Chapter Text
You palm your phone all the way to John’s house, just in case something happens and it turns out Dave really does need your help, but by the time you get there you’ve been pinged a total of one (1) time, by your dad telling you to Stay safe! You should invite Dave over for dinner tonight. ;) Haha, as if you’d give Dave the chance to embarrass the both of you in front of your father, after the asshole...already hasn’t made the best impression and your dad seems to want to get to know him better anyway, okay, yeah, maybe it would be a good idea. If your dad is apparently willing to put aside everything that’s happened in favor of some friendly “get to know each other” shtick, you’re not going too look that metaphorical gift horse in the mouth, alright?
Slipping your phone into your pocket, you-- oh. Okay. Nevermind.
John opens the door for you before you have the chance to knock. “You made it!”
“Of course I did. Despite whatever you may think, I am, in fact, capable of walking from point A to point B without somehow getting lost in-between. That,” you finish, “would be you.”
John has the audacity to pout. “Ouch. Way to hurt my delicate sensibilities, dude. I’m crying.”
You raise an eyebrow at his very tearless face. “No you’re not.”
“Well, duh, you can’t see it. They’re heart tears. They’re on the inside.”
“Oh, excuse me for not realizing that sooner.” You roll your eyes. “Did you call me over here because you want me to kiss your emotional boo-boos better, or did you have something else in mind?”
“Oh, yeah.” He steps aside, waving you inside the house. “Let’s go to the back. Dad is at work so you don’t need to worry about him or anything.”
“Well, duh,” you mock, stepping past him and toward the sliding glass door leading to the backyard. “His car isn’t in the driveway, I could kind of figure that out for myself.”
“Ooh, looks like we’ve got a smartass over here.” John closes the door as he memes at you, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes. “How do you get so smart? Tell me your secrets, Karkat.”
“No way in hell.” You look around as you step out, trying to find what it is John is apparently trying to show you, but all you can see is normal backyard stuff; chairs, table, one dadly grill, and a good sized patch of well-watered grass. You squint at John as he joins you and get a cheery smile for your efforts.
“Thanks again for coming,” he says, and you scoff as he continues. “I know you were busy.”
“I already said don’t mention it, dumbass. But you’re welcome.” You shrug. “There’s only so long I can suffer through Dave’s monologues anyway. I mean-- what? What’s so funny?” You pin John with a glare as he tries (and fails) to muffle his laughter with a hand.
“You’re going to complain about monologues? You’re just as bad as he is!”
Oh hell no. “Excuse me? I am so much better than Strider at that shit, and I am offended that you would even think to lower me to his pitiful level of structureless metaphors.”
“Whatever you say, man.” As if his snickering isn’t still giving him away. You have missed this, though; hanging out with John. You haven’t had much of a chance, lately, what with genocidal shadows to take care of, and in the end it just makes you want to get rid of them faster. John’s own thoughts must be running along a similar vein, if his next words are anything to go by. “You know...I wish we could’ve spent more time together lately,” he says. He sighs, gazing almost sadly at the aforementioned dadly grill. “It feels like we never talk anymore.”
“Yeah, well.” You try for gruff, end up missing by a mile and falling short and somewhere near “sympathetic”. Gross. “Shit happens. Lots of shit. Ugh.”
“Ugh,” John agrees. And then, “Too bad we won’t have another chance to hang out after today.”
You roll your eyes. “Wow. We’ve been over this, melodrama is not a good look on you, Egbert.” John’s subsequent snickering rings in your ears. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what I said!” John places a hand on your shoulder. He smiles- well, no. He grins. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, buddy.”
You don’t remember a lot about your childhood. (Yes, yes, you know you are “still a child” technically, shut up, that’s not the point.) There were the parts that mattered, and then there was everything else, and only a few memories were spared from the fuzzy-cut, sun-washed filter of growing up.
You remember how your elementary school campus had a huge playground, a sprawling metal and plastic jungle gym that seemed to scrape the sky if you looked at it from a certain angle. There was a weird jumble of metal that was supposed to serve as some fucked-up excuse for a “ladder” that lead up to the very top, and of course you were the unlucky bastard who managed to lose his grip somewhere between the upwards climb and the sideways reach to the actual jungle gym itself.
You remember falling. You remember finding yourself on the ground. You remember not being able to breathe.
What happens with John is, of course, nothing at all like that. There’s no sudden drop and no startled teachers running to investigate the screaming when you finally catch your breath. Actually, there’s no catching your breath at all.
It’s like you’ve been punched square in the gut. You waste your last bit of air on a surprised wheeze like a god damn idiot and suddenly there’s nothing; you can feel your diaphragm working to pull air into your lungs but it can’t when there isn’t any air in the first place, oh fuck. You try to wheeze again and fail, clutching ineffectually at your chest. John uses his grip on your shoulder to push you to your knees. You can’t even cry out when your skin scrapes against the concrete.
(The absolute worst part is that six years ago you would have categorized a similar scenario under Secret Fantasies: John Egbert Edition. You’ve never claimed to be anything but a fucking mess.)
(Or maybe the worst part is where you’re, you know, suffocating to death. It’s up for debate.)
John says something. At least, you think he does. You can’t hear him very well when your blood is roaring in your ears, each individual cell of it screaming for oxygen you can’t provide. It’s a lesson in agony. You think it might actually tie with serving as a fuckpuppet for an Elder God.
Elder Gods... That, of all things, catches your attention, and it keeps nagging at you even as your vision starts to fade. Fuck. Fuck fuck. There is a tearing in your chest, in your throat, you can just barely see and you are so tired
The sensation of air finally filling your lungs is orgasmic nigh on painful. Bent over the ground, eyes squeezed shut as involuntary tears prick at the corners of your eyes, all you can do is suck in breath after breath and try not to retch.
Oh my god. Fuck. God. Oh my god.
What the fuck.
“WHAT THE FUCK,” you shout. Or, well, try to; yelling when you still haven’t really caught your breath yet doesn’t prove to be very effective. You look up.
John is...floating.
Okay.
His knees are drawn up to his chest as he just casually sits there a good four feet off the ground, you know, flying. There’s an expression of utter glee on his face. You wish you could say it wasn’t something you’d seen before.
The expression. Not the flying. You’re pretty sure you would have noticed the flying.
“John?” you ask, your tone a more than an accurate representation of the confusion you currently feel.
“Duhhh,” John says, sticking out his tongue. “Who else would it be?”
“I’m starting to wonder myself,” you rasp. Oh god. What even is happening right now.
“If only it didn’t have to end this way,” John intones sadly, breezing over you as if you hadn’t said anything at all. “We could’ve had so much fun. You and me, taking on the world together like best palhonchos. But,” he says, making a face, “I guess some things just aren’t meant to be!” He shrugs, and you watch as the gesture causes him to bob in the air.
“What are you talking about,” you ask warily, and slowly start to stand. John doesn’t make a move to stop you. He mostly just rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Dumbass! For all that you talk so much, you sure don’t listen.” He pitches forward suddenly and you start, thinking that he’s about to fall and eat shit on the concrete, but he stops the moment he hits horizontal, his feet kicking lazily in the air as his chin rests on his hand. It almost looks like he’s just laying stomach-down on his couch, sans the couch. Because, oh, did you mention? Your best friend can fucking FLY.
“Well, I’m listening now.” You keep your gaze steady as John raises an eyebrow. Correction: tries to. He ends up raising both until he looks ridiculous instead of incredulous, because try as he might he’s never been able to pull of the singular eyebrow raise. Even in the face of all this, you guess some things don’t change.
“As much as I would looooove to tell you absolutely everything,” John says, his voice scaldingly sweet and pointed in a way you’re not entirely sure you understand, “I don’t think my friends want me to tell you, and I kind of have to agree!”
“Friends,” you repeat, bewildered, “who the fuck are you--”
But you get it, somewhere between you thinking the question and saying it out loud.
Eldritch Gods.
The last shadow.
All the time you’ve been looking, and it’s been right under your fucking nose.
“Oh god,” you say, “no.”
“Yes!” John squees, gleeful. “There it is! This is going to be so much more interesting now.”
You don’t say anything, too caught up in the implications of what, exactly, is happening here. Because John? John has a shadow riding his ass harder than a cowboy gripping for dear life onto a bull named Shitfuck the Ravager. And this, this right here, this is the worst part: you don’t think you can do anything about it.
Ping! goes your phone. You jump and scramble for it.
“Ohh, what do we have here?~” John makes a motion with his hand and the phone tears itself out of your grip before you can even unlock it.
“Fuck you, give that back!”
John only has to hold up a finger though, not even looking at you, for a solid gust of wind to push you back from where you’d tried to take a step forward. Asshole. Livid, you can only wish that you’d taken the time to set up a password as he unlocks your phone without issue.
“Aww,” he says, “it’s Dave, checking up on you! How sweet.” Your blood runs cold as he taps away on the keys. “Eh. I’ll just tell him you’re busy. That’s okay with you, right?”
“Fuck,” you say, and “you.”
“Nah.” He grins at something -- either you, or whatever it is Dave is saying -- before he outright laughs. “Hehe, algebra assignment-- can you even believe this guy? It’s like he’s not even trying.”
“What are you doing.” He ignores you. “John, what are you telling him.”
“The truth,” he says simply. “You two haven’t stepped up to the plate, and someone has to do it!”
Panic threatens to choke you again. This isn’t good. This is bad, this is so, so bad. “John.” He hums, still not looking up. “John, stop this.”
For the first time, real annoyance crosses John’s features. “No, Karkat.” With one last message, he drops your phone, and even with your life at stake you can’t help your wince at the sound of it hitting the floor. John glares at you in a way you never really thought he could. “You stop. Do you know how fucking tired I am of you playing all these games?” He throws his arms out to the side, his expression judgemental. “This much! I am this tired, Karkat. Tell me. How long have we been friends?”
He pauses, and you realizes he’s going to make you answer. “...Eight years,” you grit out. “I made fun of your magician costume at halloween and ended up punching you when you pulled a quarter out of my ear and said that must be why I don’t have any room left for an actual brain.”
“Aw, you remember.” He makes as if to wipe a tear from his eye, smiling. “I was kind of wondering if you did. Either way, I guess none of that matters to you, seeing as how you dropped me the second you had a chance.”
“It wasn’t like that,” you protest, but it’s weak, because you kind of did, you really fucking did.
John just laughs again. You feel sick. “Oh, wasn’t it? Eight fucking years, Karkat! I thought you treasured our friendship the same way I did. You were my best friend. I thought I was yours, too. But then it turns out all it takes is a new kid and a noble enough excuse for you to just shit all over me? No! No, that’s exactly what it was like!”
John’s clothes are whipping in the wind that’s built up out of nowhere, the blue of his eyes popping out between the strands of hair hanging over his face. He is angry. You don’t know if this is the shadow feeding words into his mouth, or if it’s just pushing him to say what he’s been feeling this entire time, but he is pissed as hell.
You can’t even blame him.
“I’m sorry.” Oh, look, you’re pleading now. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please, you have to believe me, I never meant--”
Wrong thing to say. “Oh, I have to, do I?” Fuck. John looks stormy. It’s the only way to describe him, right now. “Well, guess what. I don’t believe you. Too bad, so sad.” He straightens up until he’s vertical again. When he crosses his arms over his chest, you take a small step back, half expecting his every movement to end with you choking on nothing again.
“Okay.” You hold your hands palms-out, placating. You wonder if you could do some sort of blood thing to get yourself out of this, but the wind whips at your hair and you toss that idea to the mental garbage heap in the back of your brain where it belongs. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Of course I am.” John taps a finger against his chin, contemplating you. He almost wavers, you think, and a moment of hope sparks in your chest before it sputters and dies as his expression hardens again. “You’re like, a cornered animal, though. Of course you’d say that.”
“Fuck, John, I mean it!” You end up throwing your hands to the side in frustration before you can think twice about the movement. “I’m sorry! Of course I’m going to try bartering for my life when you’re some fucked up windy boy, but it doesn’t fucking matter when it’s the truth! I never should’ve left.” You pause for a moment, hesitate. John watches you. Damn it. God damn it. You take the plunge. “You know what I’ve learned about the shadows, Egbert?”
That piques his interest. Or maybe his rider’s. “What?”
“They prey on the weak.” You can’t drum up the courage to say this to his face. Or maybe it’s your shame. You look away. “The poor fucks who have cracks in their insecurities that they can worm their way through. The lonely, the guilty, the sad.” You swallow. “The abandoned.” You make yourself look back to him then. His expression is blank. You press on.
“An entire city of unhappy people to choose from and it decided on you. So yeah, I’m fucking sorry. I’m sorry you felt that way and I’m sorry I wasn’t even around to notice. And now you’re stuck serving as a vessel for the grimdark because of my mistakes and I swear I’ll get you out of there, John, cross my heart and hope to bleed out on the pavement, but you have to--”
You’re cut off when the breath is ripped from your lungs, and fear spikes your heart rate up to dangerous because you fucked up, you said the wrong thing, he’s really going to kill you now, but instead you’re just left coughing. Give it up for warning shots.
“Of course it’s your fault,” John says cheerfully. “What isn’t? But who says I want to leave?”
“I--”
“Do you know what it’s like to be afraid all the time?” he asks. “Because it sucks! Like, oh, what if my dad finds out, what if my friends find out, what if something happens and everyone realizes I’m a freak or whatever.” He shrugs, smiling. “But this way I don’t have to be afraid anymore! I can do anything I want, and no one can stop me.” His grin softens into something that might be described as sympathetic. “I would say you just wouldn’t understand, but you do, don’t you.”
And you do.
With a shadow on your side, everything is bright and crystal clear and so much more. There’s no pain, because you’re more than pain. There’s no fear, because you’re more than fear. There’s only you and endless black and the definite surety that nothing is beyond you. There is only you. Everything and everyone else is...insignificant.
But it’s choking. Stifling. Under a shadow’s influence you don’t matter because it’s not you anymore. The sensation of having your will being overridden like an ant in an infinite, angry sea is one akin only to drowning.
The power comes with a price. It’s a price John is paying right now.
You have to get him out.
(You failed him once. You won’t fail him again. Not this time.)
“Oh,” John says, interrupting your train of thought. He claps his hands together. “Looks like we have a guest!”
“What?” you ask, but a moment later, you feel it; a heartbeat, beating fast and approaching quickly. Your own heart rate spikes in response. There’s only one person that can be.
The only thing you can do now is wait for him to get here.
_ _
The house is quiet. This is not a good sign.
Numero uno as to why this is not a good sign: Karkat is in that house and that dude is never quiet. Like, seriously. That’s more than enough reason to be uneasy about this entire ordeal.
As if the fact that it looks like your best bro is currently under possession of a shadow god isn’t reason enough.
It’s the little things.
You look up as you approach the door. The sky and the telephone wires are all empty; FB ditched you a while back, and even if there’s not really much she can do to help you in a fight against these things, you’d be lying if you said her presence wasn’t a little bit reassuring. Just a tiny bit. But she’s gone. Looks like you’re going in solo.
You try calling Karkat’s phone one more time. It doesn’t even ring. This is Karkat, if you don’t know what to do, why and how are you in possession of a phone-- beep. Alright. That’s cool. Slipping your own phone into your pocket, you take a breath. Showtime.
...The door is open.
Not all the way. Just a little crack of space that means someone wasn’t paying attention, or was in a rush. Not a big deal, right? Or the time to be worrying about this; Karkat and John are in there, and who knows what else. Brows furrowed, you reach forward.
The door creaks open before you fingers can touch the handle.
Okay. Alright. Alright! That’s cool.
You take off your shades.
The house is dark. You follow your gut, trusting your instincts to lead you through.
Also, the talking. The talking helps.
Two voices: John and Karkat’s, too muffled through the walls to hear what it is they’re saying. No screaming. That’s good. That’s always good. The only problem is, when you pad into the living room and peer into the backyard via the glass door, you can’t see John.
It’s just Karkat. His palms are held outwards in a gesture of look, I’ve got nothing, his expression pleading, which just adds another stone to your pile of worries concerning this entire situation, but the part you can’t understand is that he’s looking up.
Only for a second. Before you can move any further, Karkat’s gaze slides down to you. He doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised about it. His lips thin into a grim line, his arms lowering, and at that point the only way you could describe him as is defeated. It’s not the most reassuring thing to see. Your heart sinks in your chest.
Once again, the door opens before you can reach it. You can take a hint.
“Hey,” you say, for once not in the mood for jokes. Karkat just nods as you step outside. His eyes flick up again. Following his lead, you turn around.
Holy mother of Christ.
“Why is John flying?” you ask, only able to blink as John waves at you from way too high in the god damn air. So that’s why you couldn’t see him. “Anyone?”
“Pfft,” John says. It’s probably dumb -- scratch that; it is dumb -- but hearing him sound so normal makes you feel a little better. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention. I could always do this!”
That just gives you pause. “Wait, really?” You look over to Karkat, but he just shrugs, looking every bit as lost as you. “I swear to god, dude.” You look up towards the heavens, your shoulders slumping. “Anime.”
“But those usually have good endings,” John adds helpfully. “So if anything it’s probably more like a really angsty fanfiction? I mean. I’m sure you wish that it’s fiction or whatever, buuut.” He shrugs. You wonder how comfortable it is to sit criss cross applesauce on literal air. “What can you do!”
“He has a shadow.” Karkat’s not looking at you when he drops that bit of information right on the table where everyone can give a proper wince. You feel your heart sink a little bit further and wonder if Karkat can tell.
“Can you see it?” you ask, and Karkat shakes his head.
“It’s hidden, remember?”
You did, but. Still. You couldn’t help but hope that it was all just one giant mistake.
It’s not, though. John was right. As much as it feels like it sometimes, now especially, your life is not one gigantic load of fan service and feelings that you can step out of and walk away from whenever shit gets too much for you. This is it. This is happening.
Karkat glances back at you. Barely for a second, and he goes right back to keeping track of a freefloating John afterward, but you’ve shared enough meaningful Looks the past couple weeks to know what this one means. You take a breath, and don’t bother raising your hands.
The shadow screams. You think John screams, too. But you can’t stop. You’ve got to get everybody out of this, got to fix it, finish this thing for good--
and you
can’t breathe.
You clutch your chest, trying to suck in a breath and failing. Karkat’s hand is on your shoulder, he’s shaking you, and the shadow is still screaming because you won’t stop, you can’t, you have to do this, you’re almost there.
Karkat is shouting “Stop it!” over and over and again. You can’t look away from John, who’s staring you down with his teeth clenched in a grin, and as your diaphragm contracts painfully you’re drawn back to games of checkers, John crowing “Checkmate, motherfucker!” as he took your last king with that same smile on his face. He’s not going to stop, you realize. He’s not even listening.
The shadow’s scream dies with your ability to focus. You’re left breathless still for one moment, two, and then you can breathe again. Karkat steadies you as you sway.
“Breathe,” he instructs you, voice pleading, and you do. Holy fuck. Jesus Christ.
John laughs.
“What the fuck John,” you gasp, so beyond even pretending to be cool right now. “We’re trying to help you, just let us--”
“Help me,” John repeats, mocking. “Because that’s worked so well for you before. You trying to ‘help me’” he says, air quotes included and all, “is why I’m like this in the first place! Or so I’ve been told.” He smiles down at Karkat at that part, whose grip on your shoulder tightens, and, what. What are you missing here. “So, by all means. Continue helping me I guess.”
“John,” Karkat says, quiet enough that you can barely hear him, and he looks up at your friend with a determined set in his shoulders. “Forgive the cliche of this line but I know you’re in there. It’s hard, but you have to fight it.”
The chances of that working were already pretty low, and they drop to zero when John gives Karkat an incredulous look. “Nope.”
“Oh my god, come on!” Karkat lets go of your shoulder, then. Oh boy. “If there’s anyone stubborn enough to shake this thing off just for cause of being a contrary little shit then it’s you!”
John props his chin on his hand, contemplating Karkat deeply. “Yeah, okay, but nah.”
“Fucking,” Karkat says, hands going to his hair, “case in point. Right there.” And he deflates. Just a little bit. Hands still fisted in his hair in the trademark gesture of frustration, he stares down at the ground, all of you truly quiet for the first time since you’ve stepped out here.
You should probably do something, right? Trying to talk John down obviously isn’t going to work; Karkat’s already tried and failed. Running through possible options in your head, you consider flashstepping your way up to John and tackling him to the ground. You consider throwing a rock at him. You consider running the time forward on his clothes until all he’s wearing is his birthday suit and he’s forced to surrender from sheer embarrassment. Honestly, every single one of those are excellent ideas, thanks. They just probably, you know. Wouldn’t work.
Oh, alright, Karkat is talking now.
“You know what? Fine.” He takes a step forward. He should not be doing that, that is a very bad idea, Karkat why. His hands aren’t in his hair anymore, instead balled up at his sides. “You’re right. Everything you’ve said, correct, true, confirmed, fucking all of it.”
John rolls his eyes. “I know, you’ve already said this like--”
“No,” Karkat interrupts. “I’m done pretending. You’re right. All my life I’ve been surrounded by fucking idiots. You think I wouldn’t ditch you the second I had the chance?” Wait, what? You look between the two of them, Karkat refusing to look away from John and John blinking back at Karkat with a bewildered expression on his face. “So, yeah, guess what. I started hanging out with Dave to get away from you. Whoop de doo! But you got one thing wrong.” He points a finger at John, every line of his face drawn in disdain. “I never liked you.”
If Karkat notices the way the wind dies down at that, he doesn’t show it.
“I felt sorry for you,” he continues. “Ever since I’ve met you all you’ve been is a whiny little kid who’s refused to stop being the most annoying bucktoothed thorn in my side. You’re still doing it now! Getting so depressed about me hanging out with someone who isn’t you that you attracted a god damn shadow?” Karkat sneers. “Fucking pathetic. So don’t talk to me about whose fault this is. Even if it was mine, it’d only be because I bothered humoring you in the first--”
You probably should’ve seen the cut-off coming, considering. It still manages to take you off guard. One second Karkat’s taking you on a surprise feels trip and the next he’s stumbling back, the air that had been so still a moment before starting up again with a vengeance. Your shades go flying from where you’d propped them up in your hair-- oh fuck, this is not good, this isn’t good at all.
John’s crying.
At least, you think he is. His face is scrunched up like there should be tears streaming down his face, but if there are any the wind is whipping them away too fast for you to see them.
You’re a little distracted with trying to figure out where the fuck that all came from.
Karkat is silent now, in any case, although whether that’s because you can’t hear him over the wind or he literally can’t find the air to talk is up for debate. He’s certainly scowling hard enough to make up for every word he can’t say, but even as you watch you can see his throat working to hold in breath he can’t afford to lose. John’s got him. This is so not good.
“Listen,” you try, having to raise your voice to even hear yourself, “I don’t know what all that shit was about but can we like, discuss our feelings like actual functioning adults here? You know, with words?” You glance around for your shades, despite yourself. Nowhere to be found. Awesome. “And considering I’m the one saying this I think you should give that option some serious thought instead of, I don’t know, murdering our good friend Karkat here, Egbert.”
He’s going to get hurt if John doesn’t let up right now. Hair blowing everywhere in the wind, it’s hard to see exactly what’s going on, but Karkat’s shoulders are starting to shake, fingers clasped over his hands and mouth in an attempt to not breathe out what air he has left. John, meanwhile, doesn’t even blink at your attempt to talk him out of making a mistake you can’t see him ever forgiving himself for, not if you manage to get him out of this. Scratch that: if you lose Karkat here (which you aren’t, you’re not, you can’t), there is no getting out of this. Karkat’s ability to finish the jobs you start is why you even pursued a relationship with him in the first place. Even if things between you two are so much more than that now, the original point still stands. Chances of pulling a miracle out of your ass? Slim. Nonexistent. Chances of everything falling apart if Karkat dies here? Definite. Guaranteed.
(And who cares about what happens to the rest of the world? All you can think about is Karkat’s friends, his heartbroken dad, a whole lifetime of moments and mistakes he’d never have. What could even compare to that? Not the universe. Not even close.)
If you lose Karkat now, screw John. You don’t think you could forgive yourself.
You cup your hands at the sides of your mouth and shout as the wind rises in volume again. “John!” He ignores you, attention reserved solely for Karkat. Fuck. “Fuck it.”
When you step forward, the wind picks up even further immediately. You ignore it, though, and reach out to take Karkat’s arm. You’ll drag him out of here if you have to. You’ll take a good abscond over a dead boyfriend any day.
Your hand doesn’t even get close. As if sensing your intentions (which, let’s be real here, is pretty fucking likely all things considered), a gust of wind shoves into you, pushing you off balance and forcing you back. “Fuck,” you curse, glancing back up at John in case you suddenly find yourself needing to dodge.
He’s still not looking at you.
Wait.
Vantas, you clever fucking bastard.
The moment you get the idea is about the same time you find yourself filled with equal measures of hope and downright anger. Hope, because now you see exactly what he’s doing and why, and even more so because it might actually work. Anger, because it’s a stupid plan and you can’t believe he would just throw himself into mortal peril like that.
Well. You can, actually. It kind of makes it worse that it’s taken you this long to realize what you’re supposed to do when you look at it that way.
“Checkmate,” you mutter, but John doesn’t hear you.
How could he?
He’s too distracted with Karkat, after all.
You wrench time forward with all you’ve got.
The shadow screams. You think you scream, for how hard you’re trying to get this done while you have the chance. The shadow makes you fight for every single second. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised; while Mr Vantas’s shadow had surfaced as a last-ditched effort to survive, and Rose’s had spent all those years biding its time, John’s has been expecting you. It’s been preparing.
Just not enough.
The shadow crashes into reality with a screech that could teach some things to some nails and a chalkboard. Welp. You pinch your nose preemptively.
Oh hey. The wind stopped.
Underneath the cover of far too many limbs is John, laying with his back on the floor and, as far as you can see, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow. One less problem to worry about. For now, anyway.
Karkat.
John’s not the only one on the floor; Karkat’s bent over the ground with his head between his arms, his shoulders heaving. Relief threatens to make you dizzy. You were scared, for several long moments, that you’d been too late.
Hoping it’ll help you stay under the shadow’s radar for a few seconds longer, you kneel on the ground and make your way over to where Karkat’s still catching his breath. You nudge him lightly. You only notice how tense he was until it leaves him slumped and shaking.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yeah.” You take the hand he holds out, helping him sit back up. You don’t think you could’ve helped the way you squeezed it for a moment before letting it go. “You ready to finish this?”
He doesn’t answer you. No “fuck yes I am” or “what do you think” or even a short, exhausted nod. He just looks up and meets your eyes.
And with a last, dying scream, it’s done.
“Uggghh,” Karkat says, covering his face with his hands.
“Same.” You move to stand, holding a hand out for him again. Glancing up from his little bubble of despair, he makes a face before taking it and getting to his feet.
“Fuck,” he says again. Then, emphatically, “John.”
“John,” you agree. Both of you look over to where he’s still unconscious on the floor.
Karkat sighs and walks over. With a grimace, he bends down and somehow manages to pick him up, one arm over his back and another under his knees. You hurry to slide open the door for him again as he moves to make his way into the house.
“So,” you start. “Where’s his dad, anyway?”
“Work. Or something,” he grits out. You get the feeling that he tries to lay John down more gently on the living room couch than he actually does, but he must be a bit too heavy for the guy. It’s the thought that counts.
“Should we, uh.” Glancing around the backyard for your shades on last time proves to be a fruitless effort. You give it up for a lost cause as you step inside, sliding the door shut behind you. “Should we go, or?”
Karkat raises an eyebrow at you from where he’s settled down in an armchair on the other side of the couch.
“...Right,” you say, making your way over. You could probably sit on the other armchair, buut. It’s so far away.
“It’s already going to be hard enough to explain everything as it is.” Karkat shifts a little to make room for you as you sit on the arm of the chair. “I’d rather be here to apologize to him as soon as he wakes up instead of just letting him make assumptions for himself.”
“About everything you said?”
“Well.” He grimaces, faintly. “Yeah. And...other stuff. Christ,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. “This is all so fucked up.”
“Just think about it this way.” You tap his foot with yours to make sure he’s listening. “We kind of just saved the world, dude.”
He doesn’t say anything. You’re starting to think that he really didn’t hear you or something when he sighs again, and mutters something into his palms.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, so what?” He looks up at you, brows furrowed. “So what? John probably hates me now and I can’t even blame him. What about-- what about everyone else who’s like us? And then there’s the issue of what the hell I’m supposed to do with my powers now that I have nothing to do with them. How the fuck am I supposed to go back to how things were before after all this, you know?” He makes a frustrated, aborted gesture with his hand. “I just. So what?”
Yikes. You take his hand before he can hurt someone with it. “So we figure it out. And John doesn’t hate you. Come on, man, you know this.” You pause, but he doesn’t answer, his gaze focused on the boy lying on the other couch. “John’s like, your best friend or some shit. And as for everyone else, we can, I don’t know, see what we can find out about them. Hell, maybe John knows something. It’s not all doom and gloom from here on out. We’ve got all the time in the world to make this work.”
He’s quite for one more moment before he sighs. “I don’t know how, but. Fuck it, you’re probably right. What is this world coming to?” He snorts. And then, quietly, as if repeating it to himself more than anything, “We can make this work.”
He’s the one to squeeze your hand this time, and you don’t disappoint when it comes to squeezing back.
He smiles up at you, then. It’s hardly the biggest smile you’ve ever seen; you’ve witnessed wider grins on text emoticons. But his eyes crinkle up, his features transforming from weary to alive in a matter of seconds, and you find yourself smiling back.
It’s the first smile you’ve seen from him that isn’t a relic from the past or touched with madness.
It’s pretty damn amazing.
> Live.