”
That thankfully got a bit of a quirk to Nightmare’s mouth. “I’m sure he will.” He sat up in his chair, nodding towards his subordinate. “Thank you, Cross. I’ll see you then.”
He nodded back with a small smile. “Of course.” He spared one last glance to the strange painting, finding its brightness stood out quite a bit in the dark room, before stepping out into the hall again.
Despite all of Killer’s whining, Nightmare was rather silent that night.