“I need to stop calling her.” You whispered into the receiver as the automated rings reverberated in your ear. She didn't pick up. The only difference from the last five times was that this time, there was no invitation to leave a message. The implication left a hollow in your chest and an anxiety in your limbs you promptly began to itch at, curling to your side on your bed and whining softly. If she was here, she would hold you and run her rough fingers through your hair and tell you not to hurt yourself. She would tell you to be careful, and grip firmly onto your wrists and press her lips, her tongue against them, and then smile with all of her teeth and say you tasted like candy and lovely and beauty but not blood. Never blood. She wasn't here. She hadn't called back in a week. Suddenly you wonder if you're ever going to hear her voice again. Maybe she was fed up with you. Fed up with your crying, your obsessions, your nervousness, your facade that only she saw through. Goddamn it, you loved her. You love her you love her you love her, you moan as you crush your arms tight around your ribs, begging your body to rest its agony and let you sleep.
You love Dave. But he is so delicate. And you are scared. You grew up taking care of yourself. Your mother wasn't negligent, but she wasn't nurturing, either. She had better things to do than teach little Terezi how to be “socially acceptable” or “kind”. (Dave didn't come from a good home either. But in ways you couldn't even imagine.) You remember how the first time Dave came home with you, and he saw all of your strung-up scalemates and backed up into the wall, gasping and demanding you to explain. He cried. You spent an hour taking them all down while he sat on the couch with a blanket on his head, trying not to cry yourself. You love him. You love him so much. You held him all night afterward and promised him you would never hurt him. What am I doing now? You think.
You check your phone. One more call. And then it stops. And so does your heart. You grab your keys.
Your door opens. Footsteps. And then she's in your room. Lazily, your roll your eyes up to meet hers. Her half-inch thick glasses that make her turquoise eyes so big. You start to shiver. She drove? She gets down on her knees next to your bed, softly prying your arms from around yourself. They are raw, pale with pink streaks from your sharp nails across the soft inside. Her dark brown complexion is warm compared to yours. Winter and summer. She holds your wrist. Her lips press against the inside softly, and whispers, “Candy.”
You hold him. He is so fragile. And so brave. And you love him. “I'm scared.” He admits in the darkness. “Me too.” you concede. You run your fingers through his hair, thoroughly comforted by your shared terror.
FILL: TEAM KARKAT <3 NEPETA
“I need to stop calling her.” You whispered into the receiver as the automated rings reverberated in your ear.
She didn't pick up. The only difference from the last five times was that this time, there was no invitation to leave a message. The implication left a hollow in your chest and an anxiety in your limbs you promptly began to itch at, curling to your side on your bed and whining softly. If she was here, she would hold you and run her rough fingers through your hair and tell you not to hurt yourself. She would tell you to be careful, and grip firmly onto your wrists and press her lips, her tongue against them, and then smile with all of her teeth and say you tasted like candy and lovely and beauty but not blood. Never blood.
She wasn't here.
She hadn't called back in a week.
Suddenly you wonder if you're ever going to hear her voice again.
Maybe she was fed up with you. Fed up with your crying, your obsessions, your nervousness, your facade that only she saw through.
Goddamn it, you loved her.
You love her you love her you love her, you moan as you crush your arms tight around your ribs, begging your body to rest its agony and let you sleep.
You love Dave.
But he is so delicate.
And you are scared.
You grew up taking care of yourself. Your mother wasn't negligent, but she wasn't nurturing, either. She had better things to do than teach little Terezi how to be “socially acceptable” or “kind”.
(Dave didn't come from a good home either. But in ways you couldn't even imagine.)
You remember how the first time Dave came home with you, and he saw all of your strung-up scalemates and backed up into the wall, gasping and demanding you to explain. He cried. You spent an hour taking them all down while he sat on the couch with a blanket on his head, trying not to cry yourself. You love him. You love him so much.
You held him all night afterward and promised him you would never hurt him.
What am I doing now? You think.
You check your phone. One more call.
And then it stops.
And so does your heart.
You grab your keys.
Your door opens.
Footsteps.
And then she's in your room.
Lazily, your roll your eyes up to meet hers. Her half-inch thick glasses that make her turquoise eyes so big. You start to shiver.
She drove?
She gets down on her knees next to your bed, softly prying your arms from around yourself.
They are raw, pale with pink streaks from your sharp nails across the soft inside. Her dark brown complexion is warm compared to yours. Winter and summer. She holds your wrist.
Her lips press against the inside softly, and whispers,
“Candy.”
You hold him.
He is so fragile.
And so brave.
And you love him.
“I'm scared.”
He admits in the darkness.
“Me too.” you concede.
You run your fingers through his hair, thoroughly comforted by your shared terror.