Chapter Text
Mordant liquid acid bubbles up from your gut and sours your mouth, leaving a throbbing trail of regret to confine your throat around itself. Your knees are aching and numb, a familiar sense of pain lulling into the backstage of your mind.
It is a ghost-town, this park you mean. That is likely due to the fact that it is currently an hour before midnight and most elementary-age children arriving from a normal home life wouldn’t be outside this late. Hell, you shouldn’t be out this late, you had a curfew to uphold, didn’t you? That doesn’t stop you from kicking the swings with your feet from where you’re sprawled out, left for dead in the soggy embrace of wood chips though, the night has been much too long for you and the thought of withstanding your mother at such an hour fills you with a sticky film of dread akin to that of wiped-up milk residue. The smell of her chagrin would burn into your nostrils with too much visceral shame that it would leave you inconsolable for months.
You know well-enough that you are a disappointment already, and the buzzing anxiety of hammering it deeper into your skull is already enough to make you vomit.
It was coming sooner or later, and like the selfish bitch that you are, you prefer the latter installment.
For now, you are going to let yourself rest. The cool, wet wood of a children’s play-area is better than nothing, after all. Not like your bedroom would really do much better.
That feeling of overactive exhaustion has never been a foreign feeling to you. There's too many nights where all you can remember was that sharp feeling within your side, the gravel digging into your feet as you let the cold ink of twilight consume you into its unknown depths.
You had lived in the dark. Relished in it even. Because with darkness came the opportunity to dabble into new experiences, such as creating a tactful (and tasteful) advantage; the delicious world that is color-theory and its apparent effect on the taste of a blind girl. You’re not going to explain how it works, because the sense that it makes to others is hardly and the enigma that its cause is to you remains massive. All you’re going to say is, it was magical.
And what you can say now is, the situation in which you’ve currently trapped yourself in, is distinctly not magical. There is no knight, there is no moral, nor is there treasure, nary a dragon, and you are not a fucking damsel in distress, no matter how cliche that sounds and no matter how horrible your apparent situation may be.
No, you did this to yourself. You committed the crime, propped yourself up as a competent defense, and the judge in tandem with the jury mocked you for it. You always thought you knew what you were doing, but it never really dawned on you what truly had happened until you were already locked within the prison wagon and being carted off to the torture dungeon.
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and there is sugar in your hair.
There's sugar everywhere in fact. It’s on your hands, it’s on your prom dress, it’s on your face, and most disgustingly of all there’s a mass amount of it sitting within the spit of your mouth. You swallow its thick pile away, only for even more moisture to make the after-taste ever increasingly apparent.
Faygo tastes awful, you don’t know why you keep drinking the stuff.
The stink of soda lies damp and dormant, resting upon a repulsive strip down your gown, and you’re half tempted to rip it off, your hands pawing at the fabric while its tight sleeves restrain you, holding you back from damaging it even more than it already is, and at the same time, the confinement encourages you to struggle further for your freedom.
The rotten red-apple material is rough in your hands, beaded glitter sewn into patterns, and reeking with a leftover scent that you would describe as a grape-limeade slush mix made hastily as an experiment and quickly disregarded as a mistake. It may have been pretty at one given point of time (aka this morning) but the injurious nature of vapid teen romance quickly maimed that level of intricacy, and stripped it away from your life like it does anything good. You would say you’re disappointed at the dress being destroyed, and while that is not necessarily untrue, you think you’re more dissatisfied with the way he had verbally snubbed it beforehand. Of course it wasn’t good enough for him, nothing was ever good enough for him. That's why your chest is wheezing in anguish, a bruise swelling up on your side, because the moment you decided to fight back was the moment he decided you weren’t a quality girlfriend.
Your mouth curls into a snarl; an ugly, petty way of being, just like it always does after fights like this.
Fuck him and his ugly suit and his fucking discolored shirt and his stupid unkempt bow-tie and ugly disheveled clown-shoes and fucked up hair and his deranged make-up and everything he has ever stood or will stand for.
Who the fuck dresses up like a shitty emo clown when going to prom?
Someone you’d be dumb enough to date, you guess.
You sigh, releasing your crumpled dress from the grubby hold of your sticky fingers, and letting your arms lay flat against the jagged surface of small wooden stakes piled on top of each other.
Wow.
You are pathetic.
All that and you still can’t find it within yourself to break up with him.
Despite what one may conceive, the talent that applies to your vision-replacing taste buds does not seem to extend far past that, your dating history coming across to everyone, including you, as a particularly disastrous example. Dave was reasonable, at least some people could understand the appeal, but Gamzee?
You even don’t know how you managed to go that low. Even worse, you don’t know how to recover from it. You’ve already made everything absolutely shitty for yourself, what with isolating yourself from all your friends, disrespecting and disobeying your parents, and on top of that officially killing what was left of your highschool GPA, and you really never thought it could get this bad. Yet here you are, swollen in doubt and self-loathing, seething at what just happened between that asshole and you, all while simultaneously regretting every decision you ever made that piled onto his anger.
You hope he doesn’t break up with you.
He’s awful and gross and he’s so bad for you, but dear god, you really hope he doesn’t break up with you.
A breath shudders in your chest, echoing out of your throat; the confession reminding you of that unbearable flavor akin to humiliation sitting in your mouth.
No wonder even Gamzee doesn’t want you. Even at your best, you were never that impressive.
The street briefly lights up with newfound vigor, a car passing by above your head. The shine of its low-beams hit the dull green wall of the playscape, reflecting onto the surrounding red and yellow walls and ladders. It turns left around the gated bend, driving past the park and towards some far off place, forgetting the existence of a children’s play-area.
You blink numbly to the sky, your recently fixed vision squinting briefly at the sudden resurgence of luminosity before returning to the comfortable state of blackness which you’re familiar with. Stupid fucking eye-surgery, you can’t believe you actually let his shallow scrutiny get to you. He has no idea what your lack of proper eyesight meant to you.
But you did.
You knew very well what it meant.
Which is why you have to ask yourself, why did you do it?
Was this another faux attempt to please him? To match his unreasonable expectations of you? Even when you knew he didn’t actually care, all he wanted to do was fuck with you?
Or did you do this for yourself? Did you do this because you knew he was right? Because you knew Aranea was right? Because you knew you weren’t going to be taken seriously as a blind girl. That all you were doing was making your life harder. It didn’t matter that the blindness was yours, that it was something you’ve grown accustomed to, proud of even, because if you ever want to be successful like Latula, then you needed to be able to see, to understand and adapt to your surroundings, no matter if you thought you could still do that before.
Your eyes squeeze shut.
Fuck.
Latula would know what to do in this situation.
Actually scratch that, Latula wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
She knows better, would never let herself get this bad. She’s not like you, she’s not a fraud, she doesn’t hurt those around her, she’s not clueless like you are.
The cloudy imprint of headlights shift semi-circularly across the playground before pausing on your body like a spotlight. Lemon fluorescence remains fixed at the back of your head before abruptly shutting off.
Latula’s going to law school.
You’re flunking out of senior year.
The creak of a car door pops open in the distance, weight shifting with a wheeze as a figure’s shoes hit asphalt. The door slams behind them, keys rattling and then muffling to a stop, probably shoved into a pocket.
Latula’s got a loving boyfriend.
You’ve had a boyfriend for years and you’ve never once believed that he loved you.
Wood chips softly cry as worn-out sneakers sift through their build-up, crunching down on children’s territory in a way that borders nostalgic. Footsteps draw towards you, a shadow looming ever closer.
Latula’s getting your dream job.
Your future was over before it even started.
The crunching stops. He’s standing over you now.
You stare at the faint outline of darkness, its precise shape obscured by overlapping shadows, the product of nearby streetlights.
It doesn’t really matter whether or not you can deduce the shape.
You already know who it is, you smelled him as soon as he stepped out of the car.
“Terezi.” He swallows and you catch a whiff of cherry.
“What’re you doing here?”
Karkat looks tired. That’s the first thing you notice about him after never truly seeing him for almost two years. His eye bags were pretty bad when you were thirteen and admittedly, they don’t look much better at age seventeen either. He looks you up and down, his eyes narrow and his jaw set, holding an expression that emits all kinds of exasperated and a stare that radiates many classes of bubbling concern. He’s wearing a black hoodie, despite the warm dense humidity currently fixating the atmosphere, and his jeans droop past his ankles, their ends ripped and frayed from frequent use.
You blink at him, slowly. “I don’t know…”
“Really?” He responds, unconvinced. “What is going on, why does your prom dress look like that?”
Your nose scrunches. “Wow, Karkat, maybe I just like the way it looks, didn’t know you had such a problem with that.”
“Don’t fuck with me, you know I didn’t mean it in that way.” His shoulders clench up in annoyance. “Seriously, what is up? Why are you all alone in the park? Why is your dress so fucked up, what the hell happened?”
“Nothing happened.” You sigh, rolling onto your side and purposely looking away from him. “Just leave me alone.”
“Thats bullshit, obviously something happened to you!” He bites in a sudden burst of indignation, he then softens, immediately regretting his tone and backtracking. “I mean, I understand if you don’t really want to talk about it, but I can’t just- leave you alone like this.”
Your teeth grit as you push yourself up, propping yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your back still facing him.
“Nothing’s going on, Karkat! I really just want to be left alone.”
He pauses and you can hear him breathing, a slow and near-silent heave which screams uncertainty to you. That’s good, you think. He should stop talking. If only during this moment. Especially when he’s never bothered to shut up before. Maybe it’ll be different. Maybe he'll actually listen to you this time.
”Was it Gamzee? Did he do something?“
Oh, fuck this guy.
You whip around to glare at him, teeth bare and face contorted into a scowl. “Karkat, shut the fuck up!”
He shuffles back in quick succession, his hands coming up to a startled defeat, and his mouth twisting into that of angry yet concerned annoyance. “Okay, fine! You don’t have to tell me anything!”
“Okay, then I won’t!”
“Fine by me! One more rotting fuck-stain cleaned off my nutrient platter.”
“Oh, as if you weren’t practically begging to be included into my business like this.”
“God forbid I express an ounce of shittily articulated concern towards someone!”
“Karkat, stop making this about you!”
Your nostrils burn with his apprehension. It smells like everything else related to him. Tart cherry juice with a touch of artificial sweetener, and an underlying tone of crystallized candy apple (probably from his brother). You suck air between gritted teeth, letting the familiar flavor of dead childhood friendship linger on your tongue. Karkat just never knows when to stop, does he?
…
You don’t need him.
You don’t need someone to save you.
Especially not him.
Karkat is taking much too long to decide his words, he keeps staring at you with this conflicted, frustrated, and pitying look that makes you really want to punch him in the face, to really get your hands on this fucker and force him to never get involved with you ever again.
Except you don’t really want to do that because that would be like shooting a dead horse.
You swallow, throat vapid and aching as the regret slides down.
“Fine.” He decides.
“Can I at least- ” Karkat starts and stops like what he’s about to say would be a cardinal sin. “Can I at least drive you home?”
The wood chips crinkle under your fingers as you pick them from their ranks, inspecting one before flicking it away.
“I’m not really in the mood to see my family right now.” Your voice comes out stilted and angry, but not nearly as pissed off as you were before.
He clicks his tongue, gently kicking at the nearby pile of wooden stakes which had supported your head. The structure crumbles to the sides of his dirt-stained vanilla soles, evening out into the rest of the playground’s floor. Why do they use these things to fill up playgrounds anyway? Do they want a wood chip to lodge itself into some kid’s eye? Actually, that’s not the worst idea, you could easily blind yourself all over again through the same method. Except, it would be significantly more painful than the first time around. Also much less special than the incident which had originally caused your near-blindness.
“I could, I don’t know-” your head lifts up to stare at him again. Hands shoved into his pockets, he looks a little bit to the left of you. “I could take you back to my apartment?”
Your eyes widen.
…is he fucking serious right now?
You hunch over yourself, arms resting on your knees, lips pursed and eyebrow raised, extremely unimpressed. There’s no way Karkat thought he was being slick.
“Don’t look at me like that!” His voice raises defensively. “I’m not saying this as a means to get to you, the only reason I’m offering is because I’m fucking worried about you.” Karkat interrupts himself with a sigh, looking away from you to focus on a nearby streetlight before tightly shutting his eyes. “Look. I know I fucked up with you. I came to terms with that a long time ago actually; I dug my own grave and I’ve long stayed buried alive in it.”
Karkat’s eyes open to meet yours again, and the unease pitters out a little. He seems sure now, the most certain he’s ever been since the start of this conversation. “But, I do still care about you, and even if we haven’t spoken in a while, you know you can talk to me, right? You can come and talk to me about stuff like this, I still want to be friends.“
His tone shifts slightly, that gentleness seeping into a greater force. Angry almost. But not at you. Not at anyone really. Maybe just, frustrated. “And, as your friend, I really don’t think you should be left out here alone like this!”
The hands hidden into his hoodie shuffle nervously as Karkat continues talking, fingers quietly fiddling with the keys in his pocket. You straighten a little. He begins quiet again, pupils set to rest distantly on your covered knees.
“I know by now that you’ve made your choice about me, and I can totally understand if you never want to see me again, I’ll leave you alone if you’re really sure. I just… want you to feel safe.”
Oh.
That's all too achingly simple.
You don’t know how you… feel about that.
“Okay, I’m probably just sticking my foot in my fucking talk-blaster again, and making you uncomfortable.”
Karkat steps back.
“I guess I’ll just go back to my car now. Please just- take care of yourself, okay?” He breathes heavily, waiting for you to say something.
You don’t.
He sighs. “Okay, uh-”
The night air sticks to you.
“Bye.” He finishes.
It sweetly clings to your eyelashes, resting on the tip of your nose, and all you can do is helplessly watch as Karkat walks away.
And for some reason, for the first time in two years, with the pickup of your heart hiding in your chest, and the raspberry kool-aid of your blood rushing to your ears, you’re extremely eager to follow that of Karkat Vantas. To talk to him again, actually speak to him, after all this time.
Your teeth clench.
He really- he still cares about you.
Even after all this time, he actually cares about you.
Oh god.
How long has it been since you’ve last heard him ramble on like that?
When was the last time you got to hear one of those? Has his voice always smelled that sweet? Since when did you stop noticing that?
The car door is opening, and you’re scrambling now. Chips fly away from your heels as you hoist yourself up, stumbling before kicking off your sparkly purple flats in favor of trekking the path barefoot. You crackle against the wood, gaining in your speed until you meet tasteless concrete, at which point you slow down and steady to a stop in front of his car.
Karkat stares at you in alarm, frozen against the open car door, his hands gripping it with a nostalgic anxiety, eyebrows raised in a stunned comprehension. His face remains blank and motionless, like he doesn’t believe you. His jaw tightens as he blinks, set with simple anticipation.
He’s waiting for you again.
Your lips purse as you breathe, your nerves stolen and your fate decided. You’re going to be brave this time around, Terezi.
Because even if you don’t need him, at this moment you are certain.
You might just want him.