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THIS IS DUMBBBB. FUCK YEAH RANDOM SHIT FIC.
He wrings his hands a lot more these days. You're always hearing knuckles crack and pop, watching his fingers twist hard at his digits, like he's hoping he's going to yank some of them off, like he's hoping being fingerless is going to keep him from fucking up again.
Because you know how much this has been riding on him. He insists it isn't - he spits it isn't, swears and curses up and down and slams the door in everyone's face, but it's not too hard to tell. Everyone else rolls their eyes - 'as long as nothing's changed' - and you wonder if you're the only one that notices how much more angrier he is these days, at everything.
You wish you could help.
You wish you could tell him it's not his fault but it kind of fucking is.
You wish you could tell him it's not his fault but then it would probably be yours, and you're not sure you want that kind of responsibility.
It's tripping over shoelaces that you all could've sworn were tied, or stubbing toes that you wouldn't have before, small little somethings that happened tenfold more than they used to happen. You somehow dropped your keyboard on the floor today. Twice. When does that happen? HOW does that happen?
But then there's the big somethings, and that's when you really notice. It's his lusus, then it's another one. Of course Gamzee's upset; at least he admits it. But this fucknugget with his nubby damn horns. He can flip like a flapjack in the goddamn International Hive of Pancakes if someone calls him out on his floofy hair, but you kill his fucking lusus and there's not a word.
Which is where it's really weird. You kinda wish he'd say something about it. Not that you're gonna be the pussy one to break the man code between you two or whatever and ask anything. You are most decidedly not a giant snot-nosed larva (except for the secret sometimes where you are), you just-- want to know what's going on up there.
It's different. That's all. Yeah, he's still the same screeching, howling Karkat, but you keep finding all this seething, all this between the lines bullshit with boiling water in his veins and venom in his teeth, it's not cool. It's unsettling, is what it is, and it's the taciturn anger, the stuff where he thinks no one's watching, that's where you can see how he's really doing.
Except for that one time, with the hour of silence sitting in the corner, and the hand on his shoulder, his own gripping his slacks tight enough to make his knuckles white - each one of them, pop, crack, all that stress breaking loose from his fingers - with that whole shoulder shaking thing that was a dead, dead giveaway to something else that you didn't want to think too much about on the guy who was supposed to be pure rage embodied and not much else.
But that's one of Those Times, the kinds that don't exist because you agreed they don't exist. Actually, it's probably a breach of contract even thinking about it right now. Just a little something you couldn't really teach yourself to shake off.
That was then. This was now.
'You used to talk more', 'you seem sad and angry all the time', 'you used to be more fun', you used to this and that and up and down. Things changed, you guess. He changed. You did too, and you know it. You're supposed to be psychic, right? You're supposed to see this shit coming.
It just sucked that it couldn't have played out differently.
And that's really all there was to say on the matter.
Because you know how much this has been riding on him. He insists it isn't - he spits it isn't, swears and curses up and down and slams the door in everyone's face, but it's not too hard to tell. Everyone else rolls their eyes - 'as long as nothing's changed' - and you wonder if you're the only one that notices how much more angrier he is these days, at everything.
You wish you could help.
You wish you could tell him it's not his fault but it kind of fucking is.
You wish you could tell him it's not his fault but then it would probably be yours, and you're not sure you want that kind of responsibility.
It's tripping over shoelaces that you all could've sworn were tied, or stubbing toes that you wouldn't have before, small little somethings that happened tenfold more than they used to happen. You somehow dropped your keyboard on the floor today. Twice. When does that happen? HOW does that happen?
But then there's the big somethings, and that's when you really notice. It's his lusus, then it's another one. Of course Gamzee's upset; at least he admits it. But this fucknugget with his nubby damn horns. He can flip like a flapjack in the goddamn International Hive of Pancakes if someone calls him out on his floofy hair, but you kill his fucking lusus and there's not a word.
Which is where it's really weird. You kinda wish he'd say something about it. Not that you're gonna be the pussy one to break the man code between you two or whatever and ask anything. You are most decidedly not a giant snot-nosed larva (except for the secret sometimes where you are), you just-- want to know what's going on up there.
It's different. That's all. Yeah, he's still the same screeching, howling Karkat, but you keep finding all this seething, all this between the lines bullshit with boiling water in his veins and venom in his teeth, it's not cool. It's unsettling, is what it is, and it's the taciturn anger, the stuff where he thinks no one's watching, that's where you can see how he's really doing.
Except for that one time, with the hour of silence sitting in the corner, and the hand on his shoulder, his own gripping his slacks tight enough to make his knuckles white - each one of them, pop, crack, all that stress breaking loose from his fingers - with that whole shoulder shaking thing that was a dead, dead giveaway to something else that you didn't want to think too much about on the guy who was supposed to be pure rage embodied and not much else.
But that's one of Those Times, the kinds that don't exist because you agreed they don't exist. Actually, it's probably a breach of contract even thinking about it right now. Just a little something you couldn't really teach yourself to shake off.
That was then. This was now.
'You used to talk more', 'you seem sad and angry all the time', 'you used to be more fun', you used to this and that and up and down. Things changed, you guess. He changed. You did too, and you know it. You're supposed to be psychic, right? You're supposed to see this shit coming.
It just sucked that it couldn't have played out differently.
And that's really all there was to say on the matter.