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When he tells you what he's planning, you come damn close to choking to death on air. Your utter travesty of a moirail sits there, looking sympathetic and rubbing gentle circles against your back like hasn't just come up with the worst idea since some greater being decided on allowing the travestly that is your very existence, and you are just about through with these fucking shenanigans.
Truth be told, you have been trying very, very hard to avoid thinking about exactly that. You might also, in some respect, possibly have been failing terribly at it. That's hardly anything new, though; off the top of your head you can't come up with a single thing you are not objectively the worst at.
When your body finally finishes its valiant attempts to expell a vital organ or two, you realize just how close you are to Gamzee. He's cool against you, and you think (embarassingly) about how perfect that is. Hot and Cold. The two of you balance each other out in more ways than one, and-- No, fuck no, that is exactly the opposite of what you want to be thinking about right now. "What," you croak, forcing yourself to pull away from him. "Gamzee, hold the fucking telecommunicative device and explain to me, in small words, exactly what the hell you think you're going on about,"
He looks confused, nervous, even, fidgeting from what's now the opposite end of the pile and you instinctively want to soothe away the worried crease in his brow. "Was just thinkin' us two oughta be registerin' up soon, so's we can end up as bein' bros what are on the selfsame ship, an' I mean, shit, I know a motherfucker's hell's of touchy when's what comes up about blood color gets to be occurin' an' shit, but see, I'm figurin' that don't matter so much, even if you're bein' lower down on accounta what sortsa miraculous fuckery what I got runnin' around in me, see?"
"Gamzee, that wasn't small words," Even off sopor as he has been for several perigees now, his grammar remains endearingly terrible. It's not that simple, as much as you'd like it to be, it just. It isn't, Gamzee can't save you, and if you dare to hope for even a second that his high caste could possibly affect the way this cruel world sees you, you, a mutant, a freakblood, you could be signing his death warrant along with your own and above all else, you can't let that happen.
He'll move on, you think, he's got thousands, if not millions of sweeps to forget you and the comparitavely infinitesimal few sweeps during which your lives happened to connect, but you know it's going to sting now. It's like pulling a blade from a wound -- it's unpleasant and dangerous, but it has to happen sooner or later, better now than before it has a chance to sink further in.
It still feels like you're cutting him afresh when you tell him no.
There's a lump in your throat that you can't manage to swallow when you see the expression on his face. He looks lost, hopeless, like you've given him everything he's ever wanted and torn it away like some cruel joke. In some respects you suppose that's exactly what happened, but you're his moirail, dammit, you've done what you could for him and he's almost a grown troll now. Even if it hurts you, hurts both of you, this is for his own good. He'll thank you in a few sweeps.
Maybe.
Your hopeless, shambling disaster is babbling again, still looking lost, and there's a tired, timid smile on his face that makes you want to take it all back. "-'S fine, brother, if you wanna be goin' off on your own sorta thing I ain't mindin' none, goin' for that long distance thing is cool too, y'know? I can-"
"No." You interupt, a hundred times calmer than you feel. "You don't get it, idiot, I don't want to be your moirail." His tiny, insecure smile dies then and there and the fucker looks at you like you've gutted him. You feel more like a villain than a martyr.
"...Huh?" He says, playing like he doesn't understand, like he doesn't know exactly what's happening, and you try and fail to pretend you don't know exactly what's running through his thinkpan. His failure of a lusus has left him with too many wounds, and just because most of them have healed over doesn't mean they aren't still there. He's terrified, utterly terrified that you'll leave him, and has been since the very first time you'd piled. You had promised you'd never, two sweeps ago when you were still young and full of foolish, wrigglerish hope and the bone-deep knowledge that if you ever did too much of you would die in the process to ever recover. All the trust, all the confidence that you had helped him build up is breaking down right before you just as he is, and you can see him fighting to keep his expression neutral even as his face crumples.
Someone ought to slice you apart with your own sickles.
It feels like you're dying as you sit up, barely affording him a second glance. It's too late to go back now, and you sneer, hands clamped down hard on your thighs and claws pricking your flat grey skin. "You didn't actually think I *wanted* you, did you?" You mock, digging deep as you know how. You know too much of this boy now, all his deepest insecurities, and you debate heavily the merits of throwing yourself from the cliff only half a mile from his hive.
He's precious. Too precious. You can't allow him to endanger himself for the likes of *you*, not when he has so much potential and so many sweeps ahead of him. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he folds in and redoubles his defenses, his face as blank as you've ever seen, but there's a twitch, the slightest of movements, visible only to those looking carefully for it as he tries to keep his mouth from trembling.
This hurts so much more than you'd ever thought it would, but he's... fuck, he's a miracle, and you might as well have liquid shit running through your veins for all that you're worth. "Don't bother trying to contact me," Comes your voice once again, and you can tell from how he winces that it's another spike through his bloodpusher. He's silent as you stand, unmoving, but you can feel his eyes on you as you go, running back to your hive with your metaphorical tail between your legs like the fucking coward you've always known you are.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you have just thrown away the best thing the world ever saw fit to give you.