Archive of Our Own

You’re given this invitation to the Troll Kingdom, which is coincidentally ruled by four gods. They say (the invitation says) their names are Dave, and Jade, and Karkat, and Terezi.

YOUR NAME IS–

Your name is–

You’re going to go back to that one.

It doesn’t matter what your name is. Fuck the name. You do, however, have a variety of INTERESTS. You like to–stare at the wall, and stare at this thing that the troll at the “Better Buy” called a Husktop, and stare at the invitation in your hands. You don’t really have, like, a choice is the thing. Like, trolls don’t have to live in the Trollian Kingdom but Revived trolls do for a few months at least. Otherwise, Terezi will probably cull you again (and it doesn’t like, say that anywhere in writing, but like–

Fuck. You’re getting ahead of yourself. What will you do?

–> PACK UP YOUR SHIT AND ACCEPT THE INVITATION.

It’s not like you have a lot of shit to pack up. When you were revived they gave you some clothes and a bedroll and you’re pretty sure they didn’t know what to do with you because apparently adult trolls hadn’t been a thing here for a while and they were just starting to crop up again, and also apparently no one really knows why trolls are being revived in the first place but like it’s happening, and now everyone has to just deal. 

–> PACK UP YOUR TWO T-SHIRTS AND ACCEPT THE INVITATION, DAMNNIT.

Awesome. You wear t-shirts now, by the way. You’re sure there would be some shit some people would say about that if you had people to say anything about that in the first place.

–> STOP DRAGGING YOUR DAMN FEET LIKE YOU’RE STILL ATTACHED TO A SPACESHIP AND GO TO THE TROLLIAN KINGDOM.

Wow, Okay.

They give you this place in a place that they call a communal hivestem, which conceptually doesn’t seem too complicated. Bunch of trolls living in one place. Trash goes down the chute, mail goes in the slot. Simple enough.

You’re honestly a little scared to touch this Husktop thing, which is…kind of ridiculous, considering you’re pretty fucking sure you know how to work a computer. The Husktop comes with a client called Pesterchum 2.0 where you’re supposed to, like, talk to other trolls who live in the hivestem. Now you’re unfortunately the type of guy to jump about a foot out of his skin when someone says hello at the ‘grocery store’, so frankly, no-fucking-thankyou. The husktop stays on your desk, gathering more dust than a troll that’s spent eons hooked to a spaceship.

You frankly think it’s broken, when it starts beeping at you. Fifteen times a day, making some wretched noise to put any engine malfunction to shame. At first you ignore it, but the notifications get later and later. It’s about the point where they start waking you up at midnight (and that’s another thing – ) where you just can’t take it anymore.

–> CHECK HUSKTOP.

contradictoryGaiety: Are y9u in r99m 210?

tenaciousAcceleration: wow 1 cant bel1eve 1 have a stalker already

tenaciousAcceleration: w0uldnt y0u l1ke t0 kn0w weatherb0y

contradictoryGaiety: Psii, 6e seri9us.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck.

tenaciousAcceleration: h0w d0 y0u kn0w my name

tenaciousAcceleration: what k1nd 0f qu1rk 1s

tenaciousAcceleration: fuck

Your thinkpan’s making shit up. Wouldn’t be the first time, you’re all busted up inside anyhow. The worst part? Part of you wants to be honest. Wants to spill it all, like, yes, I sure as hell do, one lonely-ass troll in room 210 up here, why don’t you come on over? I’ve got room for your weapons!

You haven’t made many enemies. Like, there was the one time at the “grocery store” you asked where the potatoes were and the clerk was like, oh they're in aisle four but there were three fucking aisle fours and who the hell designs a grocery store like that and the clerk was like aisle 4 B but there wouldnt be an aisle 4B in the first place if this was anything like the farmers’ market and maybe the clerk went by contradictoryGaiety on the Pesterchum 2.0 system and was here to scythe you down, sure, but apart from that. But like, stranger danger. Rule #1 of survival. There’s probably someone you could report this to, even if you’re not a narc. You feel like maybe wanting to scythe you down for asking where the potatoes are in the "'grocery store'" is a little different though.

tenaciousAcceleration: yeah 1m 1n 210

What’s that they say about 100% of the shots you don’t take?

--> HAVE A SICK FLACKBACK.

Hm. No.

–> TELL THE READERS SOMETHING INFORMATIVE ABOUT YOUR PAST.

No, you don’t think you will.

–> STOP QUOTING EARTH C MEMES AND START DAYDREAMING

Can you like, go back to this?

–> ANSWER CG AND DONT SAY I DIDNT WARN YOU

contradictoryGaiety: C9uld I 6ring s9mething up?

tenaciousAcceleration: depends, a scythe or a sw0rd?

contradictoryGaiety: ?

contradictoryGaiety: I meant c99kies. We made c99kies.

tenaciousAcceleration: ah the g00d 0l arsen1c play

contradictoryGaiety: I’m n9t trying t9 kill y9u.

tenaciousAcceleration: y0u th1nk y0u can hurt me 1 have l1terally already d1ed

tenaciousAcceleration: and then begged for the sweet release 0f death

tenaciousAcceleration: and then d1ed aga1n

contradictoryGaiety: I think y9u need a therapist.

tenaciousAcceleration: whats that

contradictoryGaiety: I’m c9ming up.

Man, this guy is weird.

–> HAVE A FLASHBACK BEFORE CG GETS HERE.

You’re too busy cleaning. You’ll have a flashback later.

–> PICK YOUR T-SHIRT UP OFF THE GROUND WHICH WILL TAKE ALL OF 10 SECONDS AND THEN HAVE A FLASHBACK.

Oh no, what’s this? Someone has dumped your entire clothing hamper onto the floor.

→ HAVE A FLASHBACK WITH YOUR MOIRAIL IN THE ROOM, I GUESS.

…What?

–> ANSWER THE DOOR.

Well, you suppose there’s no avoiding it any longer. Your entire three outfits are put nicely in your clothing hamper, or about as nicely as you can manage to put anything away. You even attempted to sweep some of the dorito crumbs off the floor. Wiggler steps. 

Honestly, you can doomthink all you want but it’s probably not the grocery store clerk. That guy wouldn’t have known your name. The bigger question is like, who would have ? You’ve got one lead and that’s maybe it’s whoever sent you the invitation, because despite being signed by the leaders of the Trollian Kingdom you doubt it was actually written by them. The thing is though, that name --you thought you’d be using titles until the end of time, and you suppose in a way it was true. This was a new place, though, and information was clearly kinda vast. You’d never had any other name, so you guess that one’s as good as any.

You can doomthink all you want, but nothing is going to change the fact that someone has knocked on your door three times now, and if you don’t answer soon, you’re pretty sure they’re gonna break it down.

–> OPEN THE DOOR.

Hey, remember that flashback the command text mentioned?

–> DON’T HAVE A FLASHBACK NOW. OPEN THE DOOR AND FULFILL THE RELATIONSHIP TAG ON THIS FIC.

Huh?

–> THIS THING IS ALREADY OVER 1K. STOP PUTTING THE SLOW IN SLOWBURN AND OPEN THE DOOR.

You don't know what a relationship tag is. You think maybe Di had mentioned a slowburn once. You’re pretty sure it’s time for a flashback now.

–> HAVE A SICK FLASHBACK, FOR REAL THIS TIME.

As you talked to trolls, the ones you went and rescued, they said that seeing Sign for the first time was like seeing a vision, something blessed. Because you didn’t believe in all of that crap, you tried to shrug it off, laugh about it like you laughed about everything else.

But the truth? You called him Sign not because he didn’t have one, but because he was one. Because the first time you saw him, his curls silhouetted against the early dawn, it was like seeing the sunrise for the first time. The first time he spoke to you, it felt like a dawning realization that everything was going to actually be okay. 

‘You’, he had said, and you--you don’t really remember. You had probably pointed at yourself, gaping open-mouthed, nothing to say; aghast that this picture of visible daylight would address you. That would be your best guess. That day was a little bit of a blur, a blur of blood and sparks and claws and more blood. But at the end of it, you had more than just your dignity--you had a name . It was a name this CG troll was using, the troll that was probably at your door right now.That makes you feel….

You feel…

–> THIS ISN’T A REAL FLASHBACK.

–> OPEN THE DOOR.

Because here’s the thing. Your thinkpan is busted, and it’s been busted for a very long time. There’s no telling this whole thing isn’t just one giant hallucination. It’s very artistically made, even for your standards, like the whole Earth C thing you’re buying at this point, but this CG guy? The beeping Husktop? You’re almost expecting no one there when you open the door. That’ll show that command text (and that’s another thing– )

“Hello, Psii.” He says, and in what is definitely your brightest move yet, you slam the door right in his face.

Because a hallucination, even a particularly artful one, doesn’t--do this. Doesn’t show up at your door, walk your streets, use the name quite unlike the one She had given you. Doesn’t haunt your doorstep, haunt your husktop, haunting, beautifully, haunting you--

“Psii, love.” The voice says through the door, persistent. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

I’m not afraid, the little cornered creature inside of you snaps in your head, a voice of its own. Leave me alone. 01101001 00100000 01110111 01100001 01101110 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01101111 00100000 01101000 01101111 01101101 01100101 00101110.

But you are home. You’re more home than you’ve been in a long while. And since keeping this door closed won’t fucking change that, you open it again.

“Psii.” He repeats. The lines on his face are new. Soft but new. “Let me look at you, love, let me see your face.”

You didn’t even realize you’d averted your eyes after getting a look at him. It being real makes it almost more painful than it being not. But you look back at him, drinking it all in, like it’s some frozen, crystalline moment. You look different now, even just on the surface. But so does he. New lines.

“I’m sorry.” You say. It’s kind of an embarrassing first greeting. It may very well be your first greeting re-hashed, recycled, the same one you had said all those sweeps ago.

He simply smiles; unfazed. “Don’t be. May I come in? We made cookies.”

They do look good. Smell good, too. There’s certainly room for them on your counter. But you have one question, burning. It won’t keep him from your kitchen, but it won’t stay inside you, either. “We?” 

He smiles over his shoulder at you, like he’s sharing a little secret, eager to spill the beans. “The others are here too, of course.”

You feel your bloodpusher skip a beat. “Di and Rosa?”

“That would be them.” He says it casually, like it’s announcing the weather, not the impetus of the last--of the last sweeps of your life. “They could have come up, but…I wanted to see you alone for a little while.”

“Yeah.” Your windhole feels very dry. 

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You…you did.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” His face scrunches up, like it did--does when he’s very deep in thought about something. “I just wanted to go easy on you. I suppose I was a little… forward. In my advances.”

You snicker. You just can’t help it. He makes it sound like you’re some highly desirable bar maiden, the way he used to talk about Di before he married her. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.” He adds, almost bewildered, but you’re already tuning him out. 

The thing is, you’re looking at the cookies. Revived trolls are alive-again, like, properly alive, which means you need to breathe and eat and sleep and stuff. But you’ve mostly just been eating when you feel like you’re about to fall over. Otherwise you kind of forget. 

“......Love…..eaten today?”

Oh, right. You forgot--you tuned him out again. You close your eyes tight, try to sift and sort your thoughts into binary. Eaten today. He’s asking if you’ve eaten yet today, probably. That’s one of his regulars. Dishonesty won’t help anyone. You shake your head no. 

“Cookies won’t do. You’ll have to come down for dinner later.”

Come down? Down for dinner? With Sign and Di and Rosa? Scared is what you feel. You feel fear. Thanks, command text, for cutting you off right as you were about to get there. Palms even sweatier than normal, you wipe them on your sweats. You should probably take a cookie. They look like chocolate chip. You’re still tuning him out and you don’t realize this until you have a hand on your shoulder and like, the fourth cookie in your mouth.

He’s smiling at you. Fond, affectionate. It hasn’t changed, the way he looks at you, even if his face has. It’s got a bit of a knowing feel to it, a this is what happens when you don’t eat all day smile. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just places his hand against your cheekbone, rubs gentle circles into your jaw with his thumb.

“I missed you.” He says, simply.

“Don’t.”

His face scrunches again, like he’s worried he’s said something wrong. He--he hasn't, not wrong, just overwhelming. “I did, love. We never stopped waiting.”

“How long?”

“Psii.” 

He looks--you’re trying to get a handle on it. Get it sorted. Dimly, you wish you had access to a database of emotions. Maybe you used to, catalogue of Sign’s emotions, you’ve been blocked; no access. Not anymore. Not after all this time. “How long?”

“That’s not important--”

“I want to know.” You’re being petulant, you know. You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“It’s…hard to tell.” This is the truth. Emotions are difficult, but Sign doesn’t lie well. “With the revival. But it was…” He tilts his head a bit. “We waited for a long time. But we didn’t mind. I mean--well. We didn’t blame you.”

“You didn’t…” Forget, like you figured he would, like She’d told you he would. That feels embarrassing, though, like you’re fresh and green and asking where on the floor to sleep all over again. “Get a new…” you can’t even finish it, coming out soft and squeaky. That’s less humiliating; you hadn’t lived to your potential, really. But you still can’t finish the sentence.

“ What?” He looks shocked now, almost angry. “Psii, I would--you thought I would replace you?”

You’re--it’s not replaceable. You’ve never been that. You’re fucking singular--this you know well. But you’re not very good at moirallegience. You wouldn’t have blamed him, not for that. “Maybe?”

“Come to dinner.” He says, like he’s trying to make your own twisted thoughts up to you. That’s Sign, though. Weight of the world on his shoulders. 

–> SWEET JEGUS, THIS IS SAPPY. HAVE A REAL FLASHBACK. 

Now? 

–> HAVE A REAL FLASHBACK. 

With your moirail in the room?

–> HAVE BETTER FORESIGHT NEXT TIME.

-> ALSO, HAVE A REAL FLASHBACK. 

On the night before the end, you break bread around the fire.

You’ve always known how this was going to end. For that reason, you almost didn’t go with him. He said ‘You’ and you wanted to hide, wanted to pretend you were one of the others, you weren’t the one he wanted.

But you’re singular like that. So you went.

You sit there with your little loaf, a million questions burning inside you. “They’ll be here by daybreak.” You say instead of asking.

“I know.” He smiles at you. He looks tired. Not like he’s embracing the end, but not entirely like he’s scared of it, either. 

“I know too.”

“We weren’t going to evade them forever, love.”

“No, I mean--” You want to throw this stupid bread into the fire. Always like him to choose peace, down to the moment it would kill him. “I’ve always known. That’s why you chose me. Isn’t it?”

“It was selfish of me.” He--agrees? You’re not sure. You look at him quizzically. “To choose someone who would come.”

Like he’d always known too. It’s hurtling towards you at mach speed and he breaks bread nonetheless. You can’t pinpoint it, why he took you with him. Someone who would come, but--who wouldn’t have? What sets you apart--many things. 

“Why did you come? If you’d always known?”

“I was looking--looking for a sign.” You say, as usual, before you can stop yourself. “Found one. Unexpected places--” He laughs at that. “My Sign.”

He brushes the hair out of your forehead and kisses it. Sometime, though you can’t pinpoint when, you’ve started crying.

You’re still crying. 

–> WAKE.

You’re crying when you wake--you’re not in your room. You’re not in a coon at all, not the soft daybreak filtering through the curtains. You’re lying on something that’s closer to a human bed, closer to what you were used to in the before times.

“I think he’s waking up!” Says a voice. It’s chipper--too chipper to be his, different tonally. But you recognize it.

“...Di?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Silly honkbird. Sign says mew passed right out on the floor!” She’s leaning right over you, blocking out all signs of light. Honestly, you’re grateful, in the moment. 

“He needs food, Disciple.” That’s Rosa's voice, identity coming to you easier now. Like you’ve never been away a single day.

“So do I! I’m starving!” 

“We’re almost done.” The most familiar of all, there is Sign. Your shoulders relax under clawed hands. 

“Sorry.” You croak out. “I’ve been…”

“Mew’ve been away! We missed you, Psii.” 

“I’ve been having…”

“This place is a little strange.” Sign again, this time approaching from the doorway. He helps you into a sitting position, places the back of his hand to your forehead and nods, seemingly satisfied. It’s quieter when he says, “We certainly have a lot to talk about.” He’s wiping off the last of your tears as he goes.

“Alright, alright.” You push Di off of you in a flailing gesture of limbs, resisting the urge to stick your tongue out until she whacks you with a pillow.

“Play nice.” Sign laughs, faces smiling, bloodpushers full.

PSIIONIIC –> GO TO DINNER.