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When Planning Comes Down To Accidental Results

Chapter Text

“You’re crying.”

He expected himself to follow up with a “really not proving your heterosexuality with those waterworks”. He expected anything and everything ranging from a kick to the groin to a no shit, numbnuts in from the dark-haired boy. Then he would just stare with his usual poker-fuck-this-shit-face. Maybe he’d give a little chuckle.

But it didn’t go that way.

The other remained curled up on the ground, shoulders lightly shaking, face turned away. He said nothing, and the words were left to hang awkwardly in the air before crashing down to the floor like a plane on fire. That itch skittered through his spin again, settling down is stomach, but not before stirring up the acid like a giant ladle. Fuck. How could he throw up if he hadn’t eaten anything in what felt likeforever? Not on these shoes. He liked these shoes. They were the only shoes he had. Bro had bought these and he was getting off subject again. There it went. A shudder. The thought flickered in the back of his mind as the boy on the ground prepared for another sob with a spluttering exhale.

“Calm down.”

He didn’t even know he was speaking the words. They sounded so thick, so scratchy and fuck, no he was not crying. There were no tears, so why did it come out as if he had spent hours clutching his sleeves over the body of him? This was ridiculous. He was Dave Strider. Dave Strider didn’t give a shit about the world or anything that happened in it.

And Dave Strider certainly did not cry.

“They’re both gone.. Dad… and Rose..”

Another pang at the familiar name. Seriously. Did some force get its sick kicks from tugging and twanging on his relatively unaccustomed heartstrings until they snapped?

He wasn’t the one on the ground here.

That was him.

That was the supposed hero.

Yet, with a twist of his guts, he realized that this kid with his face in the dirt was still ten times more courageous than would ever be. Because, he was pathetic. He was crying. In the same way, he was the bravest fucker this block of ice had ever laid his crimson irises on. Because, he was crying. Something he himself could never do.

That shudder coursed through him again, the feeling of being utterly alone washing over. The waves were eroding at the corners of his conscious, but he didn’t care. He deserved a little fucking pity too, didn’t he? He’d be damned if he got it, though. Whoever the giver was would receive a polite slug to the side of the head.

He wanted Bro back.

He couldn't be gone.

He was just a kid.

This was fucked up.

He wanted..

Ironically, the Heir of Breath had knocked the literal breath out of him as he was nearly brought down. Shades askew, the orbs exposed met sparkling blue ones surrounded by flecks of liquid and smudges. The grip tightened.

“It’s going to be alright.”

He wasn’t sure who was speaking anymore.

“It’s going to be alright.”

He didn’t really care.

Chapter Text

Hey, remember that time you fucked up?

Shut up.

Remember that time you were the shittiest leader ever?

Shut up.

Remember the time where, despite them knowing damn well better not to, they trust you and you fucking led them to Jack like baabeasts to their slaughter?

Shut the fuck up!

You found yourself screeching, but no one was there to hear you. Correction. She was there. But she didn’t seem to care. She was dying.

And so were you.

You shouldn’t have been wasting your time dwelling on this shit, but you were. You shouldn’t have been feeling guilty. But, oh fuck, did you feel guilty.

“Karkles..”

Despite the situation, you found your scowl weak, half-hearted. That fucking nickname. That stupid fucking nickname.

“What? What the fuck is..”

Her hand was on yours, and you felt something course through your body. You weren’t sure what. Correction, you were sure. You just didn’t want to admit it. It was hope. That fucking feeling that go no one anywhere. It was useless. Useless as the so-called ruler of it. Hope wouldn’t save you now. Hope wouldn’t do shit.

So why did you feel like this? It was horrible- to put so much stock on something that didn’t exist. So why were you doing it?

“Karkles.. You smell like cherries.. So many cherries..”

You felt your throat constrict and- no, no fuck no, you were not going to bawl like some grub taken from their lusus- you hauled yourself up as best you could. The shit was everywhere. It was like some twisted art project of some human child, the paints all scattered haphazard. Something in the pit of you clenched. You felt sick, your thinkpan racing at the sudden rush. Oh fucking well. It had to deal with it. You had to see her, even if it was just this one last..

Her grip on your hand was loosening, but this time, you were holding on. Pulling her closer as best you could without causing anymore harm, your arms encircled her frame as tight as they could. You glanced down, and she was smiling. That made you want to lose it completely. Why was she-

“At least I’m with you right now, right? Hehehe.. We’re together.. Safe..”

You wanted to say that this was possibly the farthest from safe you could get, but you bit the inside of your cheek. Blood dribbled out from your cracked lips, but you didn’t notice. Or you just didn’t give a shit.

She was hugging back now, her voice much fainter. It was a pathetic hug. Her hands barely on your back, you feeling the urge to sob uncontrollably. This wasn’t some shitty dramatic part of the romcoms you watched. There wouldn’t be a happy ending with you two embracing while alive. It just didn’t work that way.

But.. You felt wrong in that. You didn’t now why. Maybe that honking shit was right about that “miracle” bull. You hated the even thought of him, but maybe… just maybe…

If there was something out there as fucking ridiculous as a miracle, you hoped you had done enough to earn one. Maybe not for your sorry ass, but at least for her. Terezi deserved to live. She certainly didn’t deserve to die, not like this.

You found yourself back on the ground, her out of your arms, body curled facing yours. She was quiet. She was still smiling. Your sight was fading, and it was fading fast.

A warm feeling flooded through your core. Huh. You thought death was supposed to be cold or some shit like that. Weird.

The world around you was fuzzing, slowly falling to pitch black.

Remember that time where your “sorry ass” woke up and stopped wasting time being dead? Seriously. Get the fuck up, you stupid nookstain. You can’t fully embrace the damn joys of being alive and blah blah other shit while curled up on the floor like a meowbeast. Get. Up.

Your eyes flew open.

Chapter Text

It was cold, no, freezing, even. But she didn’t really pay any attention to that. The whites of her eyes were focused on the boy currently gaping down at her through glass.

A shiver. Huh. That was weird. Temperature never seemed to bother her before. Yet now she wondered what it would be like to actually be inside his house. Seeing it through a screen is one thing, but actually being in there.. They could heat up some of that vegetable that made those obnoxious popping noises and have a Nic Cage movie marathon, all curled up on the couch. Without snow. In each other’s arms-

Woah, woah, woah. Watch it, Vriska. No need to go throwing in all of your chips now. Red feelings are some tricky things to deal with.

Snow was kind of annoying. But the whole getting to see her breath thing was pretty cool. With focus directed on the white wisps of air issuing from her lips, the boy vanished from his place, appearing a few minutes later, outside, while wearing a coat. From a few feet away, he gingerly held one out to her. This brought about a small scowl. What? Was she contagious or something? And the way he was nervously looking away from her eyes was downright ruuuuuuude.

Sighing, she traipsed over, closing the distance between them and crossing her arms.

“What makes you think I need that?’

He scratched his head, the cold having less to do with the current flush adorning his cheeks.

“Um, it’s kind of freeing. Can’t trolls get sick? Do you get the troll flu? The trollu… troflu.. Haha. Weird. Anyway, I don’t want you being chilly or anything.”

She rolled her eyes.

This was dumb.

The cold was dumb.

Romance [other than the kind of those wonderful movies including that glorious man] was pretty dumb.

“Duh, we can get sick. But I’ll be-”

Blinking, her words were cut short as she felt something drop on her shoulders- something warm. The other teen was now without a jacket, worming his way into the one that was originally intended for her. Wow. That was..

“Just take mine. It’s probably a lot better than this one anyway.” He waved a sleeve as I to emphasize his point.

“…. Thanks, John.”

Okay, so maybe this wasn’t that dumb..

In fact, it’d make a pretty good plot for a movie, if she did say so herself. Not one of those shitty romcoms that Karkat was a closet fan of, but a good, genuine piece of art.

And Nic Cage would be the starring role.

Perfect.

“Do you want to go for a walk, or-”

“Love to.”

And then John promptly tripped and faceplanted into the snow. A bit of comedy. That works. If there was an audience right now, she would bet that they would be laughing their asses off. She definitely was.

"You're exactly what I expected you to be."

"I'm.. really hoping that's a compliment."

She just grinned.

Chapter Text

What belongs behind the green glass door?

Knitting, but not sewing.

 

It was always quiet when they were there together, sharing in the same space. Rose would be at her own business, writing away or clacking as she created yet another article of clothing, or of some other use. She preferred to make sweaters. Sweaters were nice. She couldn’t imagine who would really like one in this sort of weather. Kanaya would always find a use for them, though.

Even if it meant ripping them apart and stitching them to other outfits.

 

What belongs behind the green glass door?

Telling, not showing.

 

“That looks rather lovely on you.”

She would nod, pale locks following the bob of her head.

The frown behind her face could be kept from surfacing as the sash was tied in a rather bouffant bow at her back.

“Don’t you think that is the slightest bit showy?”

Kanaya only shook her head with a small smile.

“It’s rather perfect, if I do say so myself.”

 

What belongs behind the green glass door?

Missing, but not grieving.

 

Sometimes she would feel like crying, over her mother, what was happening, out of frustration. But she couldn’t. She wanted to, but she did not need to. Tears weren’t practical, and they certainly solved nothing.

Kanaya would pat her shoulder on occasion, and that always did something to calm frayed nerves.

 

What belongs behind the green glass door?

Kisses, but not hugs.

 

They were always chaste, on the cheek or forehead. Never on the lips, oh no, no. Those were too forward. Never any contact other than that. Arms laced around each other would be far too awkward. It hadn’t been tried. But it probably never would. Her mother had never been too big on hugs.

And kisses weren’t so bad.

 

What belongs behind the green glass door?

Feeling, but not being felt.

 

Knitting would always be better than sewing. You couldn’t prick your finger while knitting.

Show and tell was a child’s game, played in kindergarten class who brought their pet hamsters or colored outside the lines by crayons pictures and displayed them with some sense of pride. Rose had always been home schooled, so silly events like that were avoided with ease.

When Jaspers had gone missing, she had admittedly been upset. Who wouldn’t have been? That was her pet. It was so many times better than some hamster. You couldn’t hold intriguing psychoanalysis sessions with an animal that ran continuously in circles. Well, you could. But you’d have to minus the “intriguing” part. She hadn’t grieved. No. Not at all.

When arms wrapped around her from behind, her hands froze. The yarn slipped, her back went stiff. She’d have to start all over, but that wouldn’t matter. Not right now.

This was a hug.

And it didn’t feel awkward at all.

What belongs behind the green glass door?

She’d have to think about that tomorrow, not today.

Chapter Text

It's Christmas; not a holiday that you or any other troll had celebrated before. But you're on Earth now, and with wide optics and mouth open, you observe.

Observe the white drifts collecting outside the window, the frozen crystals creating them nothing short of a miracle.

Observe the twinkling lights and shining ornaments bedecking the uprooted plant. You couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the poor motherfucker, getting taken from home like that.

Home.

That word twinged a bit, leaving the unfamiliar taste of blood and rubble and longing still wet on darkened gray lips.

"Gamzee?"

His voice shakes you from your brooding, and vaguely you wonder if he could read your thoughts. But that's just silly. He's no mind reader. And your expression had retained its glazed-over smile, so there was no chance of that being analyzed either.

Yet he still seems to know more than he's letting on.

"Mmm."

"Are you.. you're alright, right?"

The smile becomes less artificial, more relaxed. You pat the spot beside you on the loveseat [humans have such weird names for things], and he shuffles over to plop down onto the cushions.

"I'm more than fantastic, my fine motherfucker of a bro."

And, in actuality, that's not a lie. You're safe. Medicated. Everyone- the other trolls, the children, their guardians- has gathered under this one roof to celebrate the holiday and you're content.

His horns knocking against yours for the briefest of moments stirs you yet again, and you blink. He's staring down at his hands, avoiding any eye contact.

Another twinge, for a far different reason.

"Uh.. that's good, I guess."

With head cocked to the side, curly locks in need of a trim falling forward, not a second passes by.

"You guess?"

At that he looks up, panic visible in his own orbs as he quickly waves his hands.

"No! No, I mean... I don't guess.. I mean it's good! Really good. Great!"

You chuckle throatily, and something rears its not-so-ugly head within your gut as he edges a fraction of an inch closer.

"Appease your chest area, Tavbro. S'all chill. I know what you were all up and sayin'."

Silence ensues, but it's so golden and he's leaning against your shoulder and you don't care that he's probably only doing it due to being tired.

You wonder if this so-called "Santa Claws" has already visited, because this moment seems to be a pretty sweet present in itself. Nothing could be any better. Nothing. Heat has settled somewhere inside your chest, aching in an almost comforting way. He shifts even closer. You stay still.

"Gamzee?"

Gazes are slowly connected, his unsure, yours retaining its normal haze of complacency and casual indifference.

"Mm?"

"Merry... uh.. Christmas." It's as if he was testing the words, brows furrowed, hands forming a gentle grip on your forearm. "Just.. telling you now even though it's not for another few hours."

Cue the smile on your face transforming into the grinniest of grins.

"Merry Christmas to you too, bro. Gonna be motherfuckin' nice to get up and open all this gifts tomorrow, huh?"

As he nods, you lean back, the small clump hanging above your head registering in your head after several seconds. You blink. He blinks.

You kiss him.

The unfamiliar taste is back, but this time it's... familiar? It's cinnamon and spice and comfort and you're both pulling away far too quickly for your own liking. His cheeks are barely dusted with his darkened blood color; he had long since learned to control the habit known as "face flushing" or some shit. There's no spluttering. Only quiet.

"Uhm. W-what-" His voice cracks, and you hear him curse under his breath. "What was that for?"

A long finger juts upward at the hanging plant, the earlier explanation from the blonde human running through your head about how "mistletoe equals sloppy make-outs but no going past that okay no one here wants to see any freaky shit going on".

"It's tradition, or some other shit like that. Can't break Christmas tradition, Tavbro."

He's smiling now- it's small but it's there and he's here and you feel more at home than you have in awhile.

"Right.."

You think you can get used to this.

His head is nestled into your shoulder once more, and your arms are around him in the most bromantic of brohugs.

You know you can.