This fic was inspired by Benderstuck, an askblog-adventure-thing on tumblr. If you're not familiar with the layout, you might want to check that out first, but it might be a bit self-explanatory.
You blame Dave. You blame Dave and the ironic good will he sent with the gift. You blame the merchant he bought it from, you blame the man who brewed the foul concoction, you blame the delivery boy who brought it to your door step, you blame your parents for working in the coal mines all day, and you blame yourself for thinking it would be a good idea to take a sip. You blame the ink pen and the ratty parchment for being accessible to your prone self. You blame the boredom and curiosity of a wandering Messenger Hawk, who seemed relieved to have a place to be and a package to deliver.
In short, you're an honest and brazen drunk who made a fatal mistake.
You don't remember exactly what the note said, in fact; you don't remember half the things you should the next morning. Everything is gone, your whole mind blank, and it hurts to try and reach for anything in your memories beyond the blinding light. Your head is racing like the pumping of ostrich-horse limbs riding through the wind, you see blobs of color, some faded, some bursting, all killing your rods and cones. The low hum of your own strained moan is a searing explosion, like the barrel of an active gun made with the spare parts of your ear drums. It's all in all much worse than what you've heard about hangovers. But thankfully, or rather, unfortunately, it clears much quicker than you had anticipated and your memories are a reward for your new-found sobriety. Now you can remember what the note said, and who you sent it to.
You hurl right into an open basin for reasons completely unrelated to your previous intoxication. Oh gosh, you're dead. You're beyond dead. You beat out doornails in a dead competition.
You need some time to think about this, maybe a walk around the colony to clear your head?
The atmosphere's a lot better outside, and doesn't reek of booze and vomit, which is a nice change of pace for your morning. You take a long drink of the crisp air, and start your journey down the dirt path. It curves off into the forest, where foliage hangs threateningly overhead, dancing in the fresh rays of the sun. You let what might pass for a smile flit across your face and take a stride toward the woods. But mid-step, your eyes catch on a chestnut shirshu and its beauty of a master. People filter between and around the two of you, but all you can see is Terezi as her lips tug slightly upward.
There were so many things you could've done at this moment in time. You could play dumb and pretend whatever she got via Messenger Hawk was a prank from John. John liked pranks, right? That'd be a good excuse. You could've played it off cool and confident, maybe at least then you would've retained some dignity. Maybe you could've told her the truth? That you were completely drunk while writing it and you're sorry for the inconvenience? You could at least say sorry. Or pretend like you don't care one way or another?
Instead you turned on your heel, and darted the other way in the most shameful form of retreat. Instead of all the other perfect options you could've went with, you ran like a polar-dog with its tail behind its legs. Inwardly, you were killing yourself a thousand times over, each a cruel and unusual end. Outwardly, you were pushing bystanders out of your way and flying by on the high of adrenaline, fear fueling your spirited run. You could hear people cry out maledictions and ladies scream "'Out of the street, you dirt-cheap peasant," as a herald to your arrival and departure. You were careful to mask your scent, even while sprinting with reckless abandon, by knocking trash bins to their sides, slipping your hands into perfume pots, and shaking the excess fluid everywhere. Even though you're reminded by the merchant selling the perfume that what you just spilled was worth more than your entire life, you can't bring yourself to care. All that occurs to you is that you should blame Dave. Dave and the ironic good will he sent with the gift. You wish you could choke him right now, but that wouldn't get you anywhere in your current scenario. All you can do is run, and get hackled, and throw fearful glances behind you. Of course, she's running after you, on her shirshu, no less. Terezi could never back down from a good hunt, especially if the odds were stacked in her favor. You slip around a back alley after rubbing yourself raw with corn hanging from a monger's stand, and dive into a particularly large trash bin, the kind that murderers stuff their deceased victims in. You shiver at the thought of having a corpse in your company, but other than that, you're undeterred and certainly not moving. You hear the thundering footfalls of her loyal beast and the deep inhale of its grand nostrils. Your stomach is doing so many flips you're afraid the sound might alert her. But you can't move. You're literally petrified with fear.
In retrospect, it probably wasn't Dave's fault. Maybe he was actually trying to get along with you for a change. He knew it was your birthday, and he sent a nice gift. You're the one who downed the whole thing out of curiosity. You're the one who wrote that stupid, sappy, love note. You're the pathetic loser who fell in love with a sociopathic, blind girl. It's all your fault. You led yourself on, believing in the far off wish that she could reciprocate such feelings for a "dirt-cheap" colonial peasant. A famous ex-military and a piss-poor nobody. You're trash, you're nothing. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? How mind-numbing was Dave's gift that it let you forget all of that for a second?
The footfalls continue onwards, ignorant of your location, and fade off into the distance. You take a shaky breath and emerge from the trash bin. You take the scenic route home to avoid the angry merchants out for your head.
When you finally return home, making sure all the way to mask your scent, its sunset and both your parents still aren't back from the coal mines. You fall right on the ratty sofa once you make it inside and breathe in the musky scent of the old cushions your face is buried in. You just want to curl up and die, but you're unfortunately not going to of natural causes any time soon. Though, that would've been nice at a time like this, you settle for a less permanent solution. Your eyes droop shut as sleep claims you.
When you wake up in the morning, it's noon, and there are traces of your mother and father, proof that they had come and gone once again without a word, lying haphazardly around the house. There's a note left by your mother on the short coffee table, entailing your day's chores, and the ones you missed from yesterday. You release a melodramatic sigh that only meets your ears before picking up a straw broom and getting to work cleaning the house.
You used to go to school once upon a time, but your mother wanted to work in the coal mines for more money and you weren't going to stop her. You now keep up her job as a cleaning service to her usual customers, as well as to your own home. But the loss of an education isn't really a low blow for you. No one really liked you over there anyway. Most firebenders didn't want to be told that it was wrong to abuse their fellow earthbending classmates, and you didn't want to stop standing up for what's right. Naturally, there was some unavoidable ostracism. Some even went as far as ganging up on you. Most still do. You can hear them mocking you outside Mrs. Rolinda's window every day after school; they really get a kick out of your apron, and say whatever they can to get you angry, which, to be honest, isn't much. You politely show them the bird, and continue with your work as oblivious as you can. Once you start indulging them, you find there's not enough time to finish your work, or that they stick around longer. When they stick around longer and bother Mrs. Rolinda, it comes out of your paycheck.
Luckily, you cleaned quicker than normal, in a speedy stupor to get your mind off yesterday, and you're practically done by the time the students come around. All you have to do is thank Mrs. Rolinda for her business in that fake saccharine voice, and you're on your way back home to start cooking dinner. You're almost to her room to do just that, when the heckling starts.
"Hey, Footstool! Footstool, with the apron!"
"Don't be shy!"
"We've got a deal for you!"
"My mom needs a maid too!"
The group erupts in raucous laughter that teeters on hysteria.
"Why don't we treat you to dinner, Footstool?"
"Yeah, you look like you need it!"
"Skin and bones! That's no way for a man to live!"
"Man? What man? All I see is a Footstool!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Rolinda. Have a nice day." You say as brightly as you can, biting back all the curse words that froth at your mouth.
"You're welcome, Karkat." She replies, but you can't hear her over the flippant echoes of "Thank you, Mrs. Rolinda" resounding from outside.
"Have a ni—" one kids stops mid-sentence. You can't hear a thing from the rest of them, as if they had all vanished. But you know better than that. Outside the window, you can see her shirshu, Melonsnout.
You decide to leave through the back exit, but she's right outside when you emerge. The shirshu was just a decoy.
Now, you had the same choices this time around as you did the last. You could apologize, say it was John, blame it on Dave, play it cool, fake apathy…
Melonsnout comes around the bend and she jumps onto its back, smiling at you because she knows she's the cat in this game of cat and mouse.
"Terezi…" you start, but she cuts you off.
"Uh-uh. We'll talk after. You won last round, but can you win again?"
You bite the inside of your mouth and try again.
"Come on…"
"Uh! What did I say?" she taps the reins impatiently, "You're the one who wanted to run. So, run." You can hear the tinged hurt in her words.
It stings a bit, but you know this isn't going to go anywhere if you don't give her what she wants. You turn to run, and for a moment you think she's gracefully let you go, but the sharp pain of its whip-like tongue snags you on the back and a warm and familiar numbness overtakes your muscles, as if you're trying to move in cemented molasses. You distantly note the small victory over the hecklers, seeing as though they went down before you did.
But that's only distantly, because Terezi is in the foreground of your thoughts now. She's moving closer to your person, and you're expecting the unexpected at this point. It derails you, the crushing suspense, waiting to see if she's going to laugh in your face at the thought or put you down with at least a degree of gentleness. You're terrified out of your wits, wallowing in fright that eats at your heart and elicits heavy perspiration. We're talking Equius-heavy perspiration.
"Terezi…" you whisper desperately, more to yourself as a silent prayer than to her.
She throws you over her shoulder like a sack of harvested potatoes and unloads you onto Melonsnout.
"Oh. I almost forgot."
She hits you upside of the head and you black out.
AN:
Could be a second chapter, you know, if you review.