Work Text:
You’re running.
At this point, you’re not sure what rest is anymore. Sure, occasionally, your brain, and your lungs, and your knees, and your feet, and your legs and your heart and your chest and your muscles scream and beg for it, but that word has stopped having meaning. You’re not sure when (probably when you started running) that word stopped meaning “Verb: cease work or movement in order to relax, refresh oneself, or recover strength.” and it instead, began to mean “Verb: to be unsuccessful in achieving one’s goal.”
Rest is a foreign concept. You don’t think you’ve ever really known what it means, not really. Rest is synonymous with quiet (or at least they go hand-in-hand) and you’re anything but. Of course, verbally, you tend not to make yourself known, but your mind never quieted (still doesn’t). Not really. Every thought, every idea, every new improvement, every turning gear, every shifting joint, races through the endless corridor that is your attention span, eventually reaching your consciousness. Here, you catalogue it, methodically, carefully, making sure not to warp it or twist it as it settles into place.
Eventually, you get around to it, and it’s always marvelous when you do. It’s almost below you, these feelings of ecstatic joy you get when you finally do sit down and start with that cold, unyielding, hostile, sharp metal. You’re not proud of the smile that graces your face when you make that steel yield beneath your eager hands. The way it bends to your will, mirroring the way you so easily bend (bent) to his will, lit a fire deep inside, a fire you didn’t know you had.
In the corner of the workroom, your lusus provides you with sustenance, every so often carting in some milk. He whines at you incessantly and gives you a disappointed look (you think, at least, though you’ve misinterpreted looks before. Lusii can be a little confusing.) In your defense, when you do focus, sit down, and start building, minutes, hours, days, weeks tend to boil down into one long, continuous, arduous session, but it’s always worth it. It’s so worth it.
Actually, sometimes, you wonder if it really is (was) worth it. You wonder if it was really worth the seclusion, the loneliness, the empty and broken glasses, both kinds. Was it really worth the broken teeth, the broken horn, the broken troll?
At first, it was.
Now, you’re not so sure.
All your ‘friends’ are scared of you, scared of your frenzied smile, hollowed out by the countless fights with your creations. They’re disgusted by the sheer volume of liquid that falls down, down, down, down, down your body as you restrain yourself for maturity’s sake, for your blood right’s sake. They are (were) scared of your grin.
But she never is (was?).
You still remember the first time you met her, or spoke (typed?) to her. There you were, bent over your workstation, blueprint spread haphazardly over to your right, entirely-too-many gears, washers, nuts, and tools to your left. Your fingers, for once, moved slowly and precisely, as you connected the deep blue wire to the light gray connector. It was a hard job, you remember that well, because your fingers were slick with perspiration (from all your concentration), as well as the fact that your digits were similar (ridiculously so) color of the connector. The lack of sleep and energy had taken its toll; your eyesight had been blurred, and you’d been forced to stop several times when you suddenly couldn’t tell if you were plugging the sharp copper ends into the connector or to your thumb. It certainly didn’t help that due to your STRENGTH, you’d end up stabbing yourself rather hard, and now your fingers were covered with indigo blood. The wires continued to slip from your fingers, and you’d given up, you give up, you’d given the fuck up.
Frustrated, you had thrown yourself backwards, the chair gouging another deep line into the metallic floor, sparks and shavings flying everywhere. Once again, in your rage, the table skidded backwards, and you were left staring at your hands, back hunched over, eyes locked with the dark indigo lines and the droplets that slowly cascaded from your calloused fingertips onto the floor below, the sheer heat of your concentration making the steam and smell of blood float to your nostrils. Your head bowed, gloves shredded, muscles tense in preparation for destruction, and a robot half-done on your workbench- you were a mess.
Right on cue, your cell phone had begun to ring, a loud intrusion in both the eerie silence of your mind and your hive. Intrigued, confused, and needing an escape from the place your mind was starting to go, you flicked the cracked screen open, smearing a bloody line across it. It was absurdly morbid, so you reached up and cleaned it quickly with your glove. A blinking notification, no longer obscured, glaringly announced its presence, screaming the fact that you had a Trollian message. You opened it.
You’re not sure what you expected, but what you got was not it.
arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling centaursTesticle [CT]
AC: :33 < *ac walks into a new friends hive and waves eagerly*
AC: :33 < hi!
AC: :33 < karkat said that i n33ded a troll to talk to
AC: :33 < and he knew a troll who n33ded someone to talk to
AC: :33 < so here i am!
AC: :33 < ummmmmm
AC: :33 < he warned me that you might be a little bit of a "TOTALLY AWKWARD, OBNOXIOUS, CREEPY FUCKER" soooooo
AC: :33 < hi!
You’d stared a little longer than you’d care to admit. It wasn’t everyday that someone bothered to speak to you, much less someone new. After the initial shock and proceeding cautious joy, your face hardened into a straight line as you leaned back in your chair. You straightened subconsciously, fingers moving as you typed out a reply.
CT: D ––> Hello, olive-b100d
CT: D ––> Did you particularly need my assistance?
AC: X33 < *ac giggles*
AC: :33 < youre so silly
AC: :33 < is it so wrong to want someone to talk to???
Well then.
CT: D --> I don’t
CT: D --> Oh dear
You’d swallowed, feeling a dark blue blush creep up on your cheeks. Even back then, you’d felt the beginning of pale feelings for her, but at the time, you’d pushed them down, covered them up, and locked them up.
AC: :33 < soooooo
AC: :33 < wanna talk?
That’s how it started. Looking back, you wouldn’t change a thing. The first time she came over, she breached the bubble you’d oh-so carefully built around yourself effortlessly. Endless conversations beforehand, dozens of preparations: nothing had prepared you for her request.
“Come on, Equius!”
“Nepeta.”
“But the pile is RIGHT THERE!”
“This is...rather lewd, don’t you think? We’ve just barely met-”
“Don’t even start with me, mister! First off, just because this is our first face-to-face meeting doesn’t mean we’ve just ‘barely met’! Second, you and I both know that we were meant to be pale from the beginning! Think about it!”
“Nepeta, you don’t-”
“I can purrove it to you!”
So she did.
She’d stated her reasons, and they’d made so much sense, you’d felt very stupidly pale for her. The request had been blunt, out of nowhere, yet ridiculously sweet (just like her). When she pulled you into the pile, and started talking, you were surprised when your mouth opened and you began to spew words and feelings you barely remembered having. You continued to talk and talk, and suddenly your mouth had no filter. Suddenly, all your fears, all your dreams, all your hopes were being laid out onto the table, where she picked them up, examined them, only to smile and tell you she thought you were great, she didn’t think that, no, really, you’re her ‘meowrail’, how could she ever think that?
That was the first time you cried in front of her, and it was certainly not the last.
She wasn’t the only blunt one; He’d been rather blunt as well.
For a moment, you’re broken out of your trance as you see the edge of the dream-bubble approach. Your wistful moment of remembrance is broken as the slick, milky-white, translucent film comes closer.
Your powerful legs propel you forward, shorts and knee-highs soaked through, dirty sneakers making deep impressions into the mud. At this point, your legs are splashed with so much wet dirt, you look like you’ve just fought an entire army of imps with your hands tied behind your back, and by the looks of it, you won.
Your glasses are askew, barely hanging onto your face by a thread (literally, a strand of your hair is caught in the frame).
You bring your left hand forward, and time itself seems to slow her endless race forwards as your palm brushes, then connects with, the sticky, grainy surface of the bubble. You watch in fascination as you breach it, shivering as a chill shoots down your spine. When you pass it though, it leaves no trace behind you, no soap or anything left on your skin, but you feel ridiculously cold.
It makes sense, considering you just entered the Furthest Ring without any protection, physical or aspect-wise.
You plow on anyway, your feet pushing you out of the safety of the dream-bubble, automatic muscle memory sending you flying. One thought goes soaring across your mind, pushing everything else out of your mind.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe you should have waited for Aradia to escort you, or confirmation from another player.
Oh well.
As the horrorterrors reach inky-black limbs toward you, you reach inside for the blackness, the nothing you’d been granted by this awful game, the power you’d gained in your quest for god-tier after your untimely death by His hands. You call for the void.
It answers.
As the darkness surrounds you, as it fights back against the figures trying to pull you down, your fists coated in infinitely powerful void, you run. Your tattered sneakers pound the ground, an artificial nocturne you pulled out of thin air and thread together to make a solid runway, placing it underneath you and stretching it forward. The faster and harder you run, the more they fight back, the thinner you have to make the ground beneath you so you have more weapon to fight back with. You beat back all that stand in your way as the darkness stretches onwards as far as the eye can see.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity of screaming, some from your obstacles, some from your own mouth, you brace yourself as you hit another bubble and crash to the ground. You roll to a stop in a bunch of bushes. Dazed, you lie on your back and stare at the night sky above you, the bright dots above you seeming to blink and move, your vision blurry from your exhausting fight to get through. Your racing mind, having been quieted by the desperation, fear, concentration, and adrenaline, starts its race anew. Your thoughts follow quickly.
The first time you met Him, you’d been awe-struck. There He was, a purple-blood. Sure, He was pale (or at least approaching it) with the loud, rather dirty-mouthed low-blood, and He was red (it was ridiculously obvious to everyone but His victim) for the orange-blood, but you marveled anyway. When He commanded you to relax, to let loose, you’d nearly swooned with all the pitch feelings swirling in your high-blood veins.
It’s a shame, no, a disgrace that you once thought that Gamzee’s relation to you was worth more than Nepeta’s, even in a time of danger.
A disgrace that scum like Him were given the privilege of having such rich blood while your own moirail was a mere mid-blood (though you’ve realized that blood does not dictate one’s worth, but it took about a sweep and a half). The hate burned through you, making your chest swell with black, black feelings.
It still does.
At this point, your brain has finished rebooting, and you stand up slowly, not sure if the insistent tug deep in your chest is something you really want to see. You take a second to shake off some dirt, and pull yourself into a standing position, cracking your neck and popping your back. You glance around, and you start to run again, and a thought enters your mind out of nowhere.
Curiosity killed the cat.
You swallow and banish the thought.
Of course she’s safe. You’ve wandered the bubbles for a few sweeps, long enough to convince yourself (no, prove to yourself) that she’s fine. Your pace picks up nonetheless, a medium jog turning to the fast run from before, your brain racing alongside you. On and on you run, thoughts back-pedaling to the moment you’d tried to save a girl, that time when you had been very careful to make sure she would never be found.
The seemingly endless grove of trees breaks into a clearing, finally, and you come to a screeching halt, heels digging into the ground, tripping and ending up on your knees, hands in front of you, panting. One thought soars onto your consciousness, flashing bright neon greens in your mind as you looked up at the figure in front of you.
Obviously, you hadn’t been careful enough.
You’re a little ashamed to say your jaw fell open and your eyes went wide, but how could you not when the 5’ 2” troll in front of you was the girl you gave your life to protect? There she is, clad in her signature green jacket-
You’d asked Kanaya to make that for her (along with the hat), built her a sewing machine- took you forever because of all the little gears and mechanisms, you even added a few lights and everything-
Her blue cat hat is pulled over head, one of the ears almost ripped off-
Oh god, was that olive on her hat? Why is it so dirty, why is it so green, please god, let that be grub-sauce-
Your eyes finally rest on her short, pointy horns. You recoil, gasping, pushing yourself in your sudden shock backwards onto your behind, hands behind you, bracing yourself for the sight in front of you. A gasp escapes your blue lips.
WHO COULD DO THIS?! IT’S IN HALF, OH GO-
She speaks, voice broken, tired, pained, raspy, but happy and so like her, milky-white eyes meeting yours.
“Equius!”
She throws herself into your arms, and you catch her. You hold her tight, eyes shut, indigo salt-water running down your face in streaks. The tugging in your chest that had you here is gone, a thread that had been cut, a wire whose beginning you’d found.
You breathe out a broken sob and whisper a reply.
“Nepeta.”
The void had called you, and you can’t help but wish you hadn’t answered.