Perfect Silence
By the Idiosyncratic Wordsmith
A hush fell around the void of the Furthest Ring.
Or at least, it felt like it. Obviously, other dream bubbles were still busy chattering and talking and interacting, but this particular memory, this sliver of the void, this private sphere of existence within nonexistence, had fallen quite silent, indeed. Only the sounds of distant waves crashing upon a shoreline and tropical wind blowing through the jungle below gave ambience to the scene unfolding on the cliff which hosted two dreamers.
They had visited each other here every night for several nights now, after discovering a means by which to keep in consistent contact. Their first meeting had been tumultuous, filled with grief and pain and much struggle. But since then, they had opened to one another, and the warmth of their affections flowed between them freely. They would spend their time dreaming talking to one another, regaling one another with stories of their past, of their cultural histories, with jokes and questions and laughter. Their nights were spent here on this starlit natural vista, filling the void with the sounds of their friendship.
But tonight, the void was silent. The laughter was stilled, the jokes held back, the questions restrained. The cacophony of conversation had been hushed, and the symphony of silence had taken its place. Unlike its rapturous cousin, this symphony was a soft, silent thing - not quite so melodic, never focusing on any single note, but rather bringing the various sections of the ensemble of the environment into harmonious union. The waves crashing upon the shore provided the percussive beat which gave time and rhythm to the silence. The breeze blowing through the leaves below gave a harmonic chord of airy resonance and a pitter-pattering moving line of rustling leaves. The chirping and buzzing and flapping and calling of the various birds, insects, and beasts in the jungle below gave a counter-melody to the breezy leaves, never overpowering the hushed chords of air and rustling but ever-present and giving their own melodic line to the symphonic quiet which permeated the memory.
Sitting upon the vista was the audience to this orchestra of clamorous calm - one a Witch of Space, gifted with the ears of a hound, capable of hearing the whole of the performance unfolding before them. Along with her sat the Knight of Blood, his Alternian audiationarial organs biologically designed to allow him to also detect the hushed hums of harmony. Together they sat upon the brown stone, the twinkling stars overhead, the new moon a shadowy circle upon the sky, the fireflies and other bioluminescent species upon the isle twinkling in the canopy a few hundred feet below. The Witch was leaning into the Knight, half a head short of his height, both her hands clasping one of his own, while he leaned his body over hers, his free arm reaching over her shoulders in a warm display of intimacy. Neither spoke - they neither desired to shatter the silence, nor to voice the words passing in their heads, for they were words which would soil the happy atmosphere they had shared up until this point. Indeed, it would prove obvious to those versed in the nature of relationships such as these that such a point would be reached where the simple bliss of being with each other would wear thin, and they would have to find bliss not in each other's mere presence but in each other's person, as well.
In the terms of the laymen, they had reached the end of the honeymoon phase, and now the real struggles of being in a relationship would set in.
On the part of the Knight, it was his own vacillating feelings for the Seer of Mind on their voyage. An old flame dies down slow, it was said by someone at some point, surely, and she was the oldest flame he had. Perhaps they might have been a thing at one point, but that point was surely far in the past now. But if there is anything which stokes the flames of feelings felt no more, it was jealousy - jealousy, and a sense of inadequacy. And those two factors were in no shortage within the mind of the Knight. Seeing his former flame carousing about with such a despicable and aloof shithead as Dave "Cool Kid" Strider rose his considerable ire, and made him want all the more to prove that he was, in fact, a capable matesprit - even if the only one needing proof was himself. But it wracked him with guilt, these feelings; the fact that his own jealousy was still being risen by someone other than the Witch - other than Jade - made him feel unfaithful, even promiscuous. He struggled with the self-hatred this generated, which compounded with all the other sources of loathing towards himself he felt. Indeed, he had begun considering withdrawing from Jade until he figured himself out - which he knew would be never.
Jade, however, had her own concerns. She had noticed Karkat's increasing lack of joy at being with her - not that she would say he was displeased to be around her, of course, but it seemed like something was nagging at him. Which in turn, made her feel self-conscious. Was she doing something wrong? Was there something she had failed to do? Is it possible that she had not been living up to some troll cultural expectation? She knew she had done something wrong, failed some how, but she didn't care for her failure, she wanted to know how she could right whatever wrong she had made. Karkat was the blood in her veins, he brought her life when she felt like she had nothing to live for. If she couldn't make him happy, she wasn't paying the favor back. And that made her feel like she was a real failure. She failed to save John and Davesprite - was she going to fail Karkat, too? The idea of spending the rest of her long journey across the Yellow Yard with that on her heart on top of the deaths she's already faced broke her even more than dealing with the deaths alone. She felt like she should do something, say something, talk to him, fix things…
But neither of them said a word to each other. Because neither of them wanted to risk what they had.
So instead, they sat there, beneath twinkling stars, above flashing fireflies, listening to distant waves and rustling leaves and blowing wind and chirps and buzzes and flaps and calls, cloaked in each other's hollow warmth, enshrouded in their own fears and insecurities, deafened by perfect silence.
But the silence would be shattered, not by sound, but with action.
Jade pulled away from the embrace, unable to speak of her worries but refusing not to address them, causing Karkat to silently take his arm off her shoulders and move it to cover her own hands. He stared at her, confusion in his eyes, speckled with worry - had she had enough? Was this it? Their last goodbye before he left her alone to withdraw into his own shadow and be consumed by his own hatred? Jade stared back at him, seeing the fear in his eyes, and knew that she had to do something. She slowly slid her hands out of his - and the fear in his heart turned to growing pain. This was it, wasn't it? He looked into those jade eyes, and saw the sparkling stars dancing in them, waltzing with the tenderness within like silk and satin weaving around together. He gathered his breath, inhaling, preparing to speak, to break the silence, to commit himself - but never got the chance.
Just before his vocal cords could so much as flex, his midsection was caged by her arms, hugging him tightly and showing absolutely no signs of faltering or wavering or so much as loosening their grip. He was so caught off guard, that the air he had taken into his lungs was released in a soft sigh which merely gave a slight, shimmering dissonant note to the harmonious chord of the wind. She held him like that, face buried into his chest, holding him like the most precious of things, gripping him like one would grip an open wound dripping blood. The scent of his body filled her lungs, and so the presence of his being filled her soul. She only hoped that he would be filled with her, as well.
He sat there, dumbly, blushing red, confused, before a familiar sensation brought him to his senses. A slight, percussive pattern - 1, 2… 1, 2… 1, 2… 1, 2… - patting against his diaphragm. Her heartbeat, though not hammering as it was when first he felt it, was still just as recognizable as ever, and gave a new counter-rhythm to the crashing of the waves. He felt something else, too: the slow, steady way her chest fell and rose with her breathing. It was like a secondary harmony backing up the blowing of the breeze. Slowly, gradually, he felt himself being taken in by her own solos of silence, and felt his own heart begin to beat more in time with hers, his own breath join her harmony, his own quietus joining hers.
She could feel it, too: all the tension in his muscles was melting away, his heart beat was calming, his breath was easing. After a moment or two of confusion and hesitation, he wrapped his own arms back around her chest, nuzzling his head into her voluminous midnight black hair. The solos became duets, and they sat there, embracing one another, fully, truly, filling themselves with each other. He stroked her hair, and she rubbed his back. It was bliss, but not the same kind they had felt those first few nights - it was a calmer thing, a quieter thing… a more sustainable thing.
He could sense that he would still struggle to come to terms with his faded feelings for Terezi, especially with her hanging out so much with Dave, but he also knew that he had no reason to break Jade's heart. He wouldn't ever leave her for Terezi, not now, not ever. She was his everything, his sky, his stars, his galaxy, his world. She filled the deep dark blackness of his heart with starshine and moonlight in ways that Terezi never would - nor could, nor ever did. Sitting there with her, caged by her arms, steadied by the tempo of her heart beat, warmed by the heat in her veins, he knew: He loved Jade Harley, and Jade Harley, no matter how often he tried to convince himself otherwise, loved him.
She could tell that this would not be the end of anything, of course. She knew that something would always be wrong - he had said as much when talking about his favorite romantic stories. No matter how well off the ending of the novel leaves the couple, there's always a potential for a sequel where something goes wrong, because no true love goes without struggle. But she was OK with that. She was alright with fighting their demons together - because that's what it was. She didn't have anybody weighing her down - for better for or for worse - and it's not like Karkat had any shortage of inner demons. But if there was anything she had learned from her immense studies of physics, it was the simple fact that, subjected to enough powerful radiation, anything and everything burns away. She would be the stars to his sky and flood the void in his heart with her love until it was filled with nothing but light.
And so it was that the Witch of Space and the Knight of Blood sat, embracing one another, beneath a starry sky, above a twinkling forest canopy, as the symphony of silence played its hushed tune all around them, as their hearts and breaths rang out quietly above it all. The breeze's harmonic chords shone like silver with their quieted breathing inserted into them; the pitter-patter of the rustling leaves accompanied the soft pumping of their hearts. The crashing of the waves roiled on, and the chirping, the buzzing, the flapping, and the calling fell into a silent unison.
They sat there, beneath twinkling stars, above flashing fireflies, listening to distant waves and rustling leaves and blowing wind and chirps and buzzes and flaps and calls, wrapped in each other's arms, immersed in their rhythms and notes, as the Witch of Space lifted up her head, and kissed her Knight with all the loudness of a whisper, and all the sounds of perfect silence.