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It's December. It's fucking cold and everyone is doing this bullshit cheery holiday thing and you just want to hang yourself sometimes. You don't even want to exist right now.
"You don't mean that," he drawls lazily, the way he always does, when you express this. And no, he's right, you have had this thought a plethora of times and have never once meant it.
No, that's a lie. You meant it once.
But that was before you had him, before he would respond to that particular phrase with a slow smile and precisely three condescending pats to the side of the face. "You don't mean that."
Always the same.
It infuriates you, the way he never takes you seriously, it drives you up the fucking wall that he never once worries that you might actually want to die.
You go through this thought process frequently, and always come to the same conclusion: he does take you seriously. He understands every word you say and knows exactly what you mean, and he acts appropriately.
And you know if you ever actually wanted to die, he would know just by a slight difference in your tone of voice or your posture, and he would do what he needed to.
But you don't want to die. Sometimes you are so frustrated with the world and everyone in it, because everyone is an idiot and does nothing right. (Why can't everyone just get along for a change. Would it really be that fucking hard? No. It wouldn't.) Sometimes you are frustrated about this and sometimes you are in utter despair about this, but in the end you don't actually want to leave it behind. After all, you have an obligation.
Not an obligation to make everyone else in the world stop being idiots (although it's hard to remember at times that it's not your responsibility), but an obligation to one troll in particular to keep him from being such a raging imbecile.
It's hard, sometimes, because he acts like a child; you told yourself you would never be a wiggler's guardian, they're too much of a headache, but even so you find yourself yelling the same phrases you have heard from the mouths of guardians and human parents alike.
"Get the fuck down from that tree, Gamzee, you'll break something."
"You're going to make yourself sick, stop drinking that sludge."
"Go to bed, fucknuts. You have to get up early tomorrow."
He would be such a mess without you, you're not sure how he managed before you came along.
Then again, you suppose the same goes for you.
He tells you that you were a bundle of misplaced fury and some kind of inexplicable sadness and vulnerability—although he says it less eloquently. You only really believe the first one, but you begrudgingly accept the others because he knows you best.
Today he has made the usual amount of bad decisions, and you have fussed over them with the usual amount of grumbling, and he has given you the usual amount of calm smiles and rubbed the usual amount of facepaint onto your cheek after hugging you.
"You are one fussy little heap of troll, best friend," he tells you, even though you still don't think that's an inappropriate thing to call you, "You'd be one hell of a mess without a motherfucker chillin' you down." And then he laughs, that low sound that always makes you think someone put him in slow motion, and squeezes you. "I guess it's the same for me, yeah?"
You sort of grumble and hug him back, because you know it's what he wants.
"It's a really fucking good thing I have the patience to deal with you." It's a harsh response, but you both know you don't really mean it. "I don't know how I've done it for two years."
He pulls away slightly and his eyes are wide, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly like he just remembered something amazing. Then again, you guess that's not a bad approximation of the situation. "It's two years today?" You roll your eyes but nod. "Man I all up and forgot."
Not much later, you're both in a pile somewhere, because everyone knows anniversaries are for spending time together and appreciating and discussing your relationship and not worrying about your other problems.
"Why do you call me your best friend?" You ask a little snippily. "I'm your moirail."
He sort of shrugs, leaning over and draping an arm over your waist. "Can't you be both?"
You contemplate this but finally decide you have no retort.
It's quiet for a while.
"You really need to leave notes when you leave." Normally you're not this finicky about little details, but it is, after all, your anniversary, and while the two of you are avoiding discussing problems with other people, you have to focus on your problems with each other. "You do this thing where you leave before I wake up sometimes and it scares me shitless when I have no idea where you are."
He makes that little noise and exaggerated nod that means he'll keep it in mind, and you hope he remembers. After a moment he senses it's his turn—probably because you have crossed your arms and are giving the top of his head a pointed glare—and shifts a little so he's not talking into your shoulder. "You're all kinds of wound up. A brother should get his relax on now and then."
You open your mouth to argue with him but he adds something that silences you. "Gets me all kinds of anxious when you don't calm down."
Many people would never have thought Gamzee had any emotions even remotely similar to "anxious," but you know better. You know that when you are too angry for his hugs to work his eyebrows furrow and he looks like he's not sure what to do. You know that sometimes he really worries about you. You know what he's like when all the negative feelings take hold and he can't handle anything any more.
You don't like him being upset. So instead of arguing about this you just roll to your side and wrap your arm around his shoulders, resting your forehead in the crook of his neck. He shifts to make himself comfortable but you can tell he's happy again. You rub his back briefly before responding quietly.
"I'll try."