don't you burn your wings down

[yamadori]

I don’t know what this is, it’s probably like 90% speculation don’t look at me

Also probably the only Homestuck fic I’ll ever be able to write unless I do anything introspective because everyone in this series swears so freaking much except for Jade and sometimes John, I cry

~.~.~.~

You’re not really supposed to be here, but you’re not supposed to be a lot of places, so you could really care less.

The rules don’t matter anymore, anyway. You’ll make your own as you see fit.

There’s a little bit of a nudge in the back of your mind, a warning signal that tells you just how much you are Not Supposed To Come Here, but you don’t pay it any mind as you blink behind your shades at the blue stone beneath your feet. Would be nicer if it was red. Red and black looks good, although there’s something to be said about the blue and black of the shadows matched together.

Colors can be inspiring sometimes. You don’t smell or taste colors or whatever that one weirdo does, but it would be a lie to say it never inspires you. If you really wanted, you could let your mind spin off into a series of words and patterns, spiral off into beats and rhymes that John might egg you about but you know in your heart that they’re still sick.

Egg. Ha ha.

Ha.

You walk. It won’t be far to go.

This is… unnecessary, in the end. There’s no reason for you to be here, and there’s probably more urgently important ways to be spending your time.

But.

No one else will do this if not you.

And you wouldn’t want anyone else doing it but you.

You keep your head down as you get near. The blue and red is a nice contrast. Maybe you’ll throw together some lyrics about it if you can ever get in the mindset of thinking about this again.

Avoiding it isn’t going to get you out of here any faster, though, so you finally let your eyes roam. First finding his leg, where the sharp rock had pierced through his thigh and the suit jacket tied around it as a makeshift tourniquet. The knot is sloppy. He either had been rushed or hadn’t known what he was doing or both. You think it’s probably both, because he was a dork like that.

Is. Was. Is.

Whatever.

Your eyes roam up, where it’s worse. Force yourself to take it in. Because no one else will.

You don’t flinch as you absorb the sight of the gruesome gash in his abdomen, because you’ve seen worse on the dead bodies of yourself that you’ve had to get rid of before. But it would be a lie if you said that looking at it does nothing to you.

The stomach wound is what probably caused that terrified, pained expression to be frozen onto his face. But it’s probably the crack in his skull at the back of his head that did him in, the pool of blood spreading out in a telling way. You hope it was instant and stopped the rest of the pain.

You know there are a few versions of yourself didn’t die fast, even if you don’t have the physical memory of the pain yourself.

Your hand reaches out, all fingers except your index and middle finger curled up - and you close his lashes. You didn’t realize there was a knot in your chest until it unravels at the change that does for his face - makes him look like he’s sleeping, just a little bit troubled, rather than about to die afraid and alone and probably screaming-

Slide your hand up to his hair, let the black strands tangle around your fingertips. Even though it’s matted and gross in the back with blood, it’s softer than you thought it would be. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend that he’s alive instead of stiffening with rigor mortis.

You are not here to spare your feelings, though, or you wouldn’t have come here at all.

It’s an easy task to lift him. His body is small still, only newly pubescent, and he’s shorter than you by a couple of inches probably. The weight of death is starting to set in, but hefting him into your arms is an easy task. You’ve had to grab your own dead bodies hours upon hours after the life has left them, and he is light in comparison to that.

You blink and realize how you’re holding him. Bridal style and cradled close to you, hand pressing his head carefully against your chest. Like something in you instinctively is trying to protect him from what already killed him.

You wonder if Bro would ever hold you like this if he had to carry any of your dead bodies.

“Hey...” You speak, quiet and more short-spoken than normal, and wonder why when there’s no one around to hear you. Maybe you’re doing it for yourself, or maybe that same weird something in you thinks your voice can stretch across the timelines and reach him. “I think you were probably my best friend.”

And so you walk, with him in your arms and feeling the weight pull at you more and more with every step. You’ll have to do this walk again, the next time one of yourself dies, and even if that kills you inside a little more each time, it will probably never cut you to the quick in this way ever again.

“I’m really sorry, man.”

No one should have to die alone. And he’s the last person who ever deserved to.

You’re not decided on whether or not you’re going to dispose of him or not. The goal is only to bring him to your room for now, lay him to rest on your bed if only for a moment, but you know you can’t keep him there. Leaving a corpse to rot on your bed is probably even worse and creepier than Bro leaving butt-naked puppets all over the house to scar your eyes.

Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe you’re both just messed up inside.

...Bro is cool, though. He’s got his Reasons, even if it freaks you out all the same.

Maybe just you that’s messed up in the head, then.

You should just get rid of him, probably. You’re holding your best friends remains, not him. There’s no more hope for him.

Your mind stretches out for your turntables, drawing them near. You’ll hop-skip-scratch back to the time and place you’re supposed to be in, with or without the body that shouldn’t be there.

“Can’t fix what’s done. But I’ll help the next you along, John. You’re not going to die again on my watch.”

No matter what.

You won’t fail again.