[ Because Maybe He’s Waiting for the Right Moment ]
Breath. Frost. Shivering alone. Zexion despised cabins. Why was he even here? Morning light pours in above, fresh and clear. Zexion shivers again, turns and seeks warmth from a body no longer there. In the distance he can hear wind chimes, creaking, the shower’s clatter, a siren’s voice harmonizing with birds – and he remembers. Ah, yes: Demyx, of course it was Demyx, sweet boy to whom he could never say no even if it meant five hour drives, knee-high snow, only three books in the middle of nowhere. How could he, when Demyx entreated him with those eyes, asking him a genuine favor, because Axel cancelled, you see, and you’re the only one I want to take, and Zexion, heart tipping at you’re the only one, had nodded in a stupor because love makes you do stupid things, even if it’s not requited.
In the end he almost regretted it – almost – long night on winding roads, arriving at half past twelve, because ever-unorganized Demyx can never leave on time, no matter how much Zexion orders, begs, cajoles. But the sight of Demyx asleep against the window, illumine by tints of dashboard light and passing cars reminded him why. In the memory of reaching out, touching that face, the cold melts away. Shower ended, Demyx waltzes out in a towel. Zexion’s breath hitches; he’s beautiful. Demyx lays down. Moves closer. Breath. Perfect.
A Sacrifice to the Tempest
There was thunder and lightning on the harbor that night. The waves gnashed their teeth and screamed at us on the pier while you whimpered and I echoed the tempered storm. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be was all I could think as I spat out rephrases of this is all your fault, I loved you, and it isn’t fair. I remember the tide’s maw, trembling as you watched, tears flowing. You were too close to the edge; I can see that now. I could have stopped it, if only I’d stopped myself first.
The Swing Still Echoes
[ The Farmhouse, in War ]
Gunshots and the creak of swing echoed off the red farmhouse while red, blue, purple leaves died off the trees. Damian swung back and forth, his horns clattering against the chain as he craned his neck to see his mother negotiating in the valley of death. She would cry again, he knew, put a kettle on, hold him close in lament. The rage of war had left them destitute, but little Damian knew nothing of the tragedy of war until the next day, his mother crying, he left the red farmhouse in the arms of a stranger, never to return.
Karkat watches the highblood on the beach. Empty Faygo bottles litter the strand, vodka bottles to Pierrot. The red ball bounces: up, down, a summoning call. A subtle pining for his lusus. In another lifetime, Karkat would feel the sting, but for now, he’s content to just perch upon the rock, an outcast even in loneliness.
The ball slips; it lands in the water. Gamzee picks it up, throws it, misses. It lands on the rocks, ricochets, and suddenly Karkat is seeing stars. Sand makes its way into his pants.
Footsteps come to retrieve the ball. That’s when Gamzee notices him.
There’s red blood all over, thickened Faygo upon the rocks, his face. A change in pace from this bleak, lusus-less world. Gamzee reaches out his hand; Karkat flinches. It’s all over now, he thinks. The highblood’s found out. A sentencing is sure to follow.
“Hey, best friend. Play ball?”
Fic: Crossing Spaces [1/???]
Karkat brings you back.
It’s his outstretched hand, his fingers trailing along your painted jaw, those ruby red tears streaming down his face.
It’s his blood, spread around you, that unites you once more. The whisper, the scream – he binds you, drags you to that sacrosanct space between reality and imagination.
They waltz with no music, hand in hand, twirling down the hallways in only their pajamas and robes. This joy the sickness could not take.