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He was sitting on the Not-A-Respite-Platform, what Rosesis called a sofa underneath all her poetic rambling, arms sloppily akimbo and legs sprawled out in front of him. His head was bowed, as if he was in prayer to the universe, a little miracle doze that was sure to disappear if a motherfucker deigned to join him for a snoozy snuggle. He never liked to cuddle in public, especially not in such a well-traversed area. A little pusher-bruising, sure, but worth it for the private snuggles that patience wrought.
I watched from the floor, next to the DVD player that had no intention at all of helping a brother out and work for the spontaneous date my palebro had demanded. I wasn't even sure if the thing was up and plugged in, but it hardly mattered now that he had partially fallen asleep. All the romcoms a troll could handle would have to wait, as I wasn't going to watch them all on my lonesome. Instead I sat, watching him snuffle away, thinking how I could do this forever and ever.
Well, not forever-forever. Purple wasn't the highest high on the hemospectrum, trumped by Tyrian and drawn with violet, but it was a million miles higher than the miracle blood flowing through my 'rail's veins. For my likely eight hundred sweeps of life, he'd get maybe twelve. That was pusher-crushing, to think my perfect, palest brother had already squandered half his life span screaming. To think that Karkat would probably be dead before I even hit secondary pupation.
“You look like someone shot your lusus,” a voice barked at me, snatching me from my horrible thoughts. A hand carded through my hair before I could even flinch, pushing my head back to look at said miraclebro. His stare was disdainful, only a seasoned practise of finding the squishy gooey centre of care through the tough shell of angry allowed me not not flinch from that either. His other came up to my face; touch too gentle to be a pap, too lengthy to be a shoosh. A coolness was spread across my face.
“Motherfuck,” I half-laughed, a half-hearted honk finding its way in somehow, “I didn't even know I was up and crying.” He stared at me, now more disbelieving than angry, gears probably grinding in his head a million miles a moment. “Miracles, my ocular glands having all fucking ways of surprising even myself.” I grinned, almost to spite myself, and the tensed, rigidness of his shoulders almost melts away. The grin became real.
“You pitiful fuck,” he snarled, tearing his hand away from my face and grabbing my hand. With one hand still in my hair, it was kinda awesome. He pushed me to the Not-A-Respite-Platform, forcing me to sit whilst he fussed over the DVD player and chose what romcom we were to watch. Watching him shuffle back and forth on the floor, my bruised bloodpusher was soothed by all the thoughts of, even if I had but six sweeps left with my best friend, even if the other seven hundred and eighty-eight sweeps of my life would feel like an eternity, even if my despair would make me feel immortal in the worst kind of ways, at the very least I had him to love me for that long.