Work Text:
You could never get used to the weird feeling you get in the aftermath of a successful FLARP session. When the game is over and it’s time to set sail, taking your spoils back to spidermom as your rival drags his down into the sea, an eerie quiet hangs in the air.
It’s easy to get overwhelmed with sensation in the heat of the moment- running, laughing, fighting, screaming, everything blends together in a mix of serotonin and adrenaline until you can barely even think about anything but what’s in front of you.
It’s almost addicting, that feeling of success every time you demolish an opponent. Almost, right up until that horrible quiet. The all consuming sounds of violence and victory snuffed out by your own hands, now faded into silence. Everything slows, and suddenly the game is gone.
Once you notice it, it’s like the fragile fake world you made starts to fall apart from the inside out. It comes in waves, the euphoria pattering away as every little uncomfortable bit of reality starts to fade back in.
It starts with the physical things. Wounds that you shrugged off in battle start to pulse and ache. The stinging in your throat starts tasting like blood that turns every breath into a gasping wheeze. The salt and sweat and viscera left behind in your wake all weigh down on your bruised body, getting sticky and gummy in the heat. Then the regret comes.
You find little shreds of clothing that look like children’s costumes when you go to clean up the remains. It reminds you of your own when you were younger. It makes you think of their lusii, sinking to the bottom of the sea underneath your feet. Sometimes it makes you think of your own, the reason you started this game in the first place. Always hungry. Always waiting. On really, really bad days, sometimes you think of when she’ll eat you too.
God, you hate that feeling. It washes over you so quickly you nearly get vertigo. At least the water is behaving, so you don't have to worry about getting seasick.
Even though the ship is barely moving, everything feels off-kilter. Like the whole boat is balanced on a big spire and it’s threatening to tip over any minute now.
The first morning rays of sunshine beat down on your back, only partially shielded by the gaudy pirate’s hat swallowing your head. You can feel the slow burn seeping through the holes your horns stick out of, and you know you should go inside soon so you don’t end up blind when the sun fully rises. Despite that, you can’t bring your body to move. It feels like your hands are glued to the railing, gazing down into the ocean.
Your ears ring uncomfortably against the soft whistling of wind through sails and tiny waves sloshing against the hull. The rank scent of death wafts in and out of your senses under the overpowering mist of ocean sprays. You lean over the outer railing of your little ship, practically sticking your face right into the mist to drown out the stench.
You focus instead on the gentle sounds of people from the captain’s quarters opposite you- or rather, the sounds of one person.
You can hear his old military-style boots thunking against the rickety wood flooring, straining your ears against the awful ringing to hear the barely audible clink of metal buckles and fabrics rustling. Your partner in crime, the esteemed Orphaner, has already retired to your quarters to change out of his FLARPing outfit. You opted to wait outside, clinging to the last few minutes of night so you can keep pretending the game is still on for a little longer.
He had sighed dramatically when you’d declined to follow him in, in a way that felt almost performative. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when he’s acting or not. You know he has a penchant for theatrics, hell, so do you— but nowadays you can barely see the boy beneath the act. Maybe it feels the same for him, too. You let yourself heave a big, sad sigh and slump dramatically against the cold wood rail in a pantomime of his exaggerated gestures, in hopes that it might make you feel at least a little bit better. It just makes you feel childish instead.
The rest of the world is quiet. All except for him and you.
Out here on the sea, it's almost like you're the only people in the world. It feels like the wind is suffocating you, whipping around your tangled hair and rattling inside your chest. The chill makes you shiver, despite your hands growing sweaty where they cling to the railings.
The echo of brash voices filling the air claws its way back up your brainstem, screeches of the soon-to-be dead blending in your mind with the soft calls of morning birdsong. You shake your head and push off the railing, crossing the bloody deck as fast as you can without slipping. The sound of your boots, slick with a mottled coating of reds and greens, hammers in your skull like rolling thunder. You throw open the stern door with a slam and seat yourself on the edge of your desk, knocking over a jar of ink and crumpling one of your maps.
You take a deep breath. The room is dimly lit with natural light streaming through the gaps in the wooden walls, along with the only window seated directly behind the captain’s desk that you’ve stacked high with maps and notebooks. It’s right in front of the door when you walk in, with a big velvet chair perfect for scheming evilly in. The rest of the room is messy, with various trophies you and your compatriot have looted from many, many campaigns of total domination. Random useless garbage you took just because you could. Old mirrors that barely show your reflection, gaudy costume jewelry you’d never wear, useless stupid shit clogging up your tiny room and overflowing into piles on the floor. You’d haphazardly kicked most of the bigger treasures into the corners and against walls, but random little trinkets are still strewn about the whole floor. Amongst all the glittering metals and gemstones, the figure draped in violet laying inside nearly escapes your eye. He barely looks up at your dramatic entrance, too involved in undoing the various straps and buckles of his elaborate costume.
You and Dualscar are allies this time. You’d invited him to board your ship, with the excuse that you needed to collaborate on future plans. In reality, you don't know how many more silent boat rides home you can take. Eridan doesn't seem to mind your flimsy excuse though, kneeling silently on the floor in front of a mirror opposite you.
He’s fiddling with the pirate knot of his useless waist belt thingy, getting impatient with it in the mirror. Normally you would laugh, or scoff, or cut it off of him, but you don't feel like doing anything but staring today. Your own costume feels heavy and dumb, buckles digging into your body and leather chafing against your skin. It’s usually something you love, your Mindfang replica coat and boots are one of your biggest prides. There’s just something suffocating about it now. You suddenly start to feel your skin crawl.
Busying yourself with undoing the buttons at the front of your coat, you clear your throat to catch his attention.
“Hey, Eridan?”
“Hm?” He looks at you through the mirror, his reflection catching your eyes. You glance away quickly so he doesn’t notice you staring.
“Do you ever… feel bad about the trolls we kill?” He makes a little face and you change your tone of voice quickly. “Or, the trolls whose lususes you kill, or whatever.”
“Wwhy should I?” Eridan’s voice is flat and blunt. You know it’s how he usually speaks, but it feels cold as the steel of a gun in the oppressive still air. “They're all sorry brinesuckers anywway. Wwe beat ‘em fair and square.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Wwhy are you askin’?” His belt finally slumps off of him, landing with a harsh clank that punctuates his dismissive tone. Finally free of the restricting garment, the gaudy violet overcoat he usually wears for your campaign shrugs off his shoulders. Underneath, he wears a slim black vest with embroidered waves patterning it overtop a frilly white lace up shirt. Seeing him without that big flashy jacket or his usual collared cape seems almost wrong. It makes him feel smaller, somehow.
“Don’t tell me the pirate queen Mindfang’s gettin’ cold nubs ovver a little bit of rightful cullin’. You better not start lecturin’ me on this, Serket. I get enough from her already.”
He says it like a tease, but his face stays cold and expressionless. You can tell he’s barely paying attention to you, dusting off the gaudy purple and gold jacket as he turns it over in his hands. It almost seems like he’s making a point of avoiding your gaze now.
“I wasn’t going to!” You raise your voice. He doesn’t look up. “And I’m not. I was just wondering, I don’t know.” You hesitate. “Sometimes it feels like we’re doing something wrong.” That makes him turn to look at you. Your hands ball into fists in the fabric of your coat. His eyes are alert, looking you over in confusion.
It hurts how indifferent he seems until you imply that he could have done anything wrong. Like it doesn’t matter to him how you feel, just as long as it isn’t his fault. It stings like a stab wound. Things never used to be like this between you two, not up until you cut the tension perigrees ago and decided to quadrant officially during one of your most epic campaigns. Ever since then, he’s been treating you less like a friend and more like a coworker. You thought becoming kismesises would bring you closer, but it’s like he’s shut you out completely, replacing your friendship and banter with the same cookie-cutter cliche pitch script you’d seen played over again and again in Karkat’s dumb romance movies. Your face feels hot and stuffy as he glances at you over his shoulder.
“Wwhat? Howw?” He shuffles around to face you fully, pulling off his silly vest too. You wonder how he doesn't burn alive in all those layers. Your face is burning already. You don’t notice your nails have started to dig into your palms until they break skin.
“Wwe’re keepin’ our wwhole fuckin’ race alivve, that feels pretty important to me.”
You kick off your boots in frustration. It feels like listening to a broken record. “Ugh, yeah. I know.” Even though the sun is climbing in the sky, you cling on to your unbuttoned coat. You’re only wearing your regular shirt and jeans underneath, not like Eridan’s lace up blouse and fancy pirate pants. It makes you feel underdressed. It makes you annoyed. You want to rip it to shreds, rip him to shreds for making you feel this way. Your glasses fog up, and you swing your legs to pivot away from him atop your perch as you wipe at them furiously.
His ear fins flick, rising from his spot on the floor to meet you by the desk. He rests his hands against the edge, leaning against it as he cranes his head to look down at you still seated. “Wwhats wwith all this mopin’? Did I do somethin’ wwrong?” He tries to pose it as a casual question, but a tinge of franticness at the end of his voice betrays something more. Your eyes feel heavy and wet as you furrow your brow at him in a mix of anger and disappointment. This isn't what you wanted to talk about. “I thought you wwere havvin’ fun.”
“I was. I am!” You add defensively. You should be enjoying this. Mindfang was your ancestor, killing is in your blood. It’s what you were born for, isn’t it? It’s what you’re good at. You like FLARP, and you like rivalling your kismesis. So why do you feel so miserable? Almost like he can hear your thoughts, Eridan’s wavering accent voices them aloud.
“Then wwhat’s the fuckin’ problem, Vvris? I’m tryin’ my best here, seriously. Wwhat do I got to do?”
You’re caught between something like not everything is about you and it’s not your fault when you turn your head away from him fast, scrunching your eyes shut as tight as possible. You have a migrane, you think. “Eridan…” Before you can get a word in, he interrupts.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” He sounds hurt. You have no idea what he’s talking about. “You're gettin’ tired of me. You’re movvin on an’ don’t wwanna be kismesises anymore. Fuck, howw didn't I notice…” Ampora’s starting to freak out, stepping away from you as you gape. God, you really, really aren’t in the mood for another one of his dumb episodes right now.
“What?” Your head hurts, the way he’s looking at you makes it pound even worse. What the hell does this even have to do with anything? Is filling your respective duties all he thinks your relationship is about?
“You’re spades for Terezi instead. Of course you are. You twwo are practically pitch as night, I shoulda fuckin’ knowwn you were bored shitless of me-”
“What the hell are you talking about?” You stand, only because if you keep sitting down you think your legs will go numb. His brows are furrowed painfully, mouth twisted into an almost snarl as he seems to convince himself of his own ridiculous accusations. It boils your blood how dense he is, that he can't even see how you've been trying so fucking hard.
“Are you being serious? You’re the one who’s been blowing me off, Eridan! All you ever talk about is fate and duties and all of this superiority bullshit!” You try to muster up your anger to yell, but all you can feel is desperation. Every step you take closer to him, you only feel further and further apart. “I don’t want to talk about us all the time. Can’t we please just… talk? Y’know, like normal kids?”
It’s quiet again for a moment, and you almost want to scream just to fill it. You hear his breath, erratic, panicked. You don’t know why. He’s looking you up and down like he doesn't know who you are, and you want to punch him for it. You want to hurt him, you want to hug him, you want to talk, you want to be fucking friends again. It feels impossible.
“Are you breakin’ up wwith me?”
You really do scream, this time. You tug at your hair, yanking until tears bead in your scrunched up eyes. Your hands land on his shoulders as he flinches away, pulling him close and digging your bloody nails into his shoulders before shoving them into the wall behind him. It’s barely more than a push, really, but he stumbles over your messy floor and loses his balance. His hands fly up to grip your arms and you both tumble down in a flurry of loose papers.
Pain radiates up from your knees as you hit the floor, only partially cushioned by Eridan who’s collarbones are currently jutting into your forehead. You groan, the awful heavy pulsing of your sore limbs making it feel like hell just to move. Eridan is trapped under you, eyes blown wide, heart hammering in his chest where you lay your head. He’s barely managed to catch himself from falling all the way, using his arms to prop himself up on the wall where yours are still balled up in his shirt.
“Fuck, Vvris- Wwhat the hell??”
He hisses at you in a mix of anger and pure astonishment. You notice his tone is quieter though, maybe a little softer, like he’s trying to be gentle about cussing you out. You try to muster a laugh, but all that comes out is a hollow gasping sob. All the air has been sucked out of your chest. You let your limbs go limp, making him support your whole weight on his arms.
God, you hope he feels as terrible as you do. How can he not? How doesn't he go fucking insane doing all of this, these ridiculous emotional theatrics, micromanaging every fucking interaction like its some kind of game to manipulate and win? Every little thing- every shift in tone, every choice of words sets him off and suddenly everything starts crumbling down. You can’t deal with it anymore. Not on top of all this. You don’t want to keep doing this fakey fake charade of your best guesses of what a relationship is supposed to be, it’s driving you crazy, everything feels fake, you don't know what's real anymore and maybe none of this is, maybe it never was in the first place, maybe he’s not real maybe you're not real maybe—
Arms wrap around your back, shifting the both of you upwards into a sitting position. Distantly, you hear a hushed voice speaking in a hurry. It’s hard to focus, you can’t concentrate on anything, you don’t even know if your eyes are open or closed. Everything is just static. Loud meaningless noise. You really wish the crying would stop, though. It’s fucking annoying, so pathetic you want to scream at whoever’s doing it to just shut up and get out.
“I’m not leavvin’ you Vvris, hell-”
He’s still here? That’s new. He hates it when they cry. Usually he runs away after those games, leaves you to clean up the mess. You wonder how bad it is today. Your face feels wet, your hands are clammy and shaking. Maybe you fell in the ocean. That would explain why you're so cold. God, your head really fucking hurts.
“Shit, fuck– Did one of them get ya, are you bleedin’? Talk to me, Serket, damn it, please!”
Someone’s grabbing your shoulders. Eridan. Right. You're leaning against him, his back is to the wall… Your wall. Your boat. You’re sitting on the floor of your boat next to the wall with Eridan, and—
And you’re crying your eyes out like a little bitch.
“Fuck. Eridan, I’m sorry, I-” Your words come out warbled and pitchy, and you mentally slap yourself for it. He doesn't seem to judge you for it, though, caught up in his own little freak out session. Gee, aren’t you two just great at this? Distantly, his words start to register in your mind again. Most of them, anyways. His accent makes it hard to parse half of what he’s saying when he starts to talk fast. You honestly used to think it was fake, until the first time you saw him actually afraid. Maybe less of him is fake than you thought. But then again, maybe he’s so fake that there’s just nothing left of the real him anymore. He’s still talking, half to himself at this point.
“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry. Oh god, I must be the wworst fuckin’ kismesis- I’m so sorry, I swwear, You can do wwhat you wwant wwith Terezi and I wwon’t bring it up again I promise. Just please don't leavve.”
You don't respond, instead bringing your fists to your eyes and scrubbing ashamedly at your tears. His hands are hovering uselessly above your shoulders, like he’s scared if he touches you you’ll shatter into a million pieces. Always the fucking coward. Of course, he’s losing it just like you are. Neither of you know what the fuck you're doing, you just follow eachothers lead thinking the other has it figured out.
Mustering up what sounds close enough to a scoff, you shift your weight to roll off of Eridan’s trapped legs and flop down next to him against the wall. He pulls his knees up to his chest and sits up straighter, but he doesn’t get up to leave.
You sit there in silence for a long, suffocating moment, watching the patterns of light stream through cracks in the ancient wooden boards. Your eyes trace the outline of the single circular window you sit underneath spilling onto the wooden floor as the sun rises to filter through the gaping hole. A dark shadowy cross splits the circle into four, neat little even sections.
Your eyes still burn from the sting of tears, and the rising sun doesn't help either. Head lolling to the side, you gaze despairingly into his eyes. He looks back, caution tape yellow glowing against cold charcoal pupils sunken into his gaunt face.
Despite your better judgment, you take ahold of his hand. It’s freezing, just like the rest of him.
“Eridan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not gonna leave you.” You pause. “but I don't want this.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I knoww.”
The wavering accent in his voice has grown to a wobbly tremble, stumbling over syllables like he used to when you were kids. You guess you still are. His hand tightens around yours.
“Can wwe still be friends?”
You don’t say anything at first, just sitting with him among the piles of worthless treasure your kismesitude amounted to in the end. You shrug your Mindfang coat off with one hand, tossing it to the side with the rest of Dualscar’s costume. It all lies together in a messy lump of fabric, and the last piece of your own feels like iron weights lifted off your back. Even though you’ve been together for so long, it feels like forever ago that you’d actually sat together like this. You missed it.
“Ok. We’re friends.”
You finally speak, willing your voice to stay level. He sighs, and it feels real. You feel real.
You scoot closer to his side, resting your chin atop his shoulder. He tilts his head slightly to the side to accomodate your horns, the gesture seeming to make him relax at least a small bit.
You know it won’t change anything in the long run. Tomorrow you’ll go back to your hive, and he’ll go back to his, and the monsters living with you will stay hungry forever and you’ll both have to fight and kill and feed them until all of you are gone. Nothing will change that, and you both know it.
But right now, you’re here. And so is he. The sound of your quiet breaths slow and merge together with the sloshing of waves, and the world slows and quiets along with it.
Everything is quiet. Everything, except for him and you.