I'm not sorry.
this is my first smut, sorry if it's terrible.
This will be quite a touchy fic, as in, it might be a bit sensitive to some subjects and audiences, such as character death and suicidal implications.
Anyway, the pairing is KurGam, so...Enjoy my OTP.
I'll update soon.
Again, I'm not sorry.
Here I stand,
In this little white room,
There I go,
On my own,
In this redifined world,
Your name is Kurloz Makara, at least that's what they keep telling you, keep telling you to tell yourself. You are shaking like a leaf in a blizzard, your eyes glazed and white, with glistening beads of royal purple slowly seeping from them, staining your crudely painted cheeks. Your bottom lip trembles, as much as the stitches around your mouth allow it to, and you breath heavily, swallowing hard. Slowly, you move your hands, watching the words that your fingers form before you, signing what only you, and your brother can understand...And what she can understand, at least until you killed her. That's right, keep going: Your hands trace well-known patterns in the air, and you only shake more, repeating the same sequence of gestures: 'My name is Kurloz Makara, I am nearly 8.4 sweeps old, I am purple blooded, I have a brother called Gamzee Makara, I am the son of The Grand Highblood, I live on the planet Alternia...I have no morale, my matespirit is Meu-' You stop, shaking even harder, and shut your eyes.
You focus on breathing only, the tears flooding down your cheeks, shoulders shaking, but no sobs escape your mouth; it has being restricted for so long that you can't really remember what to do with it anymore, let alone feel your lips. It wouldn't matter if your mouth opened, anyway, because you 'stitched' it shut with coils of barbed wire, which is, with small force applied, pliable. Plus, the real reason, is due to the fact that you chewed out your own tongue. You CHEWED it out, not cut it off or sliced it out, you actually tore it off with your own fangs. When you said you were sorry for taking one of her senses, you truly meant it when you decided to take one of your own. You would never speak again, at least you could keep your last promise to her, but then, you went insane. Your father didn't care about you, truly, as you had isolated yourself to the degree that you hardly knew he existed. You would shake violently when anyone except your brother came anywhere near you, anyway, so he stayed away from you. You begin again, from where you left off:
'Meulin Leijon is dead...It happened recently, exactly a season ago, in the winter...She got hit by a car and she died in my arms" you stop, nearly gagging, assured that you are going to throw up. You don't know if you can do that with no tongue, but now is the time to find out.
So why do you take this,
Conquer and dismay this,
Peaceful sanity of mine?
Your attempting bore me,
Shatter and destroy me.
It fuels my gain.
Maybe we're all insane?
Sniffing, you hug your knees to your chest, hiding your face in the fabric of your black clothing, and you sob quietly, arms wrapped around yourself. When you did this before, your brother was always the first to walk to you silently, sitting beside you and holding you, not saying anything, not (ironically enough) hushing you, he just sat and ran his fingers through your raven hair whilst you sobbed and trembled, hiding your face in his shirt. You used to do it for hours, your father not giving less of a fuck, sitting there on his throne and killing the lowbloods he was offered, laughing mechanically. That was what really sent you mad, you remember it as clear as day, even though you haven't seen day in more than a season. He engaged in it nearly every night, but one night affected you more than all the others: It was just days after you had sewed your mouth shut, and it was the dark of night, in the same dark castle that you had always suffered in:
The world seemed to be seeping around as simple grey clouds against the pitch black night, the moon in an ominous crescent, the white light seeping through your windows was unsettling. Normally, the sounds of clubs smashing into the floors and screams was something that helped you to fall asleep at night, something that calmed you, something you could drown out, but now, trembles wracked your frail, lithe body with every strike that was delivered to your father's newest victim. This lowblood was just NOT giving up, and you felt like running down there and smashing your fists into him yourself, demanding that he would just die already so you could get some sleep, sleep that you needed.
With your fingers used to the constant moving of your new language, you felt idle and had an urge to do something with them, so now you were sat there, busying yourself with seeing how many times you could rake your claws over the flesh of your wrist before it bled. You now had five rows of perfectly aligned slashes down your left limb, and you couldn't even feel it anymore; this was not the first time you'd done this, by no means. You wanted to think that you could drown it all out, all the pain, flush it away in your blood, but it wouldn't leave. With nothing else to turn to, you don't know why, but you did something that you had been doing a lot of recently, back then: you started crying, for no reason at all...It didn't hurt, nothing hurt, it was just your emotional stability, if you even had any left. You hurt internally, really, not your mouth, surprisingly; your lips were numb and you had nothing inside your mouth to feel, you didn't hurt in your heart, like the cliché, so if not even your heart hurt, what was wrong with you? You were in pain, but nowhere in particular, you just...Hurt. It was irritating and self-degrading, two things that you hated to feel, nearly as much as you hated the events that had triggered these emotions in the first place. It had only been minutes, and your brother was there for you, no matter how quietly you tried to cry. Nearly silently, as he always does, Gamzee's figure appears in your doorway. He must be sick of you. He's your brother, yes, but he must be sick of you, being so weak and pathetic and crying like a child all the time. If he is sick of it, he's good at hiding it from you, and you appreciate it. You love your brother, you don't care how, you love him. Call it what you like, let people laugh, let people think 'incest', but you love him, no words can destroy that.
He pads over to you, and he sits opposite you on the bed, and pulls you gently into his arms, and you curl into him, your head on his shoulder, legs curled to his chest, and he tangles his fingers in your hair, the other hand rubbing your back, silent. He doesn't say anything, he just shuts his eyes, and he lets you cry, and you do. It's choked and painful, and it comes out in ragged sobs and gasps. Why did you sew your fucking mouth shut? You can't even fucking cry!
The only one crying should be your beloved, and she even forgives you. You deafened her and she forgives you. She doesn't feel anything bad to you; she hugs you, she kisses your cheeks, she's the same, just with hearing aids looped around her neck, even though they don't really help her at all. She never really wears them now, and she's even learned your language...You don't deserve the love or respect she gives you, you never did. She has dedication that only a man who can equal it deserves, and that man is not you. Heck, you're not even a man, and that's due to how you're freaking behaving, not the fact that you're only 18.
Your brother's shirt is now stained dark purple, and he doesn't shift as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, turning your face so your cheek is resting on him, other than directly crying on him, attempting to prevent yourself from completely soaking him. Out of the sullen silence, a single loud 'crack!' wracks the halls, followed up by a heart-shattering scream of pure agony. Laughter follows, and another crash sounds as a spiked bat, stained in rainbows of blood, collides with the tiled floor downstairs. Just when you think you've snivelled enough and gained control of yourself, you flinch harshly at the sound, and another choked wail escapes your clenched throat, and you begin shaking. Hard. Gamzee kisses your cheek, barely touching you, and he shuts his eyes, breathing words intended to numb the piercing sensation in your heart. You shake and whimper, as he whispers, "It's OK...It's not her, it's no one we know...No one will get you, no one's coming" he refers to the nightmares that have made you petrified of sleeping, where you are always killed by some unknown troll, but you wake up screaming right before it ends, right before he strikes you or shoots you. When you scream, it's horrid, because it's a peculiar, animal-like cry, due to the fact that you can open your mouth to the capacity of about a centimetre without it hurting or ripping your flesh. That, and the memories it brings back are even more terrifying. You curl close to him, sobbing, and he just continues what he was doing when he first came in. "There, it's over...It's all over..." You wish it was. But it's never over.
He stays with you, holding your hand until you fall asleep, sat on the floor beside your bed, singing almost silently. As you slowly slip away, he stays for a while, falling asleep himself.
Until you start thrashing and screaming for him.
He's always there, like he promised.
Except, he's not here now.
And you need him.
There you stand,
Just a monotone pallet,
If there was a color,
Created for me,
It consists in shades of three.
I see you enjoy this,
While I exploit this,
Brief insanity of mine.
Percieve and understand you,
Is far more than I can do.
Perceptions left far behind.
Your story is made up of horrible memories and painful flashbacks, but you're still playing it over in your head as you sit there, unsure of what else to do in this room. It's all monotone and grey, with a bed in the corner and tiny windows along the corners where the ceiling and walls collide, and an iron door. There isn't much else. The only other place you can walk to is your bathroom, and that's even less exciting. You're just glad that you're actually allowed in there; some kid had drowned himself in the sink a few months back, in conjunction to someone hanging themselves with the shower curtain. Curtains were replaced with metal screens and sinks with taps were demolished briefly, but soon returned with constant water supply yet a nearly flat basin, so no one got any more bright ideas.
Enough about your bathroom.
You could paint, however, and a couple of blocks of paper are stacked in the opposite corner to your bed along with a sprawled out array of paint and pencils. It's not orderly. That's because they won't let you hang the finished works on you walls, for the fear that you'll use the nails or tacks for something else. The room is about 4x3 metres, with the bathroom even smaller, and it sickens you to think that your father chose this place for you to go when he diagnosed you as a danger.
And all because you caused an accident.
Back when you could speak.
You had warned her. You told her straight.
You loved your brother.
You LOVED him.
You romantically loved him.
But she wouldn't have any of it:
You're sat on a flight of large stone steps outside your school, leading down to the back car park, and the sun is slowly setting behind the silhouettes of the autumn stripped trees.
You tell her again, you say that you love him.
"I know, and I love my sister. We all love people"
"No, what I'm saying is-"
"Kurloz, just stop. You're probably confused. I mean, you've never had a girlfriend before me, right?"
You shake your head, frankly pissed off as you turn away from her and feel around in your pocket, grasping a foil wrapper. You take out a cigarette and your lighter, and click away for a few moments, shielding the flame with your hands. She keeps rambling about how you're loving for the first time, learning how to love and blah blah blah...You zone out, dragging smoke through the filter and feeling it seep into your throat, and you almost smile.
"Kurloz, are you listening?"
"No" you admit outright with a shake of your head and the cocking of an eyebrow.
"Ugh, why do I bother? I'm saying this because I love you!"
"And I'm trying to tell you this so I don't hurt you! Now listen to me: I LOVE Gamzee, alright, Meulin?! I LOVE him. I love him to the point that I picture him when I'm kissing you, and you deserve better. You need someone to equalise your love, Meulin...It's because I love you that I'm saying this, alright?"
"You're confused. " she says, watching you take a long drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, like you're sad to see it go. She turns your face with a gentle hand, and you stare at her almost coldly. You don't love her like you used to. You don't really love her at all, it's just a strong caring, a morale-like feeling. That's the answer. You don't hesitate:
"Meulin, one question-"
She cuts you off, pressing your lips together abruptly, and you narrow your eyes; she's fucking hopeless. You know it's a desperation: she doesn't want you to leave her, she's scared, and it's ripping you apart further, and making you dislike her. You feel her image ebb away as you close your eyes, replacing her with your brother. He has softer lips than she does, for some reason, and his hands are more delicate, which is odd, too. He's a miracle, basically. Before you know it, you're kissing him, (in your head, anyway) and you reach out a hand, tilting his face to deepen your contact as you lick his bottom lip, sliding your tongue in to meet his. You let your tongue dance with his as you run a hand through his midnight curls, and you hear him let out a breathy moan as you break apart briefly, only to rush back in to the heated make-out. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, and you inch your hand down, placing it on his waist before you reach down to brush your hand over his crotch, anticipating his moans, but before you do it- SHE goddamned moves.
The girl stands, laughing lightly, "see? Just like we always were...I'll see you tomorrow at 10" she says, and pads away, just like that. You apparently dropped your cigarette during the fantasy, and you curse in the most colourful way that you have in a long while, grabbing the pack and putting it in your back pocket again. You walk away too, in opposite directions, and pad back to your manor, just hoping that Gamzee's up for what you had in mind.
He was certainly up for it, you can tell by the shade of your bed sheets and how messy your hair is when you wake up. That, and he's laid with his arms tangled around you, his head on your shoulder, snoring softly, his make-up smeared all over the place. You kiss his head and stand up slowly, easing him down, checking your phone for the time, only to nearly have a heart attack when it's 9:30. Crap. You have half an hour to get yourself into a decent frame of mind.
You stumble into your bathroom, splashing water onto your face and smoothing your hair down slightly, not bothering with brushing it; it only puffs back out, anyway. You redo your makeup with the practice that seems to run in your family, and speaking of family...Oh, yeah, mom and dad are out on some freaky yearly tradition: a trip to New York for two weeks, to celebrate their first honeymoon, and probably make more little Gamzees. You roll your eyes as you pad away again to find some clothes, and you deck yourself out in your usual default attire, walking back to your room to check on Gamzee. The younger teenager has apparently started the long process of waking up, which consists if him opening his eyes, groaning, and rolling about for a bit as he tries to find the muse to sit up and get going.
Apparently, today is a bit different, and he's already perched on the end of the bed when you walk in, and he's taken the liberty to put a pair of baggy denim jeans on, along with his shirt, of which you vaguely remember stripping him of last night, throwing it over your shoulder. He seems to have found it, regardless. You smile at him, and he grins brightly at you, holding out his arms like he did when he was younger. You wake over, embracing him warmly, and he kisses your neck and you smile, letting happiness pool over you for a change. You pull back from his embrace slowly, and you manage a quiet, "morning, babe" before he kisses you hotly, dragging his lips over yours as your tongues explore each other's mouths, your eyes fluttering shut in synchronisation. He wraps his arms around your neck, and you lean forward, deepening the contact as he moans hotly, purple dusting his cheeks as you sit back on the bed, pulling him over so he's straggling your waist, and all he does is exactly what you want him to: he runs his hands up the back of your hoodie, stopping as he grasps your shoulders, pulling himself closer to you. You don't even hear the door open three floors down as you wrap one hand around his waist to slip into the back pocket of his jeans, and you drag your free hand along his thigh, stopping right beside his crotch before you hear him whine through the kiss. You grin at the noise, pressing your hand between his legs, and he gasps as though he wasn't begging for the contact. You slip your hands into his jeans, pressing your fingers up against him, massaging him in a painfully slow manner, your face heating up as you feel how damn wet he is from this simple act, and it only makes you think about how damn much you fucking adore him. He pulls away from your mouth, resting his head on your shoulder and gasping out, "Come on~" he begs urgently, and you laugh quietly to yourself as you quicken the pace of your hand, and he moans loudly, grabbing hold of your shoulders and tensing against you, grinding onto your hand as he searches desperately for the friction. Deep purple moisture coats your fingers as you continue, only pulling away briefly (earning a distressed moan) to wet your fingers and return to palming him. "Damn, babe, what got into you?" You purr, and he just squirms in reply, thrusting against your hand. "Wasn't me fucking you enough, hm?" You question, knowing he loves it. "You're all desperate...You've never being this wet in your whole life" you remark, "Or do you just want to come for me again?" He lets out a constricted moan as you say that, and you translate it as a, "fuck, yes!" and lick up his throat, biting his neck less than gently. "What do you want?" You purr, and he throws his head back, moaning for all he's worth as you trace your hand up 'that part' of the slippery tentacle. "I-I wa- ah...I want you to..." He's gasping as you purposely palm him harder, pushing your hand through his underwear and touching the same vein over and over with each stroke. "Tell me, baby" you press, and he looks away, saliva running from his lips, "fuck, I want you to fuck me!" He wails, and you laugh at that, squeezing his ass playfully. "Go on, elaborate" you demand, and he groans at your requests, even though he's having the time of his life. "Just-don't stop, ahh- I'm begging you, don't fucking stop! " He gasps at you, still pressing himself into your hand, spreading his legs out around you, "fuck, babe...Right there, oh fuck...Ahh~"
And you hear a gasp that isn't him.
You freeze, much to his apparent distress, and you turn to see Meulin stood in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, shock painting her face. Gamzee scrambles off you quickly, and she shakes her head before erupting into fits of tears and running out of the room. You leap up and follow her, leaving purple hand prints on everything, and she sprints down the hallway, loud sobs cascading from her throat.
She's sobbing and wiping her olive eyes with her small fists, and she shakes her head again, backing away from you as your corner her at the end of the long hallway, reaching out your hands to her, shaking lightly, and she scrambles into the corner like she can just fall back and tumble away from you. You take her narrow shoulders in your gloved hands, and she coughs out a shaky, broken glass, just like a shattered mirror, fragments spiralling everywhere.
"How could you do this to me?"
The shards cut you, but your blood is boiling as your eyes flicker blindly, and a smile slowly creeps across your lips, and you let out a small laugh.
"How could I do this? I, ME? I warned you...I FUCKING TOLD YOU. I TOLD you yesterday that I love him, you wouldn't listen; you're too scared. You need me to love you...But I can't, and you need better"
"No, you don't mean it..."
"I DO, I DO MOTHERFUCKING MEAN IT, YOU STUPID BITCH!" You roar suddenly, unaware that you were capable of such noise, and she flinches, hands flying to her face to shield herself, but the fear in her eyes doesn't stop you as you scream random abuse at her, hardly even thinking.
"And you NEVER. FUCKING. LISTEN!" You scream finally, and she's slid back down the wall, hands clamped over her ears and green tears streaming and pouring over her face. You finally silence yourself when you hear her sob loudly and push her way past you as she rises shakily to her feet, and she rushes across the hall and down the stairs, yelling for help and crying loudly. She races out of the huge double doors, throwing herself out onto the street.
"Meulin, wait, I'm sorry-"
You're cut off again.
She screams as the 4x4 Land Rover crashes into her slim frame, and with a splash of blood, her body falls back into the tarmac, her limbs bent, and blood seeping from her neck. You stare, bend over, and vomit violently across your dad's bike, which he won't appreciate, and tears run from your eyes.
She was suppose to be your new morale.
You never wanted her to die.~~~***~~~
Maybe we're all insane.
The way that we live,
Reminiscing for the head game.
What if we're all insane?
I'm feeling so damn hollow,
Staring into the eyes of tomorrow.
You were the first to run out into the road and grasp her in your arms, lifting her head onto your lap, whispering her name as her eyes fluttered shut and you held her, and she couldn't manage a word as you watched small streams of green run from under the line of her dark curls, trailing down her perfect face.
You wish you could have seen her smile.
That beautiful smile.
The way her eyes lit up.
But those eyes were jaded. Her smile was erased and reduced to a tiny gap on her face, thin rivulets of olive tracing the corners of her lips.
What's worse, she couldn't even hear you say that you loved her as you scooped her limp body into your arms and carried her close to you. It was a bad idea that the doctors took her body away from you after you called 999, because you could finally get a good look at her killer.
Well, it was you, but the one in the car, a tall man with thin features and a face that looked at you like you were something from a Tim Burton movie. That was one of your favourite self-compliments.
You ran at him then, your eyes flashing lucid magenta, and you threw your body at him and just smashed your fists into his jaw as you crouched over his shaking frame. You didn't stop until you saw transparent tears running down his cheeks, and you only stood up and staggered away when you could see her, screaming under you as you caused her yet more agony. Gamzee ran out of the house then, eyes scanning over the scene and his mouth falling open as he saw you, shaking, holding your arms and letting royal purple tears flow from your eyes. He ran over to you, holding out his arms, and you literally fell into his embrace, holding him and crying full-out, hiding your face from the world.
Your name is Kurloz Makara.
And you killed the girl you loved.
Hours in the future, but not many...
She died that night in a hospital bed, with you holding her hand and crying almost constantly, silent tears running down your cheeks as she just lay there, her beautiful eyes shut almost naturally, like she was simply asleep. There were various wires hooked up to her, and she just didn't look...Right, with the translucent mask over her lips and tubes up the sleeves of her green woollen jumper. She wouldn't have slept like that; she slept curled up like a cat, her limbs all tucked together and a smile on her face.
She'd died screaming.
"I love you" you whispered again, even though you knew now that she couldn't hear you.
"I love you more than I deserve..."
Your breath hitches as you rest your head on the cold metal bard surrounding her bed, and you sob louder, shutting your eyes as your black curls fall across your face like curtains. You wish you could do that, pull fabric and watch the problems melt away, shut out the part of the world you don't want and only let in who you want.
"And I'm sorry, Meulin...I'm so, so sorry...You can't hear me, but I'm sorry...You're an angel, and angels should never touch the ground...So that demons like me can't hurt them..." you whisper, shaking your head as you lean over and kiss her. You stand up, then, still holding her hand as you look over her body, and the small line indicating her heartbeat is shallowing out on the screen on one of the machines, like your lips drank the life out of her.
You lay her hand over her chest and place her other hand atop it as though she's shielding her heart from any pain or poison, and you hope she will, if there is an afterlife. You look around for something that you're unsure of, although you can feel something...Something that can round off what is unfinished. Ah, you know now as you walk to the opposite side of the small room, plucking a white lily from a tall green vase on a windowsill. You open the window while you're at it, letting the evening breeze into her room, and you tuck the stem of the flower under her palms, and you kiss her lips for the last time. As if upon cue, the beeps of her pulse die out into one endless noise as you pull away.
You walk slowly out of the ward, ignoring the rushing nurses and you pad down the tiled hall, like a ghost, eyes on the floor, and this results on you walking head-on into a tall figure, and you force your gaze upwards. Your father stands taller than you, nearly 4 feet taller, and he scowls at you, like he usually does, and you feel tears in your eyes as you stare at him, shaking.
Where your mother was, you didn't know, but she was probably back in the waiting room with Gamzee. He was always so close to your parents. He must have called them, and they came back from their honeymoon. Oh dear God, he must be angry with you. You briefly wonder how he got here in the space of mere hours, then you remember that it was only a 2-hour flight from Cyprus, or some complicated country like that. Humans name them so many strange things, like England and Germany, and Greece, America...North and South, and they put all the little countries into little groups, seven of them, and call them 'continents'. How stupid, what a waste of time.
You let a tear drip from your right eye as your gaze drifts back to your feet, and you're shocked as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you to his chest, and your eyes snap open; its been years since he last hugged you. You return the gesture and hide your face in his clothing and cry, for the second time that day, and he smoothes your hair down as you sob, shaking your head and keeping your eyes shut, isolating yourself in the dark bliss.
"I'm sorry, daddy" you whisper, and he just shakes his head at you, pushing your shoulders back down so your face is pressed against his chest again, and you just cry quietly, like you always have. Your sobs are so quiet that you're almost silent when you cry, which is good, because you hate it when people see you cry. You don't know why you act like a child and call him daddy, like you did when you were 3 sweeps old, but he doesn't respond to you verbally, which usually means he doesn't mind. Gamzee still calls him that, even at the grand age of 16 (in these human 'years'. They're just less than a sweep, and it only complicates things), and he never says anything to spite him.
The nurses come out then, spurting out all the ritual-like routine information that they were spoon-fed back in university, (or whatever it's called) bombarding you with the causes of Meulin's death and all the other stuff that you don't care to remember. One of the women says that it's not your fault, that you didn't do it, and nor was it the car guy's fault, either; it was a simple car accident, and you had never intended for her to run out of the door and be smashed across the road by a 4X4 truck. Well, words to that effect, anyway. It was a lovers quarrel, she says, and you feel like smashing your fist across her pretty little face.
"I'm a murderer"
"No, no you're not. Don't you ever say that"
You know he only says that because humans think murder is wrong. He'd be living in a prison if he'd culled all the trolls he's culled on the shared planet, the newer world. He wouldn't be holding you; he'd be rotting in a cell, just like you are at the present time, which is a couple of years into the future, but not many, from that time.
You are slowly pushed away by your shoulders as your father looks down at you, and he simply says, "Come on, your mother is waiting for you"