And now Gamzee's perspective. Second person is interesting when you're not used to swearing, can I just say that?
You're such an idiot.
Such a mother fucking idiot.
If anything happens, it's all your fault.
He was right, you know he was. He found your stash. You haven't touched it, it was there as sort of a test, that's why you didn't get rid of it. You promised him you'd sober up, but you wanted to make sure your self control wouldn't ever slip, so you left some hidden away...This is bullshit. You know exactly why you didn't get rid of the last of it. You know damn motherfucking well. He had every right to be mad. You'd promised him!
At the time, you yelled in his face that you only promised to try. Your own words swing back and hit you, full force, shot straight to your heart. You pushed the line too far, and now he might be hurt, he might be dying, he might already be...
The thought causes your heart to leap to your throat, painfully. With a strangled sound similar to a sob, you pick up your pace a bit, barely keeping in mind the fact that running when it's cold is a bad idea, because you'll sweat, and the sweat will freeze. It's hard to care about that sort of thing when your best friend, the most important person in you fucking life, your motherfucking world, is missing.
You should have gone out after him the moment that the EBS came on the television. As soon as they gave that snow warning, you should have been out that door, looking for him.
You should have gone after him the moment he left, actually. That would've been better for everyone. But you played the pride game, and look where it's gotten you.
It took about five minutes for worry to win out over stubbornness, after the EBS went off. You called his cell, to check in and say that maybe he should come home, or find somewhere to stay or something.
He didn't answer.
And suddenly, you weren't angry anymore. Not a bit, not one motherfucking bit. There was no trace of anything in you except for a paralyzing, thought-numbing chill. It shook you to your core. You pulled on your winter clothes faster than you ever had before and were out that door like a rabbit on the run from a tiger.
You've been out here ever since, your thumb poised constantly to redial his number, with a tension that would be the envy of any sharpshooter. Every time you hit the voicemail message, you end the call and redial, hoping against hope that he'll answer, that he's just spiting you, that he's still mad like he has every right to be, but you just have this horrible lump in your gut. It feels dark and ugly, and is sends whispers up into your mind no matter how hard you fight them, that he's probably already too far gone. He's dead or dying and it's all your fault, all your fault, all your motherfucking FAULT.
All you can do is call, and walk as fast as you can without running, and call his name, hoping he'll answer.
Your throat starts hurting, and you start to sound a bit like a goat with how hoarse you're getting, but you keep yelling as loud as you can, and inside you're screaming, wailing, pleading for a miracle. He's the only thing that's kept your sanity together since you quit smoking those damn things, and if you lose him...
You can't lose him.
You just can't.
You must've dialed his number fifty times when you realize you hear music. Not just any music, though. You've heard this song a thousand times, although it's usually accompanied by a lot of swearing. It's Karkat's ringtone. He's somewhere close.
That giant lump in your stomach shoot straight up to your throat, pulsing along with your heart there, the two of them threatening to choke you. You swallow anxiously, and move toward the sound, across the street, toward a bus stop. You forget logic and dash forward with a horrified sob when you spot the painfully small shape slouched over in the corner of the tiny, three-walled structure. You hang up your phone, pocketing it, and crouch by your friend's side. Shaking him gently, you call out his name, barely managing to get it out.
Touching his skin is like touching ice. His eyes are glossy. But he's shivering, and you can just barely make out the rise and fall of his narrow chest, and you can hear his raspy breathing if you're quiet.
You say his name again, and he lifts his head a bit, eyelids half covering his eyes, his expression one of total exhaustion.
You slip out of your coat - you hardly feel the cold with it on, and you were already wearing a pretty heavy jacket - and wrap it around his trembling frame. You discover a reservoir of self-control you never knew existed, and manage to keep yourself from shaking as hard as he is, as you pick him up and head in the direction of home. He barely acknowledges you, if at all. The entire journey back, you hold him close, whispering the same thing over and over, begging him not to die.
You're such a motherfucking idiot.
I tend to torture my favorite characters did I forget to mention that