Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Co·​de·​pen·​den·​cy
(kō-di-ˈpen-dən(t)-sē)

a psychological condition or a relationship in which a person manifesting low self-esteem and a strong desire for approval has an unhealthy attachment to another often controlling or manipulative person (such as a person with an addiction to alcohol or drugs)

Synonyms
Necessity, survival, purpose

Codependency is a term that Kris is greatly familiar with, even if they themselves won’t admit it. A word that lays permanently beneath their tongue, held firmly behind their retinas; something so close to the surface and yet never recognized beyond a breath, beyond a blink.

There’s comfort in relinquishment. The assurance that, in the end, the anxieties of decision making and consequences felt out of their hands. There’s almost a cosmic bliss to it, an out of body experience—even if it makes Kris sick to their stomach, even if they disdain their reflection after each passing day. An abyss you can’t look away from, an inevitability that crumbles beneath your feet and sends you into an infinite darkness.

…

It starts steadily, Kris talking to people they’ve never had the urge to talk to before, walking around corners and alleys they often overlook on their way to school. It starts steadily as they make inquiries that seem so far from their own bias, decisions that pivot their rationale. It starts steadily as they bring Susie into their circle of confidants, trusting someone in a way that hasn’t happened since–

…

Well, it’s so easy to go along with it all. Easy to deny the ache in their bones, their blood running backwards are they let this vessel, this parasite, dictate their movements, their actions. It’s easy to close their eyes and swing rather than confront the consequences of actions, not even their own.

Even as their limbs shake, even as they quietly cry as their words are twisted to hurt the people they hold dear, even as they tear their soul out of the chest for even a morsel of freewill–Kris cannot escape. They cannot escape the taste of success, the thrill of victory, the life they live now a product of their continued addiction.

So, as Kris stares into their reflection, they know exactly what they’ll see:

nothing.

A husk of themselves, Kris can see a body meant only to obey, a voice meant only to speak when prompted. They feel nothing but emptiness, with or without the vessel. Fragmented, even when whole, fractured even as they desperately claw at a sense of self preservation: as if Kris as a person, as an individual, no longer existed.

They sees it in their interactions with their family, their friends. They witness the confusion that riddles them as their companions recognize their parasite better than they recognize Kris themselves. They yearn to be known only as themselves, to be recognized without their symbiotic soul.

And yet that yearning is not enough.

Yearning won’t fix their flaws, won’t fix their bad attitude and their even worse decisions. Yearning won’t fix their family, their loved ones who took them in only to tear themselves apart.

Yearning will only bring clarity.

Clarity will only lead to deterioration.

So who are they really? If not even the ones they care about can see them, then isn’t it alright?

…

Wouldn’t it be better if they just disappeared?

Chapter Text

‘I’m perfect. I must be.’

This was not a mantra, nor was it a wish or an affirmation. This was a truth of the world, an undeniable truth—Netellie was perfect. From their hair to their smile, from the way they handled themselves with grace to the way they seemed flawlessly social & polite, every facet of Netellie was created to be perfect.

So why, despite this perfection, despite knowing their own efforts to reach it, does this person make them doubt everything?

—

It starts when Netellie’s younger, as most things do. 

As kids are, a young Netellie is brutally honest; either that or undeniably foolish. She could recall seeing them in the halls, their slouch reminding her of a pillbug; someone, something so infinitesimal to the expansiveness of society. 

They stood out, ‘not in a good way,’ Netellie’s brain supplied. In the way a weed stands stark in a beautiful garden, in the way a dark cloud darkens a clear sky; this description fits the human perfectly.

Netellie knew what it looked like, leaving her own caretaker’s child out of everything because they were different, because they weren’t good enough. She couldn’t take all the blame though. After all, her friends were pushing her to talk to them; it’s not her fault that they seem offended over anything coming from her mouth.

“It must be nice, always having something unique about you! It’s really a shame we can’t really relate.”

The condescension is evident in his tone, he knows, but he can’t help it. It’s fun, in a way. To belittle someone, to tear every inch of confidence they have to feed into his own: there’s a relishment to it. He feels strong like this, a pedestal made on the crippling despair of a single soul.

“Having so much time to yourself must be so freeing! No friends to bother you with their company or anything, it’s like being a loner is some kind of superpower!”

It’s fun seeing a trembling lip, a furrowed brow, a hint that her efforts are digging themselves deep into this human’s psyche. It’s addicting, she thinks, this game of predator & prey. It’s addicting, watching as the human, Kris, quietly tucks themselves closer and closer into their own bubble of isolation. After all, Netellie can’t do anything wrong, not in her eyes and certainly not in the eyes of her guardians fooled by her perfect facade.

So he keeps pushing. He hangs his kindness over the edge like bait, handing it out if only to draw Kris in, snatching it away if only to make them cry. Still, tears never seemed to grace the eyes of the human, eyes not the least bit watery in the face of blatant humiliation & discrimination.

Don’t rock the boat. Don’t prod the bear. Let the sleeping dog lie. 

Such cautionary tales stay as commonplace in a young Netellie’s mind, reminders to keep their head straight before they make decisions. Recklessness is dangerous, after all, and Netellie wasn’t a dangerous kind of monster. No, they were cautious of their surroundings, clever with their words, and cared deeply about those they held close; all such traits lead to the logical conclusion that they weren’t, by any means, a hostile person.

Still, perhaps there’s a thrill that comes when he’d feel the waves on his fingertips as water spills onto the deck, an excitement bubbling at the prospect of fighting a bear, something that claws into the fabric of Netellie’s existence, the foundation of his very character.

There’s something simple about their contrasting traits, Netellie & Kris. Putting them side to side it was apparent, their differences. Netellie, all cool toned with clothes freshly ironed and hair perfectly in place. In contrast, Kris wore the same raggedy sweater that frayed at the edges, bright red horns only seeming to match the red of their rarely seen eyes. 

Looking back, perhaps it wasn’t that Netellie was good with words, with people. Perhaps it was the fact that Netellie was good at conforming, good at seeing what people wanted and becoming exactly what people expect them to be. Even as a child it was easy as breathing, deceit painted in poised positioning and polite smiles.

Netellie doesn’t really understand it themself at the time, this impulsive urge. And yet, as it manifests itself in patronizing words and a haughty demeanor, Netellie keeps pushing. Maybe something in them wanted to get caught, to be someone other than an angel, something other than precious and polite; maybe Netellie wanted to be seen as something other than perfect to someone.

So maybe Netellie got what was coming for them.

As Toriel exited to the outdoor recess area—probably to quickly fetch something, maybe even quickly chat with another guardian—something in Kris seemed to shift immediately. Netellie can’t even react as the child, who was hunched on the ground with their back facing her, quickly met Netellie’s eyes and struck.

Netellie is tackled down as gasps are heard around the playground, the harmony of childhood  laughter shifting into a cacophony of panic & squeals as the jellyfish monster is tussled to the ground.

“Hey! What are you-” his cries are halted as a fist races across his face and imprints itself on his cheek. Opening his eyes only nets him another punch in the same place, his cheek throbbing as it is thrashed a second time. Netellie can feel the bruising as he kicks the human off of him, scrambling to stand as Kris does the same.

A circle has formed around them at this point, Netellie’s ears ringing, cracking under the pressure of a thousand voices surrounding him. Adrenaline pumping, he punches the other back, grabbing their hair and kneeing the human in the stomach. There’s an audible gasp from Kris as the air is knocked out of them, Netellie taking this opportunity to throw them to the ground. 

Dust kicks up as Kris skids across the floor, the dirt staining the crevices of their sweater and mixed into their hair; their horns are gone, discarded somewhere around the makeshift ring. “Is that all you got!” Netellie taunts, a line he had taken from a recent episode of his favourite show.

Kris says nothing as they stand back up, stumbling as they wipe away the dirt from their face. Confidently Netellie sprints towards the other, arm leaned back to prepare to swing again, Reaching the human, Netellie aims at their face. Kris grabs the monster’s hand before their elbow is directed towards the other’s throat. It hits him square in the larynx, Netellie choking loudly as he swings his head away from Kris. In response, Kris grabs the other’s hair, headbutting the pale child, Netellie staggering backwards as he grasps his head in pain. 

‘I can’t win,’ Netellie realizes as his brain rattles in his skull. “Wait, hold on-” Netellie chokes out, trying to reason with the human, backing up as her surroundings grow a little fuzzier, her words a little less thought out. Kris doesn’t seem to listen—can’t seem to to listen—, eyes staring Netellie down as they watch the jellyfish monster rock back and forth, disoriented.

They’re quick to raise another fist, eager to land a hit while she’s down. Netellie, in a desperate attempt to stay up, can only guard her face; swing after swing, Netellie’s arms are pelted with bruising strike after bruising strike. The cheers and cries no longer process in Netellie’s head, only the thumping of her brain and the grunting of her opponent seem to register. 

‘Just one opening, I just need this to be over.’ 

Netellie backs up with every punch, losing her footing little by little. Kris goes in for another, Netellie flailing for their shirt causing her to stumble as they both crash to the ground. Kris is quick to recover, drawing their hand back to strike again. Reflexively, Netellie goes for the only place that they can reach: their neck. Taking Kris’s punch head on, she grasps tightly, closing her eyes and hoping that everything would be over soon.

She feels a new weight in her hands.

Opening her eyes, Netellie sees an unconscious Kris on the ground. She did it. She won. She stares for a moment, a feeling of triumph overwhelming her as her ragged breath begins to even. However, that feeling lasts for but a moment as a wave of realization crashes over her, a boat capsizing in the face of a typhoon; it was never meant to go this far.

Looking closely only filled her with further waves of guilt. In the broad daylight of a spring day, Kris Dreemurr laid unmoving, sting marks prominent across their throat.

‘How?’ Netellie is quick to question, looking down at their hands; they didn’t know they could do that, didn’t know they were even capable of it. Their mother told them that it was a dangerous trait of their kind, recessive in the rarest way; Netellie assumed they hadn’t inherited the trait, ‘they should’ve been more careful.’ “Help…” they whimpered, voice busted after that strike during the fight. ‘Get help!” they continued to cry, looking around as their voice shook, cracking from the strain; they heaved loudly, coughing as the screeching of children was broken by Toriel sprinting into the yard.

She looked back and forth at the commotion, her own child laying still on the ground as another sat close to them, barely breathing himself. She quickly grabs Kris, coddling them and cradling them against her, brushing their hair from their face with her gentle touch; “What did you do,” her voice unsympathetic in a way Netellie had never heard before. 

He vividly remembers Toriel’s stern voice when children would argue, when she caught them pushing each other on the playground; she remembers how that voice had an edge of softness in nature as she gently guided their mistakes into lessons. It is only because he remembers that the Toriel in front of him is all the more terrifying. Gone is any kindness, any gentle words and soft paws. Looking into her eyes, she was no longer Mrs. Toriel, the caretaker of Hometown Academy. No, this was Toriel Dreemurr, Kris Dreemurr’s mother and she was furious about what Netellie had just done.

“I…” Netellie struggled to get any words out as he looked at the two. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he continued as tears filled his eyes, hands shaking. “It happened so fast! Mrs. Toriel, please, please I’m so sorry-” Netellie continued, hiccuping between breaths with globs of tears falling from his eyes, nose congested in an ugly sniffle.

There’s conflict in her eyes as Toriel looks around, the other children are escorted inside by other faculty members leaving the three alone. Yet she can’t stop feeling the weight of the limp child in her arms, her child in her arms. Firm in her deliberation, she continues to scold the young monster, “Sorry? Look at what you’ve done!” she yells only bolstering Netellie’s tears further.

All Netellie can see is what he’s done, see across from him a child he’s not only bullied—he knows that for sure now, the sinking in his chest drowning any other thoughts—but has harmed beyond all measure; of course he knows what he’s done. He knows by the burning in his bones, by how his limbs won’t stop shaking and his eyes won’t stop crying even after he’s dried of all his tears. Of course he knows. 

And that makes it even worse.

“What you’ve done is not only irresponsible but dangerous! You’ve put Kris's life in jeopardy and I don’t…” words fail to muster in Netellie’s brain as she watches Toriel’s attempts to treat the venom, his venom, from her child’s wounds. Green fire dances in his vision, blurry as he recedes further and further into his own mind; not even noticing how his wounds too are being healed, he can only sit as he spirals from his actions.

Twitch.

The small movement shocked Netellie out of her mind as she watched with apt attention, Kris slowly opened their eyes, their breath heavy as they regained consciousness.

 “I can fix it,” she finally mumbled, voice finally healed but too raw to speak above a whisper. “I can heal them, I’m sure I can,” she pleaded, coming closer and reaching her hand out. She’s seen her mother do it before, seen her hands be remedies for Netellie’s wounds during that period where her hair would sting her constantly. Toriel’s eyes screamed doubt but, even as the green faded, ugly red lines littered Kris’s throat unbothered by her hand. Her resignation gives Netellie the answer she needed as she approaches Kris. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated like a broken record.

Kris, barely conscious, turned away, squirming into Toriel even further if only to elude Netellie’s hand; “Go away,” a muffled voice rasped though even the wheezing in their breath could be heard. Netellie’s hand shook furiously, still extended towards the other. “Please stay still, I can fix it, I swear," she whispers, as she places her hand on the other’s neck. She can feel Kris flinch as they attempt to hold themselves together, quivering at the contact. Netellie is quick to remedy the wounds, the bumps on Kris’s skin retreating as the red returns to its regular tone. 

The wheezing eases as Netellie takes back their hand. The silence is deafening as Netellie sits there, hands folded in their lap as they stare at the ground. “Are you better now?” they ask cautiously, eyes unprepared to look up at their victim. 

“Get out.”

The tone is dark, malicious in tone as Netellie’s head snaps up to meet Kris’s eyes. Kids like them have always been told that hate is too strong a word, too strong an emotion for such little things. And yet, in the dirt of this desolate playground Netellie knows all too well that Kris hates them. Knows by the glare in their eyes, how they seem to stare right into Netellie and right through him at the same time.

Netellie is quick to scramble onto his feet before he runs. He runs from the play yards and over the fence and away from Hometown Academy and back home where they cannot reach him. He’s not welcomed here anymore, not at that school and not in this town.

He has to get out.