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You know binary backwards and forwards. You know how to write programs that could lay a universe to waste. You know how to make skulls crack and buildings crumble without lifting a finger.
You know many things, but you do not know the inner workings of the blind and hysterical.
She comes to your room early in the morning (evening, afternoon, whatever, it's just too early for anything). She doesn't knock before opening the door. She never does. It's a vestigial process; there's nothing important she could possibly be intruding on. (Except for maybe you sleeping, but you don't do much of that anymore, and you don't count it as important, anyway.)
She closes the door behind her, softly. This surprises you, and you look up from your husktop to face her. Nothing seems immediately different--her hair is still plaited, her nose is still pointed, her posture is still rigid. Then you notice that, instead of being curled into her classic, wicked grin, her lips are fixated in a straight line. You guess this is her version of a frown.
She starts towards you, stops, thinks for a moment, stands still. Then she shuffles in place. (This is unusual to you; her confidence comes in strides, and she would never compromise it for an act of uncertainty as blatant as shuffling.) You turn your chair towards her, rest your elbow on the desk, cup your cheek in your hand. "Hey, TZ."
"Hey, yourself," she replies, finally attempting to smile, but her words don't have their typical bite. You try not to think about it.
After a few brief moments of silence that don't quite fit the category of "awkward", she ambles over to your desk and leans against the bee box, crossing one leg over the other. Her hands rest gingerly on the cane that she doesn't need. She looks at you (rather, points her face in your general direction) and doesn't say a word. She's not one to be open about her issues.
You sigh loudly. If she's looking for a feelings jam, she came to the wrong respiteblock. You know this for certain, and you know that she knows. But if she really doesn't, then you know less than you thought you did.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" you say to break the silence. She just shrugs, gives a halfhearted laugh. You worry a little more.
She stares at you for another moment, then looks away. Sniffs the air, which you're sure is heavy with the scent of honey. No different than any other night. (Which is essentially metaphorical, of course, because who in their right mind would willingly keep track of day and night on this gigantic flying rock? Not you, that's for sure.) "You should switch to regular plug-and-wire tech, Captor," she says after a few more sniffs. "Your damned honey is masking the scent of everything else. I can't even smell where you are anymore."
You wave your free hand around in a circle. "I happen to like it this way. Gives the block an air of mystery."
She scoffs. "It's only mysterious to me, and you know I hate mysteries."
"Bullshit," you counter. "Mystery is a subset of crime and criminal justice, which practically runs through your veins. You literally can't hate mystery."
"I hate it when it gets in the way of what I need to know." She taps her cane against the ground twice. "And right now, I need to know what your face smells like."
"What my face smells like? I'm hurt, TZ." You stand up and push your chair in. "Well, no, I actually don't care. But I would like to think that spending six-hundred-plus hours with you in a mangy computer lab would earn me a little familiarity."
"Familiarity that has since been lost to you spending every waking moment in your cramped little block," she retorts. "I barely remember which one of your eyes is red."
"Right," you stress, tapping on the corresponding temple of your specs. "And you should remember what color my eyes are. These are the fundamentals of friendship." As if you care about something so inane. But you don't tell her that part.
"Yeah, well, you know what else is a fundamental of friendship? Actually spending time with your friends." It's not exactly accusatory, the way she says it; she sounds more hurt, more worried, than she ever has before. Which, to be honest, scares you a little.
You groan and take a step forward. "What do you want me to say? 'I'm sorry for having a normal reaction to losing some of my best friends'? I don't apologize, TZ, and I'm sure as hell not apologizing for that."
Her lips are a straight line again. She still isn't looking at you--she probably lost your scent when she looked away. "I'm not asking you to apologize," she says tersely. "I know how useless that would be."
"Then why are you here?" you ask tiredly. You're not in the mood to argue with anyone, much less her, because she debates for sport and won't let you escape until she wins.
You brace yourself for her indictment as best you can, and that's when she does something you don't expect. She faces you, steps closer, once, twice, lets go of her cane. You hear the dragon's head clatter as it falls to the floor. Then she raises her arms, and slowly, hesitantly, wraps them around you.
You tense up, at first. You were always wary of affection, be it platonic or romantic (or ambiguous, as in right now). She doesn't let go, though, and the two of you stand there, just like that, for a few minutes. You have to admit that her course of action is surprising--Terezi Pyrope, as headstrong and rapturous and independent as you always desired to be, has never once shown you this much compassion. And, as alarming as it is, you find it to be almost... comforting.
"Sollux, I'm--fuck--we're all worried sick, you idiot," she mutters, a hint of acidity in her voice. "We know it's hard, losing so many of us, but you can't just avoid whoever's left."
You look down at her, and she looks up at you. You're startled to see that a face so sharp and spare could be so soft.
"We miss you," she says, as gently as she can, "and we can't lose you, too."
You don't say anything. Instead, you return the gesture, the low hum of your husktop serving as background noise, and the savor of honey hanging over you, keeping the mystery intact.
You know that the moons are mauve and gold. You know that she's a jumble of laughter and right-angles and cold blood. You know that she will live twice as long as you, and you know that her bloodpusher belongs to someone else. You know all of this, and yet, as the darkness of the empty void climbs through your window, she's holding you close, and you think of the prince and the heiress who were supposed to live forever, before you can feel her heartbeat against yours.
As the silence wears on, you learn more and see less, and you're beginning to think that you don't know much of anything.