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All things considered, Purple is not doing too badly.
That’s not to say that she’s doing well.
But taking into account the fact that she was disintegrated and sucked into the Void only a few hours ago…and then, somehow, mysteriously returned to the living world…well, she could be doing a lot worse.
Stick, stick, stick…
The curse is like a mantra in her mind as she and King leave the Nether portal. King’s basement looks surprisingly normal. The cup of coffee that King was drinking the last time they were here is still sitting, half finished, on one of the counters.
Stick, stick, stick…
Purple’s too tired to filter herself anymore. If Mom were here, she’d give Purple The Look and say “language.” But Mom’s not here, and she’s not coming back, and neither is Dad, and so what does it matter?
They reach the ladder, and King gestures for her to go first. She knows that he’s spotting her as she climbs the ladder, watching for any slip. If she wasn’t feeling like crap, she might resent it. Or laugh at it, if she was in a good mood. She’s ten times more graceful than King is, even if he’s a badass in a fight, and he knows that, and he spots her anyway.
It really puzzles her. She can’t figure out why. (Or, maybe, she doesn’t want to.)
The ladder has never, ever, felt this long. Purple can’t suppress a sigh of relief when they reach the top. Her legs are trembling, feeling weak – so weak – but she refuses to sit down. If she does, she won’t be able to get back up again.
She just has to keep moving. As long as she doesn’t stop, she can keep moving. Momentum. It’s all about momentum. Don’t give the other person time to think, don’t give them time to strategize. Just strike…
Purple blinks, realizing that King is saying something to her. Oh, she zoned out, didn’t she?
Stick, stick, stick…
“What?” Purple croaks. Her voice sounds bad, but then, her throat hurts, everything stickin’ hurts, so that’s understandable.
“You’re using the bathroom first,” King says.
Purple stares at him, trying to understand.
“You’re going to go take a shower and get rid of all that dirt and blood. And then we’re going to sit down and take care of your injuries. Okay?”
King’s always been brusque and straight to the point. And Purple is used to him telling her what to do. But this is a new tone of voice, a gentle tone of voice. A worried tone of voice.
“You’re hurt too,” Purple says, eyeing the burns snaking up King’s arm.
“Not as badly as you,” King says. “Purple, I am so sorry.”
“Yeah, I know.” Purple winces as soon as the words leave her mouth. Shoot. That didn’t come out right.
Stick, stick, stick…
Purple doesn’t even realize that she’s swearing aloud until she notices King looking at her with a shocked expression on his face.
She flushes.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“Just take a shower,” King says. His face twists. “Please?”
Purple hesitates, then nods. She turns slowly and trudges toward the bathroom, only stopping to grab her backpack from its place next to King’s bookshelf. It’s right where it was just this morning. Funny, how things can change so completely and yet everything stays the same.
It’s not until she steps into the shower, and feels the warm water cascading over her, that she breaks down.
Tears run down her face. She’s exhausted, weary right down to her bones, and the tears feed on her exhaustion. She can’t stop them. She couldn’t tell you how long she stands there, crying silently.
When the last of the tears come, she heaves a long, shaking breath. She feels so empty, but…not in a bad way. There are a lot of broken pieces inside of her still, a lot of shattered things that haven’t been fixed. But the sharp edges are beginning to be worn away, somehow, and the pain feels a little gentler than it used to.
She remembers Green’s arms around her, his voice in her ear. You don’t have to be perfect, Purple. You can just be you.
Purple wants to believe that. She does believe that. But the old fear is still there, the fear that if she doesn’t live up to expectations, the people she loves will leave. Because that’s what they’ve always done.
What matters is that you’re trying. And Purple, you try harder than anybody I know.
She tries not to wince as she cleans the dirt and blood from her skin. The burns from the Void are horribly painful, but there’s another, duller pain pervading her entire body. It’s a faint echo of the pain she felt when King’s staff ripped her code apart, piece by piece, and hurled her into the Void.
Purple pauses, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She holds it for several seconds, then lets it out.
When the water swirling into the drain finally runs clean, she turns the shower off.
King’s medicine cabinet is decently stocked, although Purple finds herself wishing she had the energy to make the trip back to her place. But she sets about bandaging and treating the wounds that she wouldn’t be comfortable with King tending to.
…She wishes Mom were here.
Mom’s hands were always gentle.
Not like Purple’s, made rough by exhaustion.
Softly at first, and then a bit more loudly, Purple begins to sing.
Mom liked it when she sang. And right now, when she wishes more than anything that Mom were here, the singing helps.
The bathroom’s tiled walls and floor seem to catch Purple’s voice and echo it back. She works steadily at treating her wounds, listening to the sound of her own voice.
Singing has always been catharsis. A way of letting loose and vocalizing the emotions inside, which never come out the way she wants them to when she speaks.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”
She remembers her mother singing it to her, back in the days when she was toddling around their small kitchen and humming off-key along with her mother. She remembers singing it with her mother, their voices harmonizing, on soft summer nights when they would sit on the back porch and watch the stars come out.
Her voice is rough and scratchy right now, and at any other time Purple would be mortified by how she sounds. But she doesn’t care.
“The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,
“I dreamed I held you in my arms…”
Her mother never sang past the first verse, when Purple was little. For the longest time, she thought that that was all there was to the song.
“When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken.
“And I hung my head and cried.”
She first heard the other verses the night her dad walked out on them, when she and Orchid had curled up on the couch and her mother had held her too tight and sung to her for hours, until her voice was little more than a croak and Purple had long since cried every tear she had.
Purple loses herself completely in the music. She’s not in King’s tiny bathroom, she’s not anywhere but her own head, and for once it’s a peaceful place. She’s still exhausted, still so horribly tired and emotionally overstimulated, but right now, she almost thinks she’s feeling happy.
There’s spare clothes in her backpack. When she finishes bandaging her injuries, she dresses as quickly as she’s able, pulling on a loose shirt and sweatpants. It’s a step down from her usual standards, but she’s in too much pain to be concerned with anything but comfort. Her muscles are screaming at her, stiff from sitting in one place for so long, but she pushes through it.
When she opens the bathroom door, she is startled to find King sitting on the living room floor, tears running down his cheeks.
They look at each other in silence for several seconds.
Purple’s face has gone a deep maroon. She…forgot that she wasn’t at her place, and that King would be able to hear her.
“I – ” She’s stuttering now, struggling to vocalize anything at all. She wants King to look away, and yet at the same time she wants him to be there, and be close.
She wants to be loved, and she’s afraid to be loved, and she doesn’t know how to be loved anymore.
She can feel her mask coming back down, the persona, the Purple that she chooses to show, and she wants it to stop, and yet she doesn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Purple whispers, and she bursts into tears.
She doesn’t even realize King is holding her until his arms are already wrapped tightly around her. Her face is pressed against his shirt, and the smell of sweat and dirt and blood is overwhelming, but she doesn’t want to let go.
This. This happened in the Void, and she couldn’t believe it was real.
But even if that wasn’t real, this most definitely is.
King’s chest heaves, and Purple knows that he’s crying, too.
They lean on each other, neither able to let go. A father without his child. A child without her father. And somehow, they find balance.
Somehow, they are able to hold each other up.