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“Ith not,” you stutter, glaring at your hands. “M’ Noth a-a freak,” you squint at your shaking fingers, trying to make a spark, to catch a glimpse of either red or blue. There’s nothing. Frustrated, you rip your helmet off and throw it against the wall. Nothing happens to it either; you’re not even sure it can break. It doesn’t make you feel any better anyway; it’s just one more thing you can no longer do.
For a few minutes, you consider sitting back and just screaming until something happens, maybe until you’re yourself again, but you know everyone hates it when you do. Fuck them. You almost do it just from spite, except Kurloz would know where you are and you’re not quite ready to talk to him yet. You try to take a deep breath, like he told you once, but it shudders on the way in and you stop because it feels almost like crying.
You saw Ampora today. He talked to you a little, in that fucking dumbass patronizing voice and you wanted to scream and punch or run away, but you didn’t move. You tried to talk to him the way you remember you used to, making fun of him until his fins turned bright purple and he called you every hemocaste slur he knew. It was fun to watch him try to explain himself to Kankri, and ever more hilarious when he tried to retaliate. But now all he does is talk to you like you can’t even hear what he’s saying.
You can. You can hear him. Sometimes you try not to; sometimes it’s just so hard to pay attention long enough to form words from syllables and then derive meaning from it all and you just can’t fucking deal. Some days it’s not so bad, but others you feel like the universe is being pulled apart beneath your fingers until you realize it’s not the universe that’s falling apart, it’s you. You’ll shake out of your skin one day. You wonder what happens if a ghost dies twice over. There’s no such thing as ghost immortality, right?
There’s a creepy ass doll hanging from Kurloz’s ceiling, in his old room, which is where you are. Latula was trying to talk to you, only she was doing the voice thing they all do sometimes, like you’re a baby, or a dog, or a friend of theirs who exploded their brain to save them and can no longer think straight.
Heh.
She was talking and you love her, you really do, you are so flushed for her it hurts sometimes, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like anything at all, but right then you wanted to hate her. So you just left; you left the pieces of your broken skateboard at her feet and stalked off like a twice fucked coward. You might’ve said something too, about the state of her sex life, which was fucking idiotic thing to do because you’re her matesprit, but it’s over now and you can’t even remember what you said.
You stand, so you can pull that fucking doll out of its noose and toss it somewhere else, maybe try to hit your helmet with it, but when you get to your feet the world takes a sharp dive left. You step right, to correct it, realizing only too late the only one moving was you as you crash to the floor. You hit your head and bruise your arm when you try to catch yourself. It hurts, but you’re used to the pain. You think you are, anyway. That’s what it’s called when it happens so often you barely feel it, right? Used to it?
You sit up, feeling your face with one hand to make sure nothing broke. You probably shouldn’t have taken your helmet off, but it’s too late to care now.
When you broke your psionics, one of your horns cracked. It healed eventually, but you worry about it still. Not that it would matter; there’s no saving your looks now, not like you ever looked any good.
Your horns are fine, but where you touch your head it’s sticky; when you take your hand away there’s a smear of mustard coloured blood. You didn’t even know ghosts could bleed. It smells like blood and everything, so you guess it’s real. You assess the damage. Your hand shakes out of the path you’d planned for it and skitters over your scars. They’re thick and obscure most of the upper half of your face, especially around your eyes.
“Whath a f-fucked upth pithblood,” you laugh, remembering Cronus’s favourite nickname for you. Well, that and Tuna. And Bi-tuna, My Tuna, and gutterblood. Cronus had a lot of names for you.
You decide that doll was fucking stupid anyway, who cares about it. But now you’re laughing and you can’t stop. It makes the shaking harder; it’s almost like you’ve got your psionics back.
You wish you had mind honey; you wish you could think straight, in ones and zeros like you tried to learn once but instead it’s bright, hot flashes of what you remember is pain and sometimes the world is a blur and it moves when you’re not expecting anything to move.
You fall down a lot.
You’re used to it.
You know a secret, which is something else you’re used to. It’s not like anyone would believe you if you told them half the things Kurloz tells you. He tells you about the miracles and messiahs and he tells you he loves you, which isn’t even a secret but you love to watch him say it with his hands. Kurloz is chucklevoodoo crazy and you love him for that too.
But this secret is something different, something you haven’t told Kurloz because then he’d look at you with his huge dead eyes like he wants to cry, and you hate tears. Tears are for wrigglers who deserve to be culled at birth, in the Alternian sense, like you probably would’ve been if the universe cared about you at all.
The secret is you are deader than anyone else on this stinking rock. You are dead two times over already; you died first when you tried to save your friends, then again when Peixes blew you all sky-high.
You have been dead for so long you no longer remember how it felt to be the real boy; you are forever a puppet of your own fucked up, broken brain.
You wonder if you should’ve let them die, but you couldn’t.
They were your friends. Are?
Sometimes when you close your eyes all you see is red-blue-red-blue-red-blue-
X
Mituna isn’t talking to you. Not that this is usually cause for worry; he likes to sign to you, because it makes you feel less like a freak. But he isn’t doing that either, nor is he talking to anyone else. Latula had come to you after he stalked off, spewing insults and slurs. She was more subdued than usual, and you know she’s worried about your little motherfucker. You’re worried about your pale bro too, so you do the logical thing: you seek him out.
Latula tells you where she saw him walk off to, and you follow that path. Mituna was alright the last time you saw him, happily talking with your fine kittybitch about something or other. You hadn’t been listening to the words, just basking in the happiness of your own two favourite motherfuckers in peace around you.
It’s starting to smell like the sea, and your stomach drops when you realize where Mituna’s hidden.
Mituna is hiding in the memory of your old room, which is generally a bad sign. He can’t remember what his own looked like, but he does remember yours. Only, he hates it there. Too many reminders of Beforeus, plus he’s never been fond of your Messiahs.
You find your hive easily enough, and your lusus nowhere to be seen. You figure he’s swimming about somewhere; you hope he’ll stop by soon. You miss shooting the wicked breeze with your dad. You climb the steps up and around to your door (you’d always had a sweet passion for stairs, often making winding staircases that went up and came back down before leading to the door that was literally three feet up from the floor, though you regret that now) and find it’s already open.
His helmet is against the opposite wall, obviously thrown. You frown, a sick feeling twisting in the pit of your stomach.
You knock on the hive door, peering in at him. Mituna is sitting on the floor, against your bed. He doesn’t turn towards you when you enter, taking care to make noise as you walk so you don’t scare him. When you’re two feet away he flops onto his back, staring up at you. His eyes are as empty and white as yours.
You cock your head to the side, crouching behind him.
“Whath a-a thit-hiveth maggotth juggalo f-fuck doin here?” he asks, and you reach out to stroke his hair. Scars crisscross over his eyes, coming down from his hairline on one side. You trace them lightly with your fingertips, and his eyes follow yours. Then he twists over, your slithery motherfucker, onto his stomach and allows you to pull him into your lap. He’s stiff in your arms, and there’s something smeared on his forehead that looks like grubsauce. You wipe at it with you thumb; Mituna flinches away, and you realize it’s blood.
“What happened here, my palest diamond fucker?” You sign to him, and he shrugs.
“I tr-ried to pail the dethlamp, gotta get-t my rockth off thomehow,” he laughs, and there’s an edge in it you haven’t heard in a while. You make a question mark sign with your hand, and he shrugs out from under your hands, scooting away. You’re cold where he was.
“Nothin’th wrong, Kurlth, jutht let me handle m-my own thit for onthe,” he says, still trying to talk jokingly, but you can hear the bitterness beneath it. You hold up your hands in surrender, blinking at him.
“Whath?” he blinks back. You narrow your eyebrows. He shrugs his whole body, rolling his eyes.
“Fineeee, whath-evver, Kurlth,” Mituna pushes himself to his feet, shaking only slightly. You stand too, and offer him an arm to steady himself with out of habit. He doesn’t take it. “Thorry,” he mumbles, fetching his helmet and slipping it back on.
You watch him stumble out the door, presumably to apologize to Latula. Your bro’s gotta get his chill on with his own rad motherfucker, but you still wonder what’s going on in his head. You hope he’ll come talk to you when he’s ready, because you don’t like chasing him down. Mituna loves it, but you worry about his tripping and hurting himself, like he is indeed prone to doing.
In the meantime, you decide to talk to Meulin.
She’s half curled next to her lusus, on the lilypads where she likes to hang out. You pull out a metaphorical seat and sit next to her, almost-but-not-quite touching.
“Sorry,” you sign first off, like you always do. She grins wide, showing her fangs.
“It’s no trouble!” she signs back, sitting up. “What’s on your mind?” You smile back, glad to be around her.
“My own palest brother,” you tell her, using both hands to explain. “He ain’t himself today.”
A shadow of something flits over her face before she answers, “That’s clawful! What happened?” You wonder if she was thinking about how Mituna hasn’t been himself in a long, long time. You wonder if that’s what they all think of him. Sure, he’s changed, but if you peer deep, past the wicked mysteries and scars, he’s the same motherfucker he’s always been.
“He went off on his rad sister, had her right shaken up,” you shrug, and the end of the thread that keeps your lips together tickles. You pull at it, absentmindedly. “I went to go see what’s what and he tells me he wants to sort shit out himself.” You frown. “He’s got me fuckin worried after him something motherfuckin fierce.”
“Did you try talking to him?”
“Yeah, he brushed me off,” you sign. Rethinking your conversation earlier, you’re even more worried.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Meulin bumps against your shoulder in an encouraging way, looking into your eyes. “You’re the cutest meowrails ever; I know you two will work it out!” You ache to take her into your arms and kiss her, like you’d do sometimes after she had nightmares. You don’t move.
“Should I go after him?” you ask her. She nods, and you stand. So does she, throwing her arms around you in a hug. You lift her off the ground, gentle as you can, burying your face in her hair. Then you put her down, and once again set off to find Mituna.
X
You are looking for Latula. First, you check the bridge where you perform the sickest grinds, and where you fell earlier. Ampora’s gone, thank the fucking whatever, and so is the remains of your skateboard. You ask Seahorse dad where she is, but he just neighs. You begin to walk towards where the humans are staying, almost getting lost a few times. You check in a few boxes on the way, until you find a pair of roller blades. They’re not as cool as skateboards, but they’ll do. You slide them on and set out, barely wobbling. Things just seem to work when you skate; you feel more in control of yourself and out of control of everything else. It’s the greatest feeling; once you get going, you can go forever. Or at least until you meet a brick wall, which you do.
You bounce right off it, thankful for your small size, and land in a pile a few feet away. The ‘blades are unharmed and so are you, but you take them off before walking inside. It’s been a while since you were here; you spend most of your time skating with Latula outside or on the lilypads with Kurloz and Meulin. Sometimes you even hang out with your lusus, even though he barely ever gives you mind honey anymore. Stupid useless fucktard of a dad.
You wander for a while, until you run into Kankri.
“Thup,” you greet him, blades hung over your shoulder. He stare at them, lips pursed, and you wonder if you should be tagging them. Are rollerblades triggering? Just in case you need to make a quick getaway, you slip them back on.
“Good evening, Mituna,” says Kankri, smiling in a vaguely condescending manner. “I’m so glad to see you. Latula and Porrim were just here, and I have to say, I overheard- er, that is to say- Never mind, anyway, it seems that you and Latula had a bit of a falling out and I was wondering-“
“Whoa, Thantath, thounds like you’re commin on all athen, might wanna theck yourthelf before you wrethk yourthelf,” you throw up your hands in mock horror. He turns a vague red colour.
“Oh, man, I am so sorry, I should’ve tagged that for you, not that I was actually coming onto you at all, forgive me I should’ve chosen my words more carefully. This could be most problematic if you hadn’t alerted me to my discretion, tha-“
“Thut up, Vanathh,” you cover his mouth with your hand, snickering to yourself and effectively cutting him off. “Wthere’th ‘Tula?”
He tries to say something, but his voice is muffled by your hand. He points left though, so you flip him a double fingered salute and glide away, only stumbling once. You practice different way to apologize while you search, peering down corridors until you hear voices. It’s Porrim and Latula, and you don’t really feel comfortable around Porrim, you don’t know why, so you stop and wait patiently while they talk, just out of sight.
“I just don’t know, sometimes it’s like he’s almost who he was, the radest of the rad, and then he does something like that,” Latula’s voice is haltingly uncertain, not at all how she usually is around you. Your heart sinks.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Porrim’s voice is a deep thrumming sound; it reminds you of space and the deepest part of the ocean Cronus told you about once.
“Yes, it was. I should’ve been able to shield him- I mean what kind of matesprit am I? What kind of a troll lets that happen to their friend? I as good as killed him,” she lets out a muffled sob, and you hear the rustle of cloth and imagine Porrim stroking her shoulder.
You are a double ghost as you slink away, anger and frustration burning in your temples. You are not dead- well, you are, but you weren’t then- you think, sometimes it’s so hard to think, but you can, you can hear them, why won’t she ever tell you this to your face, fuck, how much of a fuck up could you be, god if ghosts could kills themselves maybe you should’ve tried it ages ago, taken yourself off all their hands-
“Mituna?” Latula’s voice brings you back to yourself and you paste an apologetic grin on, grinding to a halt.
“Hey,” you say, “I jutht want-t-ted to thay I wath thorry fhor earlier,” you shrug, still smiling. She seems to relax; Porrim lingers a few feet away.
“Hey, it’s not a problem!” She smiles, opening her arms to hug you. You let her, squeezing back gently. “Listen, man, I got this totally awesome new game- you should totally come by and play with me later, ‘kay?”
“Oka-a-ay,” you say, stepping back. She grins, and then her gaze alights on the rollerblades attached to your feet.
“Oh, whoa, totally rad! Where’d you find those?” she asks, gasping like a little girl at Christmas. You feel hollow, like she’s just trying to humor you.
“Your luthuth gave them t-to me after I pailed her,” you smirk. “Later, I gotta r-roll,” You drag the l out as you glade backward, nearly tripping twice. You read concern on her face and your face heats with shame- you can never do anything right- but you turn the corner before she can say anything. Kankri isn’t around when you zoom by his previous spot, for which you are thankful. With any luck he’s crying himself sick in the ablution block or eating like he’s just been told he’ll never be pretty.
Your head hurts, which is probably why you aren’t paying attention to what’s in front of you. Before you know it, you’ve run straight into Kurloz in a very literal sense.
“Ow,” you say, bouncing off him and hitting the ground with your ass. He peers down at you like an anxious bird, and the image this inspires forces you to crack an honest smirk. He raises a single eyebrow and you snicker, until you’re laughing for real, and then you’re crying. He picks you up gently, matesprit style and carries you somewhere. You don’t know where- you’re not really paying attention, just clutching him around the neck and sobbing like some dumb-fuck wriggler but it’s not like you can just stop.
Suddenly it’s dark, and your headache ebbs slightly, and he lowers the both of you onto a pile of something. It’s not horns, thank fuck or you might’ve had a complete breakdown, but something softer. He lifts your helmet off, and for a second you want to cling to it; you don’t want him to see the scars he probably knows by heart, but he plucks it gently off and sets it aside. So you hide yourself in his shoulder, shaking with sobs and brain fuckery. His hands are warm and soft as he strokes your back, humming softly.
When you’re all cried out, you curl up on his lap, letting him just stroke your hair.
“I’m not-t-t a f-fuckin idiot,” you choke out, and he hums soothingly. “I know whath they thay, I can fuckin h-hear.” You dig your nails into his arm, searching his eyes in the darkness; white as death.
“Look whath I can-n do, ma,” you continue, raising your hand as though you’re going to shoot straight energy at the far wall. You laugh when nothing happens, until Kurloz shushes you. Then you just shiver, trying to breathe normally again. He kisses the top your head, rocking you in the pile.
X
“Don’t thay a word about thith,” you tell him hours later, still laying in what you’ve realized is a pile of sweaters. Kurloz raises an eyebrow at you, stretched out beneath your head like a giant, murder-clown pillow. “Don’t give me that-t look,” you shake a finger at him, waving it about an inch from his nose. He goes cross eyed trying to look at it. “Everyone knowth you’re t-the biggetht gothip.”
He smiles at you, miming zipping his mouth closed. You curl into him and close your eyes.
Everything is all right.