Work Text:
It’s too late to be awake. The sun, the very thing that scorches any troll that steps into its light, the thing that blinded your matespirit; is now simply a symbol of your stubborn unwillingness to let this damn manuscript die a miserable death along with the rest of your unfinished novels as it begins to set.
You’re typing away so hard you’re slamming into the keys. You’ve got to at least finish this chapter before you can go to sleep at least. You’ve barely spared a single moment away from your husktop, you haven’t eaten in hours, but you know that efficiency will taste better than any food.
The minute you hit enter to write some incredibly engaging dialogue, you feel something tugging at you. This isn’t new obviously, you think Nepeta and Terezi get it too, this feeling that you need to drop what you're doing for…whatever reason. Something about your aspect and blood and hoofbeastshit like that. You don’t listen, someone you’re close to is probably just having an argument with someone else. Messy drama you don’t have the energy for right now.
But of course when you try to keep typing your prongs seize up and you can’t get a word down. This…this is less common.
You guess it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you just checked up on a few of them would it? You can waste ten entire minutes just to cater to your dumbass aspect, especially if you can actually work afterwards. You know better than to prolong the inevitable, that doesn’t mean you’re not going to complain the whole time though. You reserve the right to bitch about whatever the fuck is bothering you.
Might as well troll your moirail first.
-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] --
CG: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ONLINE?
CG: IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN DAY!
TC: SeEiNg If YoU sTiLl BrEaThInG bEsT FrIeNd.
TC: It AiN’t GoT yOu YeT rIgHt?
CG: GAMZEE WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?
TC: A mOtHeRfUcKeR gOt To ThInKiNg It ToOk YoUr AsS.
TC: It SuRe AsS HeLl LaUgHeD wHeN I sAiD iT wOuLdN’t Get To YoU.
CG: CAN YOU MAKE SENSE FOR ONCE IN YOUR PATHETIC GOGDAMN LIFE?
CG: WHAT THE HELL IS “IT”? WHY DO YOU THINK IT’S GOING TO TAKE ME?
TC: it
TC: IT WANTS TO MOTHERFUCKING DIG INTO MY GODDAMN PAN
TC: make me scared so i don’t get to fighting back none.
TC: IT WON’T WORK FUCKING WORK THOUGH
TC: a brother keeps fighting
TC: I’LL FIGHT TILL IT RIPS MY MOTHERFUCKING BLOODPUMP FROM MY MOTHERFUCKING THORAX
Oh shit.
Your mind has fully abandoned whatever the fuck you were before because oh shit. You need to stay focused because you cannot, under any circumstances, let Gamzee keep falling off the deep end. You can handle this. You can handle an episode like this, you’ve handled worse, but it’s getting hard to stop panicking because the last time ended very very badly for everyone involved. He hasn’t had something this bad in a while, has he been taking his medication? Oh gog you’re freezing up, you need to start fucking typing. Fuck fuck fuck.
CG: GAMZEE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
TC: in my hive, in my block
TC: RIGHT WHERE THE FUCK IT WANTS ME.
CG: DON’T MOVE. DON’T GO ANYWHERE.
CG: STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE.
TC: don’t you worry brother i ain’t going no place.
TC: IT’S BLOCKING THE MOTHERFUCKING DOOR ANYWAY.
TC: got me cornered like a little hopbeast.
TC: A MOTHERFUCKER’S DOOMED BROTHER.
TC: i’m doomed.
You get right off your husktop and grab your palmhusk. As long as he’s stationary you can make it to him. The sun is almost out of the sky, you won’t die and neither will he.
You scramble to think of anything you’d need and decide that you won’t need shit but your hands to pap with. You run right out the door without a second thought then, the air is warm but you don’t care. Not now, you’ll think about it after.
You know you shouldn’t be looking at your husktop, you know you should be staring the thing down so it knows what the fuck its trying to threaten. The animal part of your brain screams at you to run at it, teeth bared, to get somewhere safer than the corner of your respiteblock.
But you don’t. Because you’re a fucking fool. You want him more than anything right now. You want him to stay online with you and bring you down like he always does. You’re going to die, no doubt about that, it’s going to kill you and there’s no real way to keep that from happening. You want him to be here when it happens though, even if just on Trollian.
You stare at the gray text, waiting for him to say something, anything at all.
The sun has left the sky and the hive is getting dark. The music is back and it’s muffled. A song that leaves you during the day like it’s hiding from the sun but always comes back at night. It’s a mockery of the holy music of the circus, warped and wrong. You haven’t found where it’s coming from yet and you hate that it’s mocking you.
It just isn’t right, just like you. It’s blasphemy wearing the face of the righteous, wearing its paint. Your prongs shake as you start clawing at your sin again, trying to kill whatever’s in there. It’s wrong, your skin is wrong. You hiss and bleat pathetically into the growing darkness of your room, you sound like a wriggler and it can hear you and it’s listening and-
You snap your mouth shut but it’s too late, it’s heard your fear. You finally look up at the doorway and you see the figure standing in the doorway drenched in shadow. You can’t see it clearly, you never can, but it’s still there. You can sense. You try to growl at it but it comes out hoarse, you’ve been yelling at it for so so long. It tells you that your fear is proof, that you’re an imposter and you know better than that. You look back at your screen, it’s the only light in the room and it’s facing you, what a motherfucking joke. The unfunniest motherfucking joke ever told.
Your heart sinks as the seconds tick by and he doesn’t say a word. Your mind fills in the blanks, he’s gone. He’s left you here alone and you can’t blame him. How could you? You’ll die alone kicking and screaming at the bringer of your doom as it rips and tears at your-
A message in all caps pops up on screen and you fixate on it like it’s the only thing left in the world to see at all.
CG: SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!
CG: YOU ARE NOT GOING TO FUCKING DIE YOU ASSWIPE SHUT YOUR FUCKING GASH RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!
Your body doesn’t relax really, it hasn’t since the night the music started, but something leaves you and you know it was something that you didn’t want there at all. You want to let yourself be deluded by his words and pretend he’s right but he isn’t. He isn’t he isn’t he isn’t he isn’t he isn’t and you’ll die with his words in your eyes and his name on your lips. You’re going to call out for him, bleating like a scared little pupa on the beach, but that won’t save you now. You’d just stain his warm little hands with your rotten ill-gotten purple blood. He’ll never see you again, not once not ever.
You know that the music isn’t holy because you’re unworthy of it. You know and it knows. It’s here for the birthright you stole, for the rotting corpse you call a body. You almost want it to take it. It can have the maggots burrowing into it, it doesn’t fit your bones any-motherfucking-way. You can’t surrender to it, or at least it can’t know that you are. You start typing instead.
TC: CAN A MOTHERFUCKER ASK SOMETHING OF YOU
TC: before it takes me?
CG: FUCK GAMZEE.
CG: FINE, ANYTHING, JUST CALM THE HELL DOWN.
TC: STAY THE FUCK ONLINE.
TC: please don’t leave me brother.
TC: JUST STAY.
CG: …
CG: SURE, I’M HERE.
CG: I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, NOT FOR ANOTHER TWENTY MINUTES.
CG: TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON.
TC: i just told you i’m motherfucking dead brother.
CG: YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT WHAT I FUCKING MEAN.
CG: TELL ME WHAT HAS YOU SHAKING IN YOUR DUMBASS CLOWN SHOES.
CG: I’M HERE.
You try your best to let yourself relax at that, it’s really hard to when that mirthforsaken heretical music won’t let your lower your fucking hackles. He’s here for you, you repeat that in our head, trying fruitlessly to drown out the noise. He’s here for you, not in your hive, in your husktop. He can’t be here, he shouldn’t be here. He’ll get hurt, it’ll kill him.
It won’t kill him, it tells you. It speaks softly at you like it isn’t angry at you, it just wants to correct you. It holds the venom in its voice for a small moment, just to let you know. It says it never planned to hurt him.
“Liar!” You hiss, you heard it threaten him before. It can’t lie to you, it can't.
You know it isn’t after him of course, it doesn’t need to tell you that. But it literally told you your moirail was in danger, that he was going to die tonight. It corrects you again, tells you it got no spite in its pusher for him, only you, just you.
You snap at it again, it moves. Shifting for the first time in nights, and disappearing somewhere else in your hive. You blink and it’s gone. Out of your line of sight entirely. Panic overtakes you near instantly, it’s gone, it’s going to sneak up on your ass like a goddamn ninja or some shit. You bring the husktop with you as you back further into the corner of your block, shaking once you get there, you’re scared and you know that, you’re fucking terrified.
You know the way to Gamzee’s hive by heart, you can’t trust him to make the journey by himself to yours. He’s isolated from everybody but not as far as Nepeta is. You can, and will, make it there in one night.
You keep checking your palmhusk as you get farther and farther from the other low-blooded hives. There aren’t any trees, no forest. The ocean is dangerous, everyone knows that, especially Gamzee. The beach isn’t close enough for you to hear it from your hive, but you can hear it now.
He hasn’t responded yet and you’re so worried for him you think you might expel everything in your acid sac. You swear that you’ll kill him for making you worry for him so much, that fucking bastard. You’ve stopped running by now but you’re no less urgent, your bellowsacs burn from all of your panting and you’ve resorted to speedwalking with purpose.
You pull the palmhusk out again and swear out to the moons and stars. The last time he did this shit it was when he’d overdosed. It didn’t stop him from getting inebriated as soon as you left his hive for whatever fucking reason but he’s stopped now, it can’t be that. If he wasn’t at least looking at your messages he would’ve gone idle.
You keep cursing at yourself mentally, repeating how thought episodes wouldn’t be as bad if he was sober. He was taking his medication, he hasn’t needed to leave the beach for refill in so long. You asked him nearly everyday if he was taking them when he first got them. You feel sick to your stomach, how could you have let yourself lose track of him. He needs you and you-
Your palmhusk vibrates, you look at his purple text and some coiled up thing inside you releases its hold.
TC: DO YOU REALLY WANNA FUCKING KNOW?
TC: there’s something in my motherfucking hive brother.
TC: IT WANTS MY MOTHERFUCKING BODY WHILE IT’S FUCKING ROTTING.
TC: i got no knowing on why though, i don’t want the fucking fly-wrigglers crawling under my skin.
TC: I’M BEING PUNISHED FOR MY MOTHERFUCKING CRIMES IS ALL.
You have to keep a tight grip on your own mind to keep yourself from saying anything in response. You have to think clearly before saying anything when he starts hallucinating at you. You have to just let him talk, you just need to listen to him. Stop typing Karkat, don't say that.
One of your prongs end up gripping and pulling at your hair as you try to figure out what the fuck you’re going to do about this. You look up from the screen and make yourself continue, you can’t stop walking. More buzzing from your palmhusk draws your eyes back but you're too determined to get there. You have to, he needs you.
CG: WHAT CRIMES? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU DID?
TG: I DON’T THINK MOTHERFUCKER I KNOW. I DON’T THINK SHIT.
TG: that’s the motherfucking problem
TG: IF MY EMPTY ASS THINKPAN ACTUALLY FUCKING WORKED I WOULD’VE NEVER TOUCHED WHAT WAS NEVER MOTHERFUCKING MINE
TG: but i up and did anyway.
TG: IT WANTS ITS BODY BACK BUT I CAN’T BE UP AND BREATHING WHEN IT FUCKING TAKES ME.
TG: i stole this motherfucking blood and now it’s gotta go and spill
TG: STAINING THIS FORSAKEN MOTHERFUCKING FLOOR WITH PURPLE
TG: the holiest color.
Oh shit.
You start running again.
He doesn’t have hallucinations like this, most of the time. He gets scared or confused and it’s mild for him, he messages you and you tell him to cool his shit and it takes a while but the hallucinations stop. He gets delusional, he always has been and it's harder to handle than anything else. It’s always about religion in some way, when he’s having an episode he thinks that the messiahs are testing him for some unknowable reason only clown gods can comprehend, usually. When he isn’t having an episode he usually casually mentions being their chosen champion in normal conversation.
He’s not completely stable anymore, he hasn’t been in a while. He’s not violent either, not anymore, he used to be before the episodes got frequent. He just started retreating from others after the incident. You think he thinks he's dangerous(he’s right, he can be), and it just hurts you more than he’s ever done with claws or teeth.
There isn’t anything that’ll stop you from getting to him. Nothing at all.
You consider praying. You don’t know why, nothing’s going to listen to you. A bitter part of you wants to think the messiahs abandoned you, left you here waiting for the carnival without checking your ticket. You know better, you may be pan-rotted, you may be a fool, but you ain’t that stupid.
The messiahs won’t save the troll they themselves damned. You know what you did wrong, you know what you’ve done. You curl up a little further into yourself, eyes closed but ears waiting for the sound of a message going through. You feel a little listless, you really want to sink your teeth into your skin, you really want to sink your claws into something. You want to hurt something, anything just so you can feel like you can. You want to make something feel something gog damn it. You hated it when people were scared of you, it made sense and you hated it and it just made you more angry which made people more motherfucking scared of you. Everything is just a motherfucking joke that repeats like a slitherbeast eating its own tail.
Your ears are so close to the floor you can hear the music clearer. It’s under there, whatever it is that’s making it. You’re sure that the scratching that accompanies the distorted noises of mirthlessness isn’t real though. Your pan likes to fuck with you, sometimes. Likes to make you hear things that aren’t real, mostly scary shit like growling, scratching, footsteps and shit. The scratching doesn’t make any sense though, nothing in your hive has the claws to do it. You want it to stop anyway though, ain’t helping you none.
You don’t want to die, fuck you should tell Karkat you don’t want to die. You should tell him you love him and you want him to cradle your dead motherfucking body. Your claws are digging into your floorboards, when you pull them up so you can see them you feel just how sticky they are. You don’t remember why, maybe it’s sweat, it’s cold in here though. You don’t feel a whole lot of cold, you hear it’s what dying feels like. Being taken to the other side without the holy blinking lights of The Dark Carnival leaves a motherfucker colder than the deepest dwelling wader.
You want to wait for Karkat to say something, you want him to know how desperately you don’t want to fucking die a lot more. You feel like you’re going to eject everything in your acid sack and collapse, you’re dizzy and you think you might be swaying. You give up on listening to the noises under your floor, you give up on trying to remember the layout of your hive and trying to remember how long it’ll take for it to make it to you again, you give up on worrying. You move your prongs to the keyboard, against the heaviness that's bringing them down.
TC: I DON’T WANT TO MOTHERFUCKING DIE BROTHER.
TC: i want to live motherfucker, i want to put my orbs on you.
CG: FUCK GAMZEE.
CG: YOU’LL SEE ME ALRIGHT? YOU’RE GOING TO BE OK JUST HANG ON.
TC: I CAN’T DEAL WITH THIS SHIT ANYMORE.
TC: i’m not strong enough for my punishment
TC: I’M NOT MOTHERFUCKING BUILT FOR THESE KINDS OF SUFFERING
CG: JUST WAIT, I SWEAR TO GOG I’M GOING TO HELP YOU.
CG: DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.
CG: STAY ALIVE UNTIL I FUCKING GET THERE.
It dawns on you right then, what he's saying. What he’s gone and swore to you. He’s coming, physically. Right now. The malaise in your body all but disappears, replacing itself with urgency. You can’t let him come here. You can’t let whatever the fuck is in your hive get anywhere near him, you can’t. You need him, you need him here with you but you need him living more. If he dies, you want to be the reason, and you’ll have to be feeling real unfunny to let that happen. Not yet, not today, not here, not now.
TC: you for real brother?
TC: DON’T SAY THAT KIND OF SHIT TO A MOTHERFUCKER IN JEST
TC: don’t go playing on my top.
CG: I’M SERIOUS, I’M COMING.
TC: DON’T YOU MOTHERFUCKING DARE
TC: i’m not ready for you to die yet brother, stay the fuck away.
CG: I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY OF THAT.
CG: IF YOU’RE IN DANGER I’M GOING TO FUCKING HELP YOU BULGE-WAD
CG: I AM *NOT* GOING TO LET YOU DIE NO MATTER WHAT THE FUCK YOU’VE DECIDED I CAN OR CAN’T FUCKING DO ABOUT IT!
CG: YOU’RE MY DIAMOND AND YOU NEED HELP, THAT’S ALL THAT FUCKING MATTERS.
CG: DO YOU GOT THAT? AM I FUCKING CLEAR?
You feel a rumble try and travel its way up your thorax and throat before you catch it. Fool ass motherfucker he is, throwing himself at the creature lurking in the shadows for no reason. All that’s going to happen is there’s going to be two bodies instead of one. He’s not even taking the brunt of your punishment, just making it worse. Fuck you don’t want to lose him, not when everything is like this.
TC: YEAH A BROTHER’S GOT HIS UNDERSTANDING ON SOME SHIT.
TC: i know you’re a motherfucking fool with a motherfucking death wish
TC: IF YOU FUCKING DIE BECAUSE OF ME MOTHERFUCKER
TC: i’m gonna eat your body and kill myself
TC: SO WE CAN DIE TOGETHER LIKE WE’RE MOTHERFUCKING SUPPOSED TO.
CG: GOG DAMN IT SAVE IT FOR THE PILE.
CG: AND SHOOSH FOR FUCKS SAKE.
CG: CALM YOUR ASS DOWN.
TC: i ain’t gonna hurt no one best friend, not unless i gotta.
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT THE FUCK I MEAN.
You’ve been making your way to Gamzee’s hive for at least an hour now. Too long, why aren’t you faster? Why can’t you run faster? You see it, your thighs are burning from how hard you’ve been pushing yourself but you can see his house. Not far off in the distance, no, it’s right there, you could make it there sooner if your legs would just let you.
You’re scared he’s done something to himself before you got there. He responded to your messages with all those pale tinted promises of cannibalism and death so you know he can’t be that hurt. But the feeling just can’t be shaken. He needs you, he needs you and you’re not there.
You are on the beach now though, so you slow down. Your pan still screams at you to get in there now now now but you think if you tried you’d collapse and then who the fuck is going to help you up? No, you walk to his door but your heart is still racing. You consider praying to his clown gods for his safety, you disregard the idea, they’ve done nothing but make things worse for him.
The door is closed, for once, but not locked. Of course it isn’t, a part of you says, knowing who your moirail is. Why isn’t it, another part asks, knowing he’s terrified for his life in there. You shake the thoughts out of your head. You need to focus and just get in there.
You push the door open, finding it dark and cold. Colder than usual, even for someone of his blood color. You shudder from the concept that there’s no one to warm it up inside. That clown, he’s alive, you’ll make sure of it.
“Gamzee?” You call out for him as you shut the door behind you, your voice echoes through his big stupid house. It always does, it’s almost entirely empty most of the time.
There’s an assortment of clown related items scattered all over the floor in and out of little hoarder piles but they all look relatively untouched. You can even see dust starting to settle over a few piles of horns. The sight fills you with a sense of dread. He hasn’t responded to your voice yet. It’s so dark in here too, you can barely see shit. Some stupid part of you fears stepping on him by accident, that would be funny, imagining the honk he’d make if you stepped on his prong, but it just feels pitiful now. Any thought you have of him is tinged in pale pink.
“Gamzee!” You raise your voice, like he just didn’t hear you the first time. His ears are better than yours, you know that. You can’t start panicking about it, panic makes you snappy and snappy is bad for moirallegience.
You need to keep calm, that’s all you need to do. You’re going to find him, you tell yourself, because you know he’s here. You told him to stay put, you did, you told him not to move. He’d listen to you wouldn’t he? He wants you to help him. You’d say you’re deluding yourself but that feels so incredibly wrong right now. Goddammit you’ve already been through several of the blocks in his absurdly big hive where is your bulge-biting moirail?
You finally get the bright idea to go to his respiteblock(how the hell did you not think of that already?) and you make a b-line for it as soon as the concept pops into your head. You rush the stairs two at a time, and you have to stop yourself half-way down the hallway. You nearly trip over yourself when you do. You realize you can’t just burst into his block, startling him will only make him harder to calm down in the moment and don’t want anything in the way, especially not if he thinks you’re a threat.
You’re still breathing heavily and the beat of your bloodpusher hasn’t slowed down significantly from when you entered the building. You take as many deep breaths as you can manage before the thoughts of Gamzee dead in a pool of his own blood take over your mind. You try to be as careful as possible as you enter the block.
The first thing you notice is the thick smell. Blood, sweat and the heart-dropping scent of fear. Fear that’s made its way into every little nook and cranny in his block. The next is the single light in his block, illuminating a section of the body on the floor.
You don’t think, you just run over to him. You fall down onto your knees inside his horrible corner of blood(both dried and wet)and tremors. He’s curled up in a trembling ball in front of his husktop, not looking at you. You pushed the husktop back, making the screen face up to the ceiling. It’s a little easier to see now, for you to get a good look at his face, only half-covered in greasepaint. You hesitate for a moment, not knowing exactly what part of him to worry over first.
You decide, after a few seconds of being the most useless moirail in the world, to unfurl him and assess whatever damage he might have. Why the fuck is there so much blood anyway? What was he doing to himself?
You’re swearing under your breath as you lay your hands on his body. He’s so cold, colder than usual, like he’s been avoiding snuggleplanes like they’ll be the death of him. What an idiot, such a pitiful pitiful moron.
He startles at your touch(fuck if that doesn’t make your pusher ache) and looks up at you wildly. You shoosh him on instinct and his ganderorbs widen with recognition.
“What the motherfuck-”
“Shoosh,” You stop him, voice cracking, you know it’s best to let him talk until he comes down a bit more but you can’t resist interrupting him, “Just, just shoosh for a fucking second.”
“No, no no, you can’t be here motherfucker, not now.” He looks so worried, gog damn why won’t he just trust you?
“Shoosh asshole.” You say, voice quiet and strained in an attempt not to yell at him like you always do. It’s the last thing he needs, you know from experience. He’ll just freak the fuck out even harder.
Despite this, he still tries to convince you to leave as you struggle to maneuver his lanky form into a position you can cuddle him in. His prongs hover near you, he keeps himself from touching you too much, looking up to the doorway over and over like he’s expecting something to come inside. You pull him closer to you and try to keep him down, closer to yours. He moves so sluggishly it makes the already fraught with panic part of your thinkpan scramble to find a way to help him. The best way to help him is to stay at ease, you’ve done it before, you can do this again.
He’s still shaking in your arms. You only realize you’re biting your lip in worry when you start to taste blood. Fuck, okay. Calm down. He’s muttering about punishments and sin under his breath. Honestly you think he might be praying as he buries his face into your thorax.
“Gamzee, come on,” You stroke his tangled hair as put his arms around you, it makes you, admittedly, relieved. This troll has sunk his teeth in your pusher. You shoosh him all the while.
“I’m gonna fucking die best friend, I’m gon’ motherfucking die.” He mutters into your sweater, shaking.
“Fuck, just- just tell me what’s happening, I’ll keep you safe.” You say biting back any words you’re certain will make him retreat back into trying to run from you again. You try to convince yourself the way your arms tighten around him is for his sake only, selfish bastard that you are.
“No, no you can’t, you’re gonna die if you try brother, you can’t.” He says. His fucking arms are bleeding, the blood is seeping into your clothes. You need to fix him up. Do you have medicullizer in your sylladex somewhere?
You try to hold your tongue, you have to be patient, but he makes it so damn difficult. Fuck it’s not his fault you know that but can he just- why doesn’t he just-
You try. You fail.
“Can you just trust me Gamzee, can you just fucking believe I’ll try to keep you safe? Did all that shit I sent over trollian mean nothing to you? Do you think I just say shit for the fucking hell of it? I must be doing this for my own health then because clearly it’s for anyone else’s if the open fucking wounds mean anything.” Your moirail holds your bleeding arm up to your face, clearly pissed at you. He started up a low growl shortly after you opened your mouth and it hasn’t really gone anywhere.
You were trying to get the maggots out before you tried surrendering to your fate of decomposing. You got real sharp claws and when you think back on it you were probably shredding your skin up but you only really noticed it now. Damn.
“Couldn’t find those fucking maggots.” You mutter, watching him sift through his sylladex.
Some part of you is so entirely soothed by his presence and it tells you what he’s been telling you, that he’s got you. You’re safer with him here. Your pan still works, no matter how rotten it’s getting, so you know that’s not true. He’s in double the danger really. Whatever divine retribution you’re experiencing doesn’t need to be put on him too.
He makes a really deep sigh that makes you feel like you’re disappointing him. He looks so upset while he brings a medicullizer out of his sylladex. You are doing something wrong you guess, you feel so shaky and woozy and your head hurts like a motherfucker. The music is still playing, unaffected by his angry grumbling.
“You’re a motherfucking fool.” You whisper, not knowing what else to say to get him to leave. Maybe if you’re mean enough he’ll give up on you. Leave you to die all by yourself, as it should be.
“What are you hearing? What is it that makes you think a punishment is coming to get you?” He asks, you can see the concern in his frown as he starts pushing you onto your back.
You resist for a moment, remembering what it was like to rest your head on the floor. His frustrated grunt is enough to convince you to allow warm hands to move you slowly. The music is louder, closer to your ear. Maybe that wretched song drove you out of your pan and you’re hallucinating this as you die, bleeding and shaking. Maybe the beautiful, messiah-forsaken warmth you’re feeling are the hands of the damned, dragging you to your ultimate fate. Maybe your pan has decided to show you something gorgeous before you die, finally deciding to make up something to help you.
“Gamzee.” Your beloved urges you impatiently.
You’re caught off guard by his voice. “Shit bro, the motherfucking music.” You finally answer, which doesn’t seem good enough for him.
“What music?” He prods, pressing his fingers against your wrapped up arms to test the strength of the bandaging. It makes you hiss and his prongs retreat as soon as you do. You don’t want him to stop touching you. You want to hold him tightly like a stuffed growlbeast until you finally die. You resist the urge to squeeze him so hard he comes with you.
“The fucking- the motherfucking music brother.” You mutter, stuttering over your words with the effort to tell him of what announces your demise.
Now that you’ve said it out loud you feel stupid. Of course he can’t hear it, why the fuck would he be able to hear it? It’s your death song, not his. Lovely little hands drag themselves across your cheek, making you flinch back to protect paint that isn’t even there. He shooshes you and strokes across the bare skin. His hands aren’t very soft anymore and his softest touches are still firm and rough. It makes you shudder with pale affection, you couldn’t have any other moirail. You need a motherfucker who can wrangle your wicked wild self, and he’s the only motherfucker you know who can do it and not be worthy of ripping limb from limb for having the audacity. You wouldn’t, not to him, not to anybody if he has something to say about it.
You nearly purr as you melt in his arms. You don’t like how weak he’s making you. You can’t keep the foolish motherfucker safe like this.
“Okay.” He says, so tense and stiff as he nods, “Tell me about it Gamzee, I want you to tell me.”
You don’t often get his full attention, not enough to put his listening hear ducts on. So you do what he tells you, you speak on the music and It and the fucking maggots and the rotting flesh you’re stuck in. And he just stares at you, his eyes are so intense as he nods and strokes your hair and mutters about scrubbing you down so hard you lose two layers of skin.
“I’m not going to leave you Gamzee.” He whispers, trying to reassure you and pulling your face down into his chest.
You hate that you couldn’t chase him away if you tried. Your moirail, your beloved, your everything. You’re gonna die in his arms and fuck if that ain’t the type of shit he’d eat up. At least one of you would die happy.
He’s so warm, it's like it’s sinking into your rotting flesh. He might heal you, sinful as he is, with his holy light. Your hallowed one, like a drop of searing sunlight descended from the cosmos to show you what it feels like to be loved. No matter how little you deserve it. Perfect motherfucker, precious, your gorgeous little firebrand.
“Shoosh, that’s enough now.” Karkat murmurs and you realize you’ve been whispering to him this whole time. How much of that left your mouth? How much of that did he hear?
You push your face against his thorax, that should keep your mouth shut. His bloodpump is thumping away, making its own music. Music that never distorts, music that doesn’t haunt you. A soothing rhythm to accompany your final breaths. Your eyes shut, taking in his scent, spice and sweetness and sweat.
He’s still shaking but he’s so much calmer now. He isn’t muttering about you or his own death anymore, he’s been shooshed. Mission successful? No he’s still in need. You can’t bring him out of this with cuddles and reassuring words, he still needs you here to keep him from doing something stupid while under the impression he’s going to die anyway.
You wish sometimes that your presence was enough. You used to think you were a terrible moirail for not being able to fix his pan. What kind of a palemate are you that he’s still hallucinating at you no matter how long you spent trying to pile his psychosis out of him? It’s stupid to think like that, you know, but it still haunts you. When he gets like this it only gets worse. Which is a selfish way to think about a condition he has but-
Gog. This is why you can’t be left alone with your own thoughts. That’s your cue to talk.
“You’re not going to die, not until I do. Gog, I need to give you an ablution. You smell like a fucking corpse. You’re not leaving this hive until I clean it either, because this place is covered in scratches and dust and blood and that’s just not acceptable. I’m going to deep clean this fucking hive do you hear me?” You rant pointlessly, just running your mouth and stroking his face still.
He was flinching before when you touched him, then his flinches turned to shudders and now he’s gone still. Not still exactly, his breath rises and falls and his body still has tremors, but not directly reacting to your comforting strokes. In fact, he’s shaking now, eyes shut against your thorax. No wait, you can hear the raspy, rumbling sound of a purr, a purr that’s shaking his body with the force of his contentment. That melts your bloodpusher.
You think he’s falling asleep. Good, especially if he’s been awake for as long as he says he has. You don’t know what you’d do if he actually died, killing himself through neglecting his own needs or through means you’d really not think about. What would you do if he just tried to leave you. He tried to once but you knew better than to let him go. You’d never, never, do that to him.
You pause your ministrations to shut his husktop, making a mental note to charge it later. He needs you now, clearly.