Chapter Text
It had been two years since he'd seen Jasper. At that point in time, through intergalactic diplomacy and dispersed calls with the gems, Steven thought Jasper returning back to Homeworld was the best step in returning her to a life of compassion. A life where she could reintegrate back without hassle, to show her that her world has changed, for the better.
The Empire itself has morphed into something more democratic than he had expected. Hierarchy molted down to a more simplistic structure with established etiquette (belovedly named “The Steven Rules of Compassion”), gems of previous roles allowed themselves to talk and work without the premonition of punishment, and the Diamonds have taken strides—rickety at best—to keep it that way. So her return had his worries equal to none.
But meeting her again, with her calloused hands wrapped around his neck like a vice, it took time for him to wash his face in the water basin in the aftermath, the water and dirt dripping in rivulets to the bottom of the sink. Coagulating into mush it made him want to throw up.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought. Out of all the things he’s achieved, he believed that it would take a lot of empathy and persistence to become leveled with his past aggressors. He handled lone missions of diplomacy, where hard bargains and cajolery were weapons in the hands of his opposition, his gift of the gab tested to its very limit with the narrowest of minded people. After everything he’s done, he believed nothing else could top it: that was his first mistake.
When given signs of her return, the rest of the mistakes started appearing.
There should have been a concern when she was rumored many times to have left Homeworld without supervision. There should have been caution when their telecom received blips over the airwaves (something Connie remarked sounded akin to Morse code). When old arsenals began to deplete of weapons. When a gut feeling loomed over him like Death itself. There should have been action when the worries kept rising and rising.
But he didn’t.
He made more problems for himself.
He made his life harder than before.
The thought made him rub harder at his skin, hoping it could wash off the frustration that toiled in his features. But all he saw was a desperate child in the mirror, scratches adorned on his cheeks, neck bruised purple.
The mortifying part of all this was when she got detained. Detained but not at all happy, held back by her weakened state of mind, the desperation seeping through her words haunted him: “There are more out there that aren’t happy with what you’ve done, and they’ll find me—they’ll take me away from your wretched planet—and when they do…”
The poof and collection of her green-speckled stone reminded him of hot coals when he tried to touch her, leaving him to stare at it with a dilated look in his eyes. Peridot, in her notice of his hesitation, took it from under his feet. Putting it into a green bubble, it dissipated like stars, leaving him and the rest of the gems to clean the bruised remains of the southern portions of Little Homeworld, houses scratched and tethered by the skirmish.
Her bubble was sitting somewhere under him, in the deep bowels of the Temple. Waiting and toiling for rescue. All he could do was just wash his tired eyes, wishing the bags under it could disappear.
A few drops ran down his cheeks. Fingers landing on the edge of the sink, Steven tried to breathe again. One deep inhale over a sea of voices. One deep exhale while fighting back the onslaught of tears. Repeat. And repeat. And then repeat. Until his arms were shaking under his weight, his throat threatening to claw itself out with each ragged attempt to reassure his nerves.
Don't do this, he repeated in his mind. They need you; they need the morale, their main man. You can't cry now. He had no right to cry.
Every word echoed and ricocheted into vast nothingness. He winced at how it vibrated, keeping his chest tight and taut as his thoughts melted to their normal pace. Melting then to a crawl.
His mind was of murky water. He could wade in it for hours, allow himself to go deep into the swampy unknown, and bring himself nothing but disappointment in his hands. Slushed and barely there.
He clambered for more. Filling the ceramic bowl, he enveloped his head in the rush of ice, placing himself under for a few seconds. Or hours. Maybe days? He felt like he was losing it, allowing himself to fly in nothing but the numb and prickly. Until a cough made its way to his lips. He ripped himself from the pool in a wretched cacophony, his shirt splattered into damp folds, droplets escaping to the tiled floor.
Breath. Letting in a deep breath, he smacked at his chest, heart bombarding him with the realization that he was alive. After calming done he looked at his hands, watching them twitch and shake under his scrutiny, pale and bleached as paper.
What was he doing? Why was it so hot?
Amidst the piercing cold rose a blistering fire in his abdomen. Ravishing in waves, pulsating like an animal coming loose. Blood drumming in his ears, his fingers lingered down, only to then scatter at the touch of his gemstone, for it throttled with something fierce. Hungry. An inferno craving tinder. He groaned in pain.
It's going to be fine. His stomach felt smeared in cinders, bringing him to his knees. It was going to be just fine, he repeated.
There was nothing wrong with him.
Nothing but a little pain.
T́ͯh̘̙e͗̄̌ͮ̆r͓̄e̓̏ͦ͌ͪ̚̚ ̯͎̜̦͉͐͛̐ͬ͛ŵ͖̜̣͑ͩa͉̥̲͙͐̄͒̆s n͑͒͊o͑ͮthi͈̭n̽̉̏g̝ͤ w̱̯̣̰ͫ̎ͯͮro̭̿n̟̣̭̭g̗̯̟̱͎.̥͎̗͔̩̘̖̏ͨ̏͛̉̅ͥ
Then it all stopped. Leaving him on the floor with a quivering gasp, every part of him seeming to quake and shudder in retaliation, he was fine again. Like a stone, his stomach bore lead, the taste of metal on his tongue.
Steven was fine.
He—in careful steps—clambered back onto his feet. His chest ached and ached, but the heat was gone, like it was never there to begin with.
His head snapped back up to the mirror, watching himself gaze into it with a forlorn stare. The bags saddled his face more; each fragile part of him intact. He was fine. He was all there, together, normal.
But when he looked back again, he choked. Tucked between the curls of his hair came a root: sharp, jagged, rupturing in milky pink.
Steven blinked at the sight, a gasp caught in his throat. A dream. A hallucination. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that shouldn't even exist. "No..."
He twiddled with the stem, breath quickening at how it rooted itself into his scalp, skin burrowed in with the color of deep purple. “No, no, no no!” Steven gripped the base. Pulling with all of his might, his head splintering into agony, he bit down a terrified sob—teeth breaking the skin.
It took years for him to believe in the idea that he was okay; that nothing could pierce the mortared walls that divided the worries and discomforts from the rest of his mind. Out of everything he’s seen—from jetting into the cosmos to holding on for dear life—he promised himself to be there. To be present. For his friends, family, and everybody who sought him as a role model for the young and impressionable. He's failing them, and it came to him like trickles in a dam: the threat of Jasper, vigilante justice, and now...an illness he can’t scrape off.
There is no such thing as happily ever after. Not in a year. Not in a lifetime. That fact pressed in his throat like acid, waiting for his next move.