Work Text:
“Okay, they’re spawning fucking super minions now. Tavros, just keep at that turret and— WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”
“Sorry,” a timid voice laughs awkwardly. An ally has been slain echoes out of your headset, and Karkat continues cursing, “Goddammit Nitram, I am up to fucking here with your shitty playing. You die one more time, and I will steal a car, drive over, and kick your fucking cat.”
Tavros whines, “Come on, Karkat, please, uh, don’t bring Rufio into this. He didn’t do anything to you!”
“He bit me last time I was there!”
“I’d say that was because, you yelled at him.”
They continue to squabble, so you tell Nep, “I’m heading top,” to try and finish off the turret. Nepeta gives an affirmative little purring sound and targets the other team’s Ashe. Once you hit the right lane, you hide in some grass until one of the players from the other side comes by and you hit him with some void spikes. You quarrel for a couple of seconds, but he has low health and he’s down after just a couple of hits. This lets you get up and finish off the turret Tav was working on, then head up to the other team’s inhibitor so you can work on getting super minions for your own team. Another notification pops up, telling you that carcinoGeneticist just killed one of the other dudes. That’s two down, and Kan says she’s finishing off a Garen.
“So if we can just get everyone to their nexus within the next minute or two, we should have this in the bag,” Karkat says, going into pep talk mode. Every time you play League of Legends (or any game, for that matter), he ends up taking complete control like the shouty little dictator he is. “Eridan, stay top, you’re doing great. When you respawn, Tavros, go mid with Nepeta. Kanaya and I will take the bottom, as usual, and get this fucker that’s trying to run.”
It all goes according to plan, which is a pleasant surprise. Though you’d never admit it out loud, you guys rarely win without Captor; he’s usually got Tav’s spot, but he wasn’t available tonight. Probably busy with the only thing that’ll ever love him: his hand. Good thing he’s ambidextrous.
You hear some thumping around downstairs just as Kar’s about to start another game, so you tell him to hold off for a minute. “I’ve gotta check this out, my house might be getting broken into.”
“Isn’t Cronus there for the weekend?” Kanaya asks over Karkat’s groan, sounding a bit hesitant. “It’s most likely just him rummaging around.”
“Yeah, but I better go check it out,” you frown, pushing your chair back from your desk and tossing your headset onto it before Kar can curse at you. Something crashes to the tile down the hall; you hope it isn’t one of the expensive bottles from your father’s wine collection.
…It is.
Cronus looks up from the spill and grins at you, causing your stomach to coil unpleasantly. He’s off the mountain and into the clouds drunk, eyes hazy and dear God you can smell the imported beer from over here, even with the sour wine smell that’s permeating through the hall. “Hey, little bro,” he says, stepping directly into the puddle. You hear some of the glass crack under his shoe as he treads towards you, leaving a trail of dark liquid down the hallway. When he reaches you, he winds a thin arm around your shoulders and rubs this thumb over your collarbone, leaning in close to murmur, “You mind cleaning this up for me? Dad’ll get mad if you don’t. Anyway, I’ve got places to be, people to do.” He wags his thick eyebrows at you. “I was just going to get a little something special for later, but it seems like it’s not gonna be like that tonight, if that’s the omen I’m getting.” He nods surreptitiously at the mess. “I’m gonna drive down to a friend of mine’s place, so I’ll be seein’ you later.”
You gulp, shaking your shoulders to get his hand off, and head for the kitchen. A couple of bits of glass find their way under your feet even though you tread carefully, but nothing breaks the skin. You’re fumbling around under the sink for some rags and cleaner when his last sentence registers in your head.
Quickly, you get up, abandoning the cleaning supplies in order to chase down your smashed brother before he makes it out the door. He’s grabbing keys—not his keys, but yours, that stupid drunken bastard—off the hook by the door. “W-wait!” you exclaim.
“What, chief, wanna come with?” he says with a smirk, and you rip your keys from his grip and grab his off the other hook. Cronus’s expression goes from amused to pissed in a millisecond. You know that look; from age three you’d known to turn tail and run from that look, until you turned eight and got sick of running so he tried something else.
You stand your ground, even though your hands shake uncontrollably. Both pairs of keys are curled tightly in your fists as you say, “You’re not driving. Not like this. W-walk to w-wherever the fuck you’re going for all I care, but you’re not getting behind the wheel.”
At least you didn’t stutter on your last W. Stupid fucking speech impediment, can’t entirely get rid of it entirely even after eight years of speech therapy. Cronus bares his teeth at you like he’s a shark and snarls, “Give me my fucking keys, brat!”
“I just told you I wasn’t gonna,” you snap, wondering where the hell all this bravery is coming from. You should always confront your brother after a League of Legends game if it has this result. “You can go out, I’ll clean up the wine—hell, I’ll even take the fall—but you can’t drive.”
He makes a grab for your hand, but you twist and shove him back, sending him careening into the front door. No matter how intoxicated, Cronus always gets clumsy when he’s drunk, and you’re surprised he’s even standing after that little maneuver. You don’t have the upper hand for long, though, because he just throws himself at you, sending you both tumbling into a heap on the floor as he pries desperately at your hands. “I fucking own you, you little shit!” he sneers, using his knee to pin you to the floor at your groin. Any more pressure and he’d have you howling; even this trashed, he knows that. “If I tell you to give me my fucking keys, you give me my keys, got me?” He shifts his knee a bit for emphasis. You gasp in a breath, trying to reclaim some air that had gotten knocked out of you when you hit the floor. You’re thankful you didn’t land in the wine spill.
If it were almost anything other than drunk driving, you would’ve never protested in the first place; when dealing with your brother, it’s best not to bring any attention to yourself that would require more than a few passing thoughts. You’ve survived in this house for seventeen years by being an obedient little mouse, never standing up to him or challenging him, and though you have no true desire to stop doing this, you can’t let him drive while intoxicated. A DUI on his record coupled with an arrest would be a highlight of your life, but you can’t risk him hitting anyone. One time when you tried to tell him this, he said he’d make sure to drive like he was playing Grand Theft Auto and slammed the door in your face, leaving behind a single comment about the only drunk driving accident you’ve experienced personally that made guilt weigh down on your shoulders for years. Hell, it’s still there.
You hate him. You hate him so fucking much because of how he can make you hate yourself.
He’s mellower than last time he was this drunk (which was two days before you locked yourself in a bathroom with some “provisions”, put a note on your Tumblr, and sent a text to Fef), so you think maybe you can win this battle. You jerk yourself up, sliding out from under his knee, and knock him into the wall. His fist cuffs your right cheekbone as he flails, creating a pain explosion, and then uses the wall to push himself so he’s back on top of you, chest against chest, thigh against thigh, elbow to newly dented face.
Goddammit, you’d think all this gaming would’ve left you with better reflexes. The only fight you’d ever be any good in is a gunfight; Cronus has been drunkenly brawling for years, even if he’s ungainly while doing so. Why did you have to go and agitate him? He smacks you across the face, hitting the same spot as earlier before he seems to calm a bit.
“Oh, so is it gonna be one of those nights?” he smirks, laughing at the fear that sparks in your eyes. “Doll, all you’ve gotta do is give me my keys and I’ll leave you alone, okay? We don’t have to do anything right now except reconcile like good brothers do, and then I’ll be on my way.”
Your terror attempts to rebel against your morals. It’s got a pretty good chance, because your morals are shit and you’ve let him win this fight before, but tonight you’re determined. You take a deep breath, tense, and prepare to deck him in the face when his gaze freezes you. Flashbacks hit you like bullet wounds and before you can do anything he’s prying both sets of keys from your trembling hands, comparing the two sets until he figures out which are his. He smiles, dropping yours on your chest. After giving your bruised cheek a firm pat, he heaves himself up, grabbing the umbrella stand for balance. He’s gone in seconds, staggering out the front door; you hear his truck start up, glaringly loud, and then it fades into the distance.
It takes you two minutes to stop shaking and heave yourself off the tile. There’s a panic attack building, you can tell, but maybe you can hold it off until everything is cleaned up. You stand in the hall for another five minutes before you manage to hang your keys back on the hook and resume your search for cleaning supplies.
Hopefully the wine didn’t seep into the grout, because you’re all out of bleach. After gathering up all the shards of glass you can find and putting them into a garbage bag, you scrub at the tile, thinking of nothing but the task at hand. Fifteen minutes later, you’ve done all you can for now but there are still faint wine stains on the grout, just as you’d feared. You’ll have to buy some bleach tomorrow.
You return to your room, tossing your headset onto the floor as you sit down. Exiting LoL, you start to shut everything down, until your Pesterchum is all that’s left. You’re hit with an overwhelming desire to go to Fef’s—she’s awake, her chat handle’s lit up, and all you want to do is gather her up in your arms and tell her how fucking sorry you are that you’ve failed her yet again (and you’ll never stop)—but you don’t think you’re in the best frame of mind to be doing anything right now. You’re about to shut it off when Karkat sends you another message.
-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] --
CG: ERIDAN?
CG: HURRY UP, WE WANT TO PLAY.
CG: WHAT, DID CRONUS ROPE YOU INTO A GAME OF DRUNKEN SPIN THE BOTTLE?
CG: DID THE BURGLAR TURN OUT TO BE SOME ALIEN THAT ATE YOUR FACE?
CG: ERIDAN, DUDE, ANSWER ME FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!!!
Those were all old, from when you first left, but he knows you’re back since you stopped being idle when you first moved the mouse and he’s back to barraging you with questions.
CG: FUCK, WHY’D YOU END THE CALL?
CA: leavve me alone kar
CA: im goin to bed
CG: DUDE WHAT THE FUCK, WE HAVE ANOTHER CAMPAIGN SET UP.
CA: im gettin off
CA: so just leavve me the fuck alone
CG: ARE YOU OKAY? IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO?
CA: kar what part of LEAVVE ME THE FUCK ALONE do you not understand
CA: im not on fuckin suicide watch i can take care a myself
CA: bye
CG: DUDE, WAIT
-- caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 01:51 --
Your hand rests on the lid of your laptop, which you slammed down a moment before. Tremors continue to wrack your body and you curl up in your chair, arms clasped around your knees as you try to clear your head. All you can see, all you can feel is Cronus’s overwhelming presence, his hand burning on your cheekbone and then sliding downward until—
No you can’t do this, not tonight, you have to get your mind clear. You told Fef you’d go swimming with her tomorrow and you have to be there for it because you are done with disappointing her even though that’s all you ever seem to be able to do, but you can’t stop you’re about to do it again just so Cronus is fucking gone.
There are razors in the back of your software drawer, and you knick your fingertips as you rummage around and try to get purchase on one. Finally, one is in your hand, cutting into your palm as you grasp it and the sweet relief from just that little bit cuts down on the fog enough so that you can get a better grip on it and bring your hand out from the back of the drawer. A small drop of blood smears on an old edition of Civilization on your way out.
Trying to concentrate on breathing, you heave yourself out of the desk chair and head into the bathroom. Turning the shower on scalding, you undress and step in while the water is still cold, not even bothering to turn the light on. Immediately, you sink down so you’re sitting in the tub, feet braced against the side with your back to the spray. When you open your palm, you tilt it so the razor falls on your stomach and examine the small streak of blood on your palm. It’s not a bad cut by any definition.
You retrieve the razor with trembling fingers. The water has heated up and is surely making your back turn red with its heat, but it feels good. As you breathe in, you head clears enough so that you can ask yourself, Where can I cut so Fef won’t see? The inside of your thighs would be the obvious answer, but looking down there makes you think too much so you avoid anywhere from waist to knee. If you do the inside of your ankles, maybe she won’t notice because of her fixation on your arms.
It’s a sound enough plan for you. The line you make on the ball of your ankle leaves a line of fire but also allows for a sudden release of tension that has been building ever since you woke up in a hospital bed, alive and alone. You focus on making the short lines, stacked on top of one another in a burning ladder up the inside of your leg. Beads of blood that drip into the water make gorgeous patterns before being swept away make a perfect visual representation of the beauty and ecstasy you find in what you’re doing. Even though you hadn’t known so before tonight, you’d needed this release; it’s the first time you’ve self-harmed since getting home, it’d been too long.
She’ll be so disappointed in me, breaks loudly into your head, and you slice deeper, just under the bulge of your calf muscle and blood forms a small river down your leg. Fuck it hurts, and since the slice wasn’t coupled with its usual relief, you can tell you’ve done enough for one night. You take the razor and set it on the side of the tub. Just when you’d finally stopped shaking, it starts again and you pull your knees to your chest, wincing at the tight feeling the cuts cause, and wrap your arms around your legs, pillowing your cheek on them.
You sit in the shower, mind carefully blank while watching drips of blood splash into the water, until your phone ringing takes you from your thoughts. It’s a song from The Little Mermaid, so you know it’s Fef and the guilt hits you like a cannonball, not just from the cutting but because fuck it all you let your brother leave the house drunk, even after a drunk teenager in a SUV fucked up her life.
Not picking up the razor again feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. You stare at it, entertaining the thought of making your other leg match as Sebastian croons away in the background. Only when your ringtone halts do you turn off the water.
There’s a clean towel on the rack next to the bath, and even in the dark you locate it easily enough. Once you’re semi dry, you flick on the light, squinting against the glare as you get some toilet paper, bunch it up, and press it to your ankle; the last thing you want to do is get drops on the carpeting. As you do so, your phone blasts yet again, playing the same cheery tune as before. Maybe Karkat told her something was up.
Securing the towel around your waist and tossing the toilet paper into the garbage, you head to your room and grab your phone before it can go to voicemail again. “Hello?”
“Eridan,” she exhales, something akin to relief coloring her tone. “Hey.”
You can tell she has more to say, but you cut her off before she can. “Fef, before you yell at me for not answering my phone, I was in the fuckin shower. I can send you some shitty selfies of me in my towel if you don’t believe me.”
“Karkat told me you were acting weird,” Feferi says calmly, trying almost too hard to be patient. “I was just checking up on you, I wanted to make sure everything was okay on your end.”
“Yeah, everything’s just fuckin fine,” you say, rubbing the bridge of your nose between your eyes. The side of your face where you got punched is starting to feel awkward and tight, and you can feel a migraine coming from a light-year away. “I was just keeping up with my hygiene.”
There’s hesitation before she responds, “Do you promise? You know you can tell me absolutely anything, Eridan.”
Of course she doesn’t fucking believe you. Huffing through your teeth, you snap, “Why do you never believe a thing I say anymore? It’s like that ever since I tried to kill myself, you’ve been constantly suffocating me, and I’m gettin’ sick of it, princess. All you fucking do is push against something that is, quite frankly, none of your business and I wish you’d just leave me be so I can finally stop worrying about disappointing you!”
It’s silent for a long time, besides your heavy breathing that’s threatening to turn into sobs. Finally, she breaks it, saying quietly, “Is that really what you want? To go back to how things were freshman year?”
When the question hits you, it’s like your entire body, save for the burning area of your leg, has been entrenched in ice. Your throat closes up and you purse your lips, suddenly unable to say anything. The only noise now is the slight static of the phone, and minutes tick by as she waits for an answer. Eventually she gives up, saying, “Eridan, I’m sorry if I’m pushing you too hard. You know I only want to help you."
“I know,” you say, feeling disgusted when your voice cracks.
“That said, I want you to know that while you sometimes do things that I don’t agree with, you have never disappointed me. Never.”
“Yes I have,” you interrupt. “I do that a lot.”
“No—" She cuts herself off this a sharp sigh. “You did something tonight, and you feel like I’d be disappointed if I found out. I would like it if you would confide in me, but you don’t have to. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I promise that I won’t judge you. I love you.”
It sounds mechanical, like something she’s been rehearsing so she doesn’t set you off when she finally got the opportunity to say it. You sniff, looking at yourself in the mirror. The right side of your face is already blossoming into what is going to be a huge bruise. As not to alarm her when you see her tomorrow, you decide to tell her that much. “Fef, when you see me tomorrow, I’m going to look a little rough. I don’t want you to worry about it, alright?”
“…Define ‘rough’.”
With your free hand, you prod your cheekbone, wincing as pain flares enough to be a brief distraction from your leg. You’re surprised it’s not throbbing. “Um. I got into a fight with Cronus.”
“What about?” she asks hesitantly. The curiosity is killing her, you can tell, but she also doesn’t want to push after your outburst.
You swallow, looking at the floor. “Stuff.”
She sighs, like she’s at the very end of her rope and there’s so much fucking sighing in this conversation. You want to scream. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s not bad,” you rush to reassure her. Usually, you’d bitch and moan to maybe win some pity points, but you’re so goddamned tired. “Just, like, a black eye, but not really. Lower than that.”
“Go put some ice on it,” she urges. “Is your brother still home?”
Heading into the kitchen and trying to avoid looking at the wine stain still on the tile, you grab a dishcloth and start filling it with ice, holding the rag in one hand and scooping handfuls of cubes with the other. “Eridan,” Fef says, “is Cronus home?”
“Shit,” you curse as some ice cubes slide off the pile and hit the floor. “Dropped some ice.” Bending down to pick them up stretches your cuts and you hope they don’t start bleeding again.
Deciding not to prod any more, Feferi backs off the Cronus questions. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No,” you say quickly. Wrapping the ice up, you press it to the swelling; the ice adds to the sting at first, but soon it starts to die down. “That’s all right. I’m going to bed soon, anyway, and I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Swimming?”
“Yeah,” she says. You can hear more static as she adjusts the phone. “Yeah, of course. So you’re okay?”
Exhaustion seeps into your bones, but even now you’re too much of a coward to get the right words out. Your, “Yes, Fef, I’m fine,” feels like it’s coming from someone else.
“You can call me if you need anything,” she assures you. “I don’t put my phone on silent at night. I’ll wake up. Just…” She takes a deep breath. “I hope you and Cronus make up, because I know fighting with your sibling is never fun. I love you.”
“Yeah,” you say, but don’t immediately end the call like she expects you to. You wait on the line, listening to the sound of her breathing until she finally hangs up the phone.
The next morning, every part of you aches, your face especially. When you heave yourself out of bed around eleven and go to look in the mirror, the bruise that was just beginning on your cheekbone last night has turned into a black hole on your face, extending from under your eye to the bottom of your nose and wrapping around the side of your face. It’s like you decided to sew a thick piece of fabric to your cheek.
After a bit of painful prodding, you decide to take some Tylenol with your regular antidepressants and ice it again. Before heading into the kitchen, you look out the front window to see if Cronus’s truck is in the driveway. It’s still absent, and relief courses through you.
You eat a bowl of cereal one-handed, the other propping your head up with an ice pack in the shape of a soccer ball. In front of you, your phone vibrates with a text message. Feferi is the expected sender, but it’s Karkat.
Karkat: DID YOUR BEAUTY SLEEP HELP WITH THE HISSY FIT?
You: hissy fit kar really i couldvve had my house broken into
Karkat: SORRY, I FORGOT THAT YOU’RE NOT THE PRESIDENT OF THE MELODRAMATIC SOCIETY, BUT THE RATIONAL THINKERS GUILD. MY BAD.
Karkat: I BET IT WAS YOUR FUCKING CAT. IT MADE LOTS OF WEIRD NOISES LAST TIME I WAS THERE.
You: i dont havve a cat anymore and yeah of course im fuckin rational im the prince a that shitty club
Karkat: DUDE COME ON WHY’D YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT A FUCKING MONARCHY? WE HAD A PERFECTLY GOOD DEMOCRATIC SYSTEM GOING ON, AND BY DEMOCRATIC I MEAN THAT I’M THE LEADER. IT IS ME.
You: wwhatevver i gotta go
You’ve finished your cereal, and you text Fef to see if she’s ready for you yet. When you go swimming over there, she usually does her exercise laps and stuff before you get there so you don’t have to sit there and watch, dying of boredom. About ten minutes later, you get a reply, saying that you can head on over whenever you’re ready.
Soon, you’ve got your hair gelled back, prescription sunglasses settled on your nose, a beach towel around your neck, and copious amounts of sunscreen on every part of your body (you burn incredibly easily, unlike Fef, who can only tan). Your swim trunks are purple and black striped, paired with a plain white t-shirt that’ll come off in a minute anyway, as well as a light violet scarf. The only dilemma is what to do about your ankle.
Hemp bracelets are usually your go to cover-up items, but you were stupid and cut too far up your leg, so they’d just draw more attention to the area. Makeup is another option, but it wouldn’t completely cover it and it’d probably wash off in the water anyway. Sighing, you just leave it all be. She probably won’t notice.
Your scarf trails in the wind behind you as you drive over to the Peixes mansion on your Vespa. It’s disgustingly humid, as Florida summer days always are, and your t-shirt is already starting to stick to your back with sweat when you pull into Fef’s driveway. The huge garage is open but empty, showing that Glenys and Meenah were out shopping or something. You park in the same place you did when you were here last, seeing her for the first time in a month, three days prior.
Using your key to get in, you head through the house, stopping only to close the garage because it shouldn’t be open, and exit into the pool enclosure, where Fef is butterflying across the water. Even without the use of her legs, she’s a strong swimmer, just like she’s always been. It’s different, she’s explained, than how it used to be because she’s got dead weight trailing behind her and the positioning’s different, plus tons of finer details that you can’t even begin to explain or understand. Even so, she’s still a better swimmer than you’ll ever be.
Taking a seat in a lounge, you shed your shirt, lay back, and watch her. She hasn’t noticed you yet, since she’s so focused on her laps, and after a good five minutes she pulls herself out of the pool, panting and grinning as she sits on the edge, legs still in the water. She’s got a black and pink one piece bathing suit clinging to her slim form, with fuchsia water shoes on just in case her feet scrape the bottom and, of course, her goggles that she’s had for god knows how long. Getting up, you shed your flip-flops and join her, dangling your feet into the water.
“Hey,” she greets you, leaning over to use your shoulder as a pillow. Her dark brown hair glints in the sun, taking on almost a reddish tinge as it falls to brush your hip. Fef has always had incredibly long, wavy hair, and now it’s to her waist; surprisingly, it’s not tied back like it normally is when she’s doing laps. “Sleep well?”
You hum in affirmation. Though you woke up once at around five and couldn’t fall back asleep until the sun was rising, you’d slept otherwise undisturbed. “You?”
“Yeah,” she says. As if remembering something, she sits up and looks at you. “Can I take off your sunglasses?”
After you nod, she reaches up, removing them delicately as if your facial structure has been turned into glass. Placing them in her lap, Fef wraps a hand around your neck to guide you down so she can prod at your bruise. She runs a thumb over it before proclaiming, “You’ll live.” When you straighten up, you see her face is stormy, but she gives you a smile and you try to return it even though it hurts. “Do I need to teach you some self-defense, Eriglub?” she asks lightly.
“Nah,” you sigh. Drumming your fingers on the side of the pool, you’re the one that leans down to her this time, cushioning your non-bruised cheek on her hair. “Drunken asshole,” you mutter, kicking at the water. You really don’t want to talk about this right now.
Fef seems to sense that, because she reaches over, patting your hand and saying nothing. The two of you sit there for a few minutes, staring over the highly chlorinated water and into the backyard beyond the pool enclosure. It’s large, fenced in, and backs up to a decent sized patch of woods. You once explored it when you were young, and you guys came out on a golf course. It took four hours for a group of middle-aged men in diamond patterned sweater vests and weird shoes to find you playing in a sand trap and send you home.
You have a lot of happy memories in the backyard itself, too. From age six, you two have been camping out back there, sometimes setting up a tent and others using just sleeping bags. Glenys used to try and frighten you, but it only worked the first five or so times and there were always s’mores afterward. You found your zodiac constellations and scanned the sky for shooting stars; told ghost stories and tried to see who could scare the other the most; swordfights with sticks on full moonlit nights left you exhausted. They were probably your favorite set of memories.
In the present, Fef slides off the pool deck and lowers herself back into the water, flipping around so she could fold her arms and rest her chin on them. This jolts you out of your nostalgic haze, and you drop into the water after her. Unlike Fef, you submerge completely, not stopping until your feet hit the bottom. You’re at the deep end, where the water is about seven feet deep, and as you look up, Feferi sticks her face under and waves at you, one arm still thrown over the side. You wave back and propel yourself back to the surface.
Slicking your hair back, you tread water and stretch. You haven’t been in the pool since the beginning of summer, unlike Fef who practically lives in the water. “We need to go to the beach soon,” she says. “A big group of us, like we did near the end of last summer.”
You swim up beside her, propping your head on your hands to mirror her position. “We’re still undefeated chicken fight champions, right, Peixes?”
“Fuck yeah, we are!” she says, fist bumping you. The only other team that gave you struggle was the duo of Nepeta Leijon and Equius Zahhak, but you’ve gotten amazingly good at keeping Fef up and her arm strength and fighting wit are something to marvel at. Though you’ll probably be back in school by the time Fef manages to get everyone together (the start of the school year is in a week and two days, and you can’t help but count it down), the ocean water will be swimmable until October. You’ve got plenty of time.
The conversation fizzles out, and you and Fef float there for a minute until she turns to you with a mischievous glint in her eyes that you’ve learned to be wary of. “Eridan,” she commands, “get the noodles.”
Pulling yourself out of the water, you walk over to the storage box and rummage around, pulling two long, bright green pool noodles out. “Wait, grab the water guns too!” she adds, and you grab two Super Soakers before heading back to the pool. You put her stuff on the deck in front of her, settle the noodle between your legs, barely refrain from making a sexual comment, and jump in.
When you get your bearings, Fef’s already filling up her water gun. You immediately start putting water in yours, and just before you’re done you get blasted in the face. Sputtering and coughing, you flail away, still trying to get more water in the chamber. She pushes off the wall, coming after you on her noodle with a maniacal grin on her face and bloodlust in her eyes. You plug the gun, pump it, and shoot her right between the eyes. The battle begins in earnest.
Once the fight is over and you two have made yourselves exhausted, you reflect that you may be a stuck-up, ostentatious douchebag, but if you didn’t act at least a little bit ridiculous sometimes, you wouldn’t be nearly as sane as you are. Which, granted, isn’t all that stable, but hell, you’ll take it.
Later, you and Feferi are stretched out on lounge chairs, glubbing about whatever comes to mind. You’ve got one knee bent with a glass of lemonade perched on top (Fef bet you a trip to Dairy Queen that you couldn’t keep it balanced for five minutes, you’ve gone three so far), with your right leg stretched out straight. Fef sits to your left, huge sunglasses perched on her cute freckled nose, soaking up some sun. You think that you both belong on a fucking magazine cover.
“Eridan,” Fef laughs, “there is no way in HELL that Wall-E is Marxist propaganda. It’s a cute little movie about robots falling in love. It’s Pixar. They did Finding Nemo! And lots of other great movies, but Finding Nemo is the BEST.”
“You have to look at it like this,” you explain, splaying your hands out in front of you as you prepare to wave them around for emphasis. “Okay, so the BnL corporation is blatantly Marxist in a ‘utopian’ state that will never be accomplished, because they literally manufacture everything! BnL spacecraft, BnL smoothies, BnL levitating chairs—”
“If anything, it was an environmentalist movie, not a socialist one,” Fef interrupts.
“Well, yeah, it’s that too,” you say, “and I agree with that message because we really are fucking up here, just look at our oceans, Fef, you know I hate ocean pollution ugh it just makes me sick! I can get behind the environmental message, but the Marxism behind it is just deplorable. Is that really the future you want the kids who see it to envision? Because I think it’s just wretched.”
“Oh my god, I forgot how much you could ramble, you’re like a little motor boat,” Fef teases. “And yet, you haven’t really said anything! You’ve just been talking around—“ She cuts herself off, staring at something kind of off to the side. “Eridan,” she says, “what’s all that?”
You follow her gaze to your ankle and the row of barely scabbed over cuts, stretched out in the open because you’re a fucking idiot. You yank your leg back too quickly, and it jostles your other leg, causing the lemonade to crash onto your stomach, with the cup rolling onto the ground with a clatter. Luckily it was a plastic cup so nothing shatters, but you’re cursing and covered in sticky juice. You rocket up from the lounge chair, spitting, “Goddammit, Fef, why’d you have to fuckin do that you made me spill everywhere!”
The hose is out of the enclosure, attached to the side of the house, and you rinse yourself off in the cold spray before dragging it angrily inside and blasting the ground. What’s left of the lemonade is washed to the edge of the deck, the chair is soaking wet, and any ice is almost melted. “Eridan,” she starts again, but you blast her with the hose from stomach to face and trudge back outside, tossing the stupid water spraying device into a tangled heap.
When you go back in, she’s honestly pissed, and this cows you a bit. “Eridan Primus Ampora, that was horribly rude and mean, and I want an apology right. Fucking. Now.”
“Sorry, sorry,” you emphasize, grabbing your sunglasses from the side of the pool and heading over to the rest of your stuff. She sounded like your mother with the full name thing, and that sends a small pang through your fuming/terrified haze. “I didn’t mean to blast you with the hose, okay? Christ. I’ll leave.”
She huffs angrily, wrapping her arms around her torso. “I miss how you used to be, when you weren’t such a huge jerk,” is said with such bitterness and venom that it freezes you in place.
You both remain in your positions, her leaning back in the chair and scowling at the sky (you shouldn’t be thinking this but even though you normally don’t like her grimaces, she looks so gorgeous when she’s angry) and you standing a few feet from her, about to take off. The only reason you haven’t is because you’re busy staring at her with what you think is rage; you actually look like a kicked puppy. “Fef, I said I was sorry.” Your voice didn’t shake, your bottom lip wasn’t wobbling. Those are complete lies, and you’ll shoot anyone who claims them to be true.
Feferi lifts a hand to massage her temples, still not looking at you. “Sit back down,” she sighs. “I’m sorry I called you a jerk, but we need to talk.”
“Can’t be just go back to glubbin’ casually?” you ask hopefully, wringing your hands together nervously and looking away from her. “We don’t have to talk about socialism, we could discuss our schedules for this year, or your trip to Sea World a few weeks ago, or—”
“Please, sit, and pull your lounge chair closer to mine. Yeah, like that,” she affirms once you do so. She’s silent from then on, like she’s trying to figure out what to say and just can’t. Fef uses the hand that isn’t wrapped around her waist to trace the pattern of the seat with her finger. Finally, she says, “You told me that part of the bargain of letting you come home was that you wouldn’t cut anymore.” When all you do is shrug, she continues, “While you were away, I know you didn’t do anything like that for a month, and I was so proud of you, Eridan. That was a milestone, and even though…” Her hand freezes in its path, and you move your stare from it to the ground, stomach clenching as ‘I was so proud’ echoes in your head. She quickly retraces her steps. “I don’t mean to say— I didn’t mean—” Fef stops again, biting her lip and taking a deep breath to steady herself as a lump grows in your throat. “Would you like to tell me what caused it?”
You don’t know what to say. The truth isn’t an option, because that would require more than what happened last night: in order to be understandable, you’d need to explain you history with your brother (which you try so hard to shove back and ignore unless he’s standing right in front of you and blowing smoke into your eyes), her part in your guilt and reasoning, and a whole bunch of other shit that you don’t want to go into.
Her hand is under your chin, gently coaxing it up so you’ll look her in the eye. You can tell she realizes that you’re barely holding back tears so she leans forward and hugs you, and you bury your face in the crook of her neck and cling. Ever since you were a toddler you were always a needy, pathetic little bastard and this shines through now as you try to merge with your best friend while taking in gasping breaths through your teeth (though you’re not crying, you swear). Fef runs her hand up and down your back, which reminds you that you don’t have a shirt on. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she traces constellations in your freckles and hums softly in your ear. You recognize the tune.
“Toy Story? Why are we both so obsessed with Pixar today?” you question, and your voice is in pieces.
“'You’ve got a friend in me,’” she warbles, running a hand through your hair. “You can cry if you want to. It’s okay.”
Sniffling, you pull back a bit, blurting out, “Um, just let me…” You grab your damp shirt from where it is on the ground and pull it on. Then, you push your chairs completely together and try to get comfortable. It’s hard for her to hold you because you’re a foot taller and your limbs are longer, but she manages, tucking your head under her chin as you wrap your arms around her waist and she goes back to rubbing comforting circles on your back. The small interruption where you put on your shirt helped you scrape up a bit of dignity so you’re no longer on the verge of tears, but you still feel thoroughly miserable as you cuddle with your favorite person in the universe.
One of her hands moves to your leg, which is curled up on top of both of hers. Her fingers hesitate right above your line of cuts. “Can I..?”
You shake your head, and she removes her hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, a desperate note in her voice. When she first found out about this particular habit, you were fifteen and just getting over the euphoria of having her back in your life after she snapped, and she stared and stared, desolation swimming in her vivid sapphire eyes as she said, “Eridan, the fact that you do this to yourself kills me. It just kills me. What can I do to make you stop?” Fef had learned quickly that it was sort of the wrong thing to say to you.
In terms of the present, though, all you could think of her to do in order to help you was: “This.” Closing your eyes and listening to the sound her breathing, you curl up tighter. Her hands explore you, running through your hair and down your spine and across the bruised side of your face.
“We should put some more ice on this,” she murmurs, smoothing her thumb across your cheekbone.
“Later,” you say. “Later.”
It’s silent for a long time. You’d be perfectly content to stay like this for all of eternity, because you’re so sick of being so tired and miserable and lonely. At the same time, though, you feel unbearably guilty because she has more reason than you to be depressed and dejected, and yet she’s constantly optimistic and never stops dealing with your bullshit. Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, and any other fake superheroes need to step down, because Feferi Peixes is the real fucking deal.
After a while, you hear Glenys pull into the driveway, so you have to disentangle and make sure your face looks normal and not tear stricken. Before she can come back and say hello, though, Fef makes you promise that you’ll call her next time you feel the urge to cut. Also, that you’ll come over next time Cronus tries to make trouble. “You’re always welcome here,” she says, reaching for her wheelchair settled behind the lounge so you guys can go inside. “Always.”
The proclamation leaves you warm. Despite living in the same house for all your life, it hasn’t really been your home since your mom died. Your dad is away most of the time, and Cronus… Cronus is an issue that you’ll have to face head-on eventually. You were getting there, but it’s hard, as facing things that you’re afraid of often is. However, as long as you don’t fuck up again, you’ll always have a home with the Peixes family.
Glenys comes back to say hello, and while she’s incredibly distressed over the state of your face, you’re able to calm her down; anyway, she’s seen you in a more despicable condition than this. When she asks if there’s anything she can get for you, Fef breaks in, “Actually, Eridan and I were going to get some ice cream! He lost a bet, and don’t deny that you wouldn’t love a brownie earthquake right now.”
Though you’ll have to go through the hassle of taking your Vespa home, getting your Taurus, and coming back to pick her up (not to mention changing out of your bathing suit into more suitable clothes for going out in public), it’s true that you really need some good old-fashioned comfort food. Just thinking about all the ice cream and chocolate is making your mouth water. You wonder if Fef will end up dragging you to her room to watch Disney movies afterward, seeing as those two things combined are how she tries to deal with issues. It’d be a lie to say that her shenanigans didn’t at least help a little bit.
And that’s exactly where you end up an hour later: on her bed, lounging together on top of the covers, empty ice cream containers on her nightstand, watching Toy Story. You forgot to grab your actual glasses when you went back to your house for your car, so the screen is blurred but you’re enjoying the movie anyway. Fef’s got your left foot in her lap and a determined look on her face as she hunches over your ankle, making a design in sharpie that you can’t see. Feferi’s always been one to create, and a few summers ago she got a henna tattoo kit online and never looked back, adding tattooing to her long list of hobbies; however, since you’re on her bed and the paste stains everything it touches, she’s just using a marker.
“Is it done yet?” you ask, leaning forward to try to get a better look.
“Don’t shift, you’ll make me mess up!” she exclaims. “And yeah, just be patient, I’m almost done.”
One ‘There’s a snake in my boot!’ later, she sits up and caps the marker, looking pleased. “All done! Now don’t mess it up.”
You lift your leg up to your face so you can see: she’s drawn a seahorse in purple, looking playful and carefree. When you were little, you had a plushie that looked like this (though more threatening looking); the sight of it sticking out of your backpack had first drawn Fef over to your corner in the first grade, where she proceeded to borrow it and play with it, along with her cuttlefish, for ten minutes before she finally introduced herself to you. That stuffed seahorse is now tucked in your closet, covered in dust.
Putting your leg back down, you compare your ankles. Fef seems to be doing the same thing, and she scoots back so she’s next to you. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” you say with a faint smile, tilting your head so it rests on top of hers. “Thanks.”
She grins at you, completely natural and free, and you remind yourself how lucky you are to have her. Right now, Cronus is all but forgotten as you try to throw yourself into the movie. Feferi takes one of your hands in order to mess with the clunky rings on your fingers.
Just one more year, you tell yourself. One more year, and you’ll finally be out of your house and into the world, leaving behind your brother and all associated memories. Hopefully you’ll make it, but even now, in the corner of your mind, depression lurks. It waits.