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You were so close.
So. Motherfucking close. You had the holiest of rages in your veins and you hated, oh, you hated, you knew as you bathed your hands in blood what you were made for and it was that most sanctified motherfucking hate, perfect and cold and imperious as your blood. It was perfect. You were perfect.
And then there are hands on your face.
And then there is a voice in your ear, there are a pair of warm arms wrapping around you and the rage is leaving you and you are just a troll again, earthly, failing, weak. A fucked up scrawny wriggler with a bloody face and bloody hands.
You let god slip out of your fingers because someone smiled and held on to you.
You drift through a week, maybe, seven sinful nights, for all time has no meaning here. You give yourself let for weakness, you allow yourself vilest heresy, let him soothe you when you start shaking to do holy bloodshed. You let him tell you shhhhh, you’ll be okay and he gets into you as deep as sopor ever did--deeper, burrowed right down into your pusher. He’s peace. He’s pity. He’s warm under your hands and he holds on to you like you matter for being Gamzee Makara, like that could ever be more important than you are as a servant of the carnival.
And you want to believe him. And there’s the darkest danger.
The first time you think on leaving him, it hurts so deep down inside you it’s like your guts tearing out of your body, and just the thought has you curled in the vents, shaking, dripping purple tears on the metal and wishing he was there to hold you because you haven’t ever liked to cry. But you know by the pain it must be good, because your lord loves those who suffer, who can tear away the part that’s weak. This is what you have to be, he tells his faithful. In pain. This is where you have to go. Where you suffer greatest motherfucking torment, so you will motherfucking go. Pity is weakness. Tenderness damnation.
You try to tell Karkat you have to go away, but every time you try, his pitying eyes and his gentle hands turn the sounds into sobbing, you cling to him and cry instead. He can’t soothe you because his soothing is the source of your pain, your hate, but you want so badly to be soothed. You’re weak. You’re motherfucking weak.
So you tear away the weakness. You cut away the heretic.
You leave him.
You put on your paint, you put on your god-rags all in the color of your blood, and you go. You run from his face. You flee the sound of his motherfucking footfall, because what he does to you scares you more than anything else you’ve ever felt. The wanting is all parts of you. The gentleness of it is a sin. The urge to return in kind is a crime and his hand on your face is damnation to your soul. (you want it you want it you miss him so much, your little red-blooded brother) You go in search of your gods, because you were walking the edge of a cliff, and to let yourself love him would be to let yourself fall, and trust in him only to catch you.
You were so close.
So. Motherfucking. Close.