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> Enter name.
Your name is Sollux Captor. Boy do you hate migraines.
You’ve had migraines for as long as you can remember, and you know all their little telltale signs, both physical and emotional. You know when they’re coming, you know how bad they’re going to get, you know how long they’re going to last and the mess they’re going to leave you in when they’re done. In fact, you could say you know your migraines even better than you know yourself - because let’s face it, there’s a lot about this Captor guy that doesn’t quite make sense to you yet.
This doesn’t mean you have to like them.
Being a lowblood naturally means you’ll just get culled when you become useless instead of getting medication, and even if you found a way to smuggle some, you’re not willing to bet drugs would not fuck your mutant brain up more than what nature already did. So you’ve had to learn a few tricks to keep the worst at bay while you wait out the pain: breathing techniques, keeping yourself hydrated, and most of all staying the fuck away from the computer for a while. But of course, once in a while you still get a Big One. The kind of migraine that doesn’t even make you want to claw your eyes out. The kind that just makes you completely. Fucking. Useless.
You know, like you are in this precise moment.
You are Sollux Captor and your head feels like it’s splitting in two. You’re presently lying belly down on the couch in your recreation block, reduced to a shaking mess of wrecked nerves, but you’re not completely aware of this because right now, pain seems to be the only thing you can feel.
You are Sollux Captor and lucky for you, your dearest friend is here with you. Said friend is the kind of person that always seems to know what you need and won’t let the gravity of your problems or you being an asshole more than usual dissuade her from taking care of you. Said friend has been known to pull you out of your recuperacoon by your hair and feed you when you wouldn’t do it on your own, and rope you into dreadfully physical activities like archeological digs that always end up with the two of you covered in dirt. Her name is Aradia Megido and you’re pretty sure she’s already your moirail, even if you’ve never really talked about it. It’s just kind of always been like this between you two, and you’re not quite sure what you think about it.
You are Sollux Captor, and under the crushing chaos of your pain, you barely realize when your moirail moves to sit by your side on the couch.
But you definitely notice when her hands - nimble, calloused hands, warmer than your skin - wrap over your head and gently, slowly start massaging, melting the tension underneath. And suddenly everything you can think of is sweet. Merciful. Crap. Yes. Please.
What will you do?
> Sollux: Quit your whining and relax.
You do just that. You really can’t help it. You’d outright purr if you could (and if didn’t sound like something disturbingly reminiscent of Nepeta’s chat logs).
On your head, Aradia’s fingers work like magic, soothing the splitting, maddening pain of the migraine. No nails, just nimble fingers, gently but firmly tracing circles under your hair, sliding forward between your horns, then back again. Up and around, back and on the sides, near your temples, rubbing and stroking. A happy groan leaves your throat, and in other circumstances you would probably be embarrassed of her seeing you so elated and vulnerable, but not now. Not when her hands are the only thing keeping you sane. You need her to know how good this feels, because you don’t want her to stop. And you know she knows, because when another little sigh of relief escapes, one of her hands slides briefly to gently caress your cheek and jaw. She’s warmer than you and yet that simple, fleeting caress still gives you a shiver. And you’re not sure how you feel about that either.
> Sollux: Look at the girl.
You can’t. Since you’re lying belly down on the couch, you’d have to roll over on your side to look at her, which would mean interrupting her wonderful ministrations, and you don’t really have the energy at the moment. There is no more tension left under your scalp, only warmth and comfort and thorough exhaustion. It feels like your whole body is yielding and flowing at her touch, as if you were nothing but wet clay, shaped and warmed up by her hands. And you have no idea where that mental image came from, but somehow it fits. She could do anything she wanted out of you for all you care.
“Better?” she whispers, still massaging you. It’s a barely audible whisper, but it almost sounds deafening to you, because only now you realize that the voices between your ears have fallen completely silent.
You’re sure they’ll be back, sooner or later. But you are alone now. Only you and her.
> Sollux: You heard the lady. Don’t be rude and answer.
You fail to open your mouth and answer. You’re not used to the silence and it’s freaking you out. You don’t have the voices to keep you grounded. You should feel free, but you just feel lost instead. You need to hold on to something, and there’s nothing but her now. And you still have no idea how you feel about that.
> Sollux: Don’t freak out.
You fail not to freak out. The silence is eating at you, sucking out the air from your lungs, at least this must be why you’re breathing faster now. In fact, you’re pretty sure you’re getting a panic attack, and knowing it does not help a little bit. Actually just the opposite.
“Sollux,” she says, and her voice sounds worried. She’s probably wondering what the fuck is up with you because you feel her shift beside you.
Then her hands stop.
> Sollux: Ok, you’re officially authorized to freak out.
Already doing that big time without need for encouragement, thank you very much.
Suddenly you’re covered in sweat and your blood pusher is trying to shatter your ribcage, and you can’t help but breathe faster and faster. Distantly you hear something like a ragged whine escaping from your throat and you reach out blindly, desperate for something, anything to hold on to. Your hand closes on her wrist, claws sinking in her skin, and you roll over, grabbing her other arm and pulling hard. You have a fleeting moment to see the shock in her eyes and realize what you’re doing, realize that you’re scaring her, realize that you are dangerous and a freak and this is why you should never let anyone get too close, no matter how hard you need it. But you don’t stop. You just can’t help it. You just drag her down.
And that’s when everything disappears.
> Sollux: Engage Psyche mode.
Suddenly you’re somewhere else entirely, somewhere where the night is cold and electric, preparing for a storm. Suddenly you’re outside, surrounded by broken stones, still smoking. The ruins of a house. Suddenly you’re crying, shaking, wailing like a wounded animal.
“Wake up, AA… pleathe wake up…” you repeat over and over between sobs.
It’s still just you and her, but she’s not really there. You cradle her in your arms the way she’s done countless times for you, her head clutched to your chest, your fingers lost in her hair. She’s still warm, but it will not last long. She’s not breathing and her once sweet features are contorted in a lifeless, horrified expression. Her torn clothes are covered in maroon blood, just like yours. You squeeze her hand and bring it to your mouth to kiss it desperately, smearing her blood all over your face, staining it with pale yellow tears. You don’t want to let her go. You need her to wake up, you need her to know that you’re sorry. You need her to hold you and cradle your head and tell you that all will be alright. But she won’t wake up. Never.
It’s your fault.
You are dangerous.
You are a freak.
You should have been culled sweeps ago.
You killed her.
> Sollux: Wake up.
The world disappears and reshapes itself from scratch once again, and suddenly you’re back where you started, on the couch in your recreation block. Aradia is lying down next to you, her arms wrapped around you, cradling your head on her breasts, soft and comforting. She smells like damp earth and burnt wood, and you can hear the fast, steady beat of her blood pusher against your face, her warmth seeping through her skin into you. You realize your hands are presently clenching into fists into her shirt, on her back, as if you were holding onto her for dear life, and you release your grip with a pang of guilt, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric and covering her skin again. The voices are still silent, but you’re too relieved to know she’s alive to panic again. You sigh.
“I’m thorry,” you whisper in her embrace, running your hands through her hair. She squeezes you in reply, caressing your head.
“Shh… it’s alright,” she whispers in a soothing tone, and bows down to place a kiss on your head, between your horns.
You swallow. No, it’s not alright. This is not enough. You need her to know precisely how overwhelmed and broken you are, how important she is to you and how scared shitless you are of losing her.
Reluctantly you pull your head up to look at her, and she looks down at you. There is a hint of a reassuring smile on her rounded lips, but you can see the worry in her deep, tired eyes. Aradia never really smiles with her eyes, not even when she’s all excited about a new dig or laughing when you play videogames together. She has her own voices to keep her grounded. You realize you don’t have your glasses on, and you don’t care. You need her to see. You need her to understand.
You slide a shaking hand up under her hair and wrap it on her neck, then gently pull her down as you rise up to meet her. She lets you guide her and her lips brush yours in a moirails’ kiss, comforting and chaste. An electric shiver runs through your body, like a void caving in you’re not sure how to fill, and as she shifts to look at you, you shake your head slightly. At her confused glance, you pull her down to you again. This is not enough either.
Your lips meet hers again and instead of just pecking softly, this time caress them gently, slowly, taking time to savor her warmth and contact. Aradia’s lips feel round and full against yours, and she’s shaking a little at first, but soon she relaxes in the kiss and returns your caresses. Your hand moves from her neck to cradle the back of her head, and she snuggles up to you in turn, warm trembling fingers caressing your face. There is no thought now, no worry, no sense of weight or time: you are pure sensation and need now, drunk and hungry at the same time, as if you couldn’t get enough of this, whatever this is. The waxy taste of her lipstick on your tongue, then her tiny, rounded fangs, and finally her mouth opening up to you, letting you sink in her welcoming, suffocating warmth. You really don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to kiss a moirail like that. You’re also pretty sure you don’t give a fuck, not if you can feel her shaking in your arms like that, breathless and eager just like you, all wild hair and soft curves and so damn fucking warm. So alive. Wanting you. Trusting you.
Even though you perfectly know she shouldn’t.
You are dangerous.
You are a freak.
If she gets too close, she’s going to burn like a moth in a flame.
But not tonight.
When you reluctantly break the kiss, you’re amazed at the ecstatic smile she gives you, her eyes sparkling behind long lashes. That familiar glint of sadness is still present, but barely visible now. She’s almost smiling for real now, leaving the dark world of her voices behind, and you’d love to see her smile like that for each day of your life. You snicker noticing the way you smeared her lipstick, and do your best to clean up around her mouth with your fingers, but just end up making an even more ridiculous mess and she laughs in turn.
“Thorry,” you say, then you notice the way she’s looking at your mouth and crook an eyebrow. “Hm. Did I get thome on me ath well?”
“Maybe,” Aradia says, and tries to clean you up in turn, chuckling, but you take her hand to kiss her knuckles softly. Her rounded cheeks flush with red, and her smile is now no more amused, but more pensive and content.
“What are we, AA?”
Your voice is barely a whisper but you’re sure she knows perfectly well what you’re talking about. She caresses your face.
“What do you want us to be?” she asks.
You’d like to say something snarky on how one shouldn’t answer a question with another question, but this is not the right time. You know you’re not moirails now, but you also know that if there’s someone who knows how to take care of you, then she’s definitely the one. You have a feeling this is one of those between-quadrants messes: you know, one of those things Karkat is going to give you hell over. If he ever knows about it. Which he won’t. Because you’re not a complete idiot yet.
Or maybe this is simply the first time you’re flushing red, and you’re not sure how it works. Maybe this is not about quadrants or definitions, but about what you want, and nothing more. And even confused and messed up and overwhelmed as you are, there is something you want.
You pull her close to kiss her again, slowly yet warmly, wanting to show her both sides of you, both your chaos and your order, the way you treasure her and the way you need her at the same time. She melts in your arms again, returning both your care and your passion.
“Red for you,” you whisper on her lips, knowing you’re blushing deep yellow, judging from the sudden wave of warmth around your face.
“Then red is what we are,” she whispers back with a smile, and draws you close for another kiss.
For the rest of the night you just stay there, curled up on the couch, talking and kissing and holding each other, until it’s time to close the window blinds for the sun. The silence is still there, the vision is still there. The monster is still there, hidden behind your eyes. But as you fall asleep by her side, there is no space for day terrors.