seams unstitched

 

 

You begin to stir, coming slowly out of your post-Sleep-of-the-Dead stupor, but you refuse to open your eyes just yet. The waking up to a state of actual coherency takes even longer than usual tonight, which you suppose makes sense, given activities you'd been up to, prior to falling asleep for jegus knows how long.

You've had some trouble inhabiting the Veil with the humans and their weird-ass sleep schedules and the limited hours of overlap. It's completely ludicrous, you think. Why don't they just sync up to you and the other trolls? It's not like there's a fucking sun or two to fuck with them and make it difficult, the place is completely and pervasively black and cold and metal except where you've rigged lanterns of some sort so you can fucking see shit. You all were here first, they're the interlopers that decided to move in and team up or whatever their grubsmacking maggotinfested pathetic excuses for think pans came up with. You weren't really paying attention, to be frank. You think the least they could do is adjust their stupid sleep patterns to match with yours; but nooo, apparently it's not that easy, it's going to take a while. Fuck Strider and the stupid fucking "ironic" time chart he'd scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved in your face with an i guess i will have to draw you a diagram because you are just that stupid.

He's such a fucking bulge, you don't get how John can be friends with him.

Your elastic air conversion pumps malfunction hideously when you think of John, your breath hitching as a result, with a choked-off whine as a side-effect. You extend your hand, slowly, further and further, and all you grasp is air.

You crack your ganderbulbs and lift your head just enough to see the pillow next to you. There's a slight indentation there, but.

It's empty. And cold.

You curl in on yourself, drawing your arms to your chest, as if they can protect you from the chill, the emptiness, that is consuming you from within. You think maybe if you scrunch up tight enough, if you're faster, maybe you can become a hard little shell. A knot of muscle. Maybe you can fend it off, keep it from finishing you off, because there's not much left.

But you know you're a grubfucking, pathetic moron and you're just kidding yourself. You've always been powerless against it, you don't know why you thought this time would be any different. You're fucking pathetic. As soon as you experience the tiniest moment of happiness, as soon as you think you might have a chance to grow, to get stronger, BAM. It's back, smothering you and destroying you from the inside out. Like a disease.

You think that's fitting, really. You inflicted a disease on a whole fucking universe, right? It's only fair that a disease is what finishes you.

You pull air into your lungs - it's a struggle, your body seems to be fighting you every step of the way, but you manage - and sit up on the pile, your shoulders stiff and your head heavy. You look around, try not to use your think pan too much, try not to remember.

You're in John's block. You pretend for a moment that this is not unusual; this is no reason to be upset, this has definitely happened before, you just fell asleep, no big deal.

You're not sure why you even tried.

It crosses your pan biefly that maybe you imagined the whole thing. Maybe John never dragged you to his room yesterday for a movie marathon, offering to make a pile because he thought it would be more comfortable for you. Maybe he never snuggled up next to you right at the dramatic confessions of the leading actor and supporting actress, clutching your arm tightly as his eyes got all watery with the clear, salty fluid you've been told is normal for his species. Maybe you totally made up the part where you reached over to wipe away the tears, completely unintentional and not at all tender OR pitying in the slightest and who are you fucking kidding, when he kissed you you didn't even hesitate to return it. Fuck, you were eager.

He stammered out a warning about your teeth between kisses as you practically attacked him, teeth and tongues everywhere, but he never had to say anything, because there was no way in Alternia or Earth or hell or wherever that you were going to harm this boy, not a chance, not ever. You'd die first.

And then he'd touched your horns, and you'd lost it. The sensations consumed you, and you came apart at the seams for him, and you were stupid enough to think it'd actually be okay, that he would be there to fix it. To stitch you back up, carefully, with bright blue thread the color of the sky, stronger and neater than anything you could do yourself.

You thought he'd stay.

You throw yourself off the pile, like maybe if you push hard enough and sprint fast enough you can outrun feelings entirely. Maybe you can leave them behind if you keep going, stop thinking, and just move, robotic and mechanical. Trick the feelings into thinking you're just a lifeless atomaton, and maybe they'll leave you the fuck alone.

You pick up the longsleeved black shirt with your sign on it, tossed so carelessly to the floor, and don't think. You try desperately not to think.

But now it smells like his room, like him, like the breeze, and his stupid yellowish crunchy moviesnacks, and gross human.

Your hand is shaking as you push open the door, as you try to wobble down the hall in the direction of your own respiteblock. You need another shirt, any shirt but this one. 

Of course, you've barely turned a corner when he's there, in front of you, his teeth huge and right about at eye-level and how did he managed to not fucking bite your lip off with those things and fuck you are not thinking about that, nope, still in denial.

"Karkat, you're up!" He sounds surprised, maybe slightly sheepish, but not guilty at all. Stupid fucking.... he could at least have the decency to act remorseful, if he was going to pretend nothing happened. Maybe it's better this way, though; you can just forget. You can do that. You will make damn sure it happens, because you know you can't survive otherwise.

"Yeah," you say, your voice a low growl. A warning. You are not to be fucked with right now, he can just back right off, or he can be subjected to the most legendary of rage fits you are capable of unleashing on him. And he of all trolls would know, they can be fucking masterful.

"Dude, why aren't you wearing a shirt? Karkat, you're freezing!" He lays his hand on your arm but yanks it back immediately, a look of horror on his face. You don't understand. You flinch and take a step back, stifling a sob at the unexpected contact, but he doesn't even hesitate.

"Here, take my sweater!" He yanks his own hoodie over his head - a muted blue, with his windy symbol on the front, slightly worn and faded - revealing a t-shirt similar in hue underneath, and shoves the sweater down over you, still warm.

"John, what the fuck--" You drop your own shirt in surprise as you flail your arms, accidentally nicking him on the cheek with your nail.

"Ouch! Whoops, watch those claws man, they're lethal!" He just laughs at you and ruffles your hair when he finally gets the sweater over your head.

"What the fuck do you want?" You snarl at him, because this is the last straw. He can't fucking do this. He is not allowed to pretend he cares when he clearly doesn't, that is not fucking fair, you can't handle this, he's supposed to keep his distance and act like nothing happened because it was all a huge mistake, you are a just a huge fucking mistake.

"Huh? What do you mean?" He asks, his eye all bright-blue shock, the beginnings of worry starting to crease his brow. "I just don't want you to catch cold."

You shove him back roughly, because he is way too close. "You can't do this to me," you choke out, your eyes welling up with tears, which you try to blink away to no avail as the tears slip down your cheek, staining his damn sweater. "I can't--"

"Karkat, what are you talking about?" He takes a step closer, and you leap back, putting your arms between you like a barrier, keeping him out, like that'd stop John when he's determined, he's not a scrawny weakling like you. But John doesn't take another step, just half-extends his hands, like he wants to reach for you but isn't sure what to do. "What's going on?"

"You fucking tell me," you snap. "I woke up and you weren't there, and now you're--" Your throat constricts then, and you can't get any more words out, so you just wrap your arms around yourself, a poor attempt at holding yourself together, because you're not sure you can anymore. You think John might've broken you for good, taken everything that was left and smashed it into a useless, flat griddlecake.

"What? Karkat, I only left for a minute, to get a drink of water. I guess I got distracted talking to Rose, it sounded like it was important. I was just on my way back!"

You risk a glance up, and you realize the instant you see his face that he's not lying. You're not sure John has it in him to lie, not about this, how could you be so fucking stupid? Why didn't you think? How could you believe he would--?

You stumble forward a half-step and he's there, holding you tightly, lifting you a couple inches off the ground.

"I'm so sorry Karkat, I swear I won't do that to you, okay? I'm not going anywhere, I promise!"

You know this isn't the last time John's going to do something and you're going to be a total idiot about it. He's probably going to do lots of dumb human shit that'll mess you up and confuse the shit out of you and maybe break your weak, bruised bloodpusher a little.

But you think, maybe, if in the end he still holds you and makes promises and doesn't leave, you think maybe... you'll be okay. You're still pathetic and a complete idiot, but he's an idiot, too, and maybe you can be idiots together. As long as he can fix you, maybe it doesn't matter if you're a little broken.