Happy Johnkat day!
I had wanted to do more to celebrate, like update all my stories or write a fluffy oneshot, but I had things to do for most of the day and it took me HOURS to write this update, so that's proooobably not going to happen.
Oh well.
More religious mentions in this chapter. This includes the Sabbath (*spoiler:* though I just thought it was an interesting idea. I just used it so angels could communicate to each other between Earth and Heaven on this day) and mentions of the Holy Spirit.
ALSO WARNING: Mental illness used/addressed WHATEVER in this chapter. See end notes for more details if you're worried about it. I would put a little link to the bottom of the page for easier use, but I have no idea how to do that.
Also, bad beginning. I got pretty into it in the middle, though, so hopefully that'll be pretty decent. I'll admit, the "you" in this chapter is kind of obvious. Whoops.
John woke up to a heart that felt hollow and cold, as if a parasite had burrowed into the cardiac muscle overnight and had fled before John could wake up, leaving behind a gaping, bleeding hole.
His glasses weren't on, so everything around him was a blur of various grays and muted color. Patting around with his hands, he found that 1) he was in a rather large bed, much larger than the one at Jane's house. 2) He was alone, the space beside him dented where another body had once lain. 3) His boxers were around his ankles and his hips and torso were covered in dried semen.
He grimaced and moved to get out of the bed. John was able to stumble over to what appeared to be a bookshelf with his clothes on top of it—oh. Right, right. He remembered this now.
Last night he . . . did things with Karkat. A virtual stranger, one he had only just met yesterday, despite the fact that Karkat had acted as his literal guardian angel until recently.
Oh man. He actually sexed up a fallen angel. What if that had some sort of holy consequences? Like, what if he was going to go to Hell now because he "corrupted" an angel of the Lord? Was that a thing? Could that happen?
John bit his lip and wiggled into his clothes from yesterday, mind tumbling. He needed to ask Karkat about this, and possibly about why the angel had tried to have intercourse with him in the first place. It had been rather hurried and random, yes, but the more John thought on it, the less he understood why Karkat would try to engage in sexual acts with him. Wasn't Karkat supposed to like, protect him and stuff? Didn't have sex with the person you wanted to protect seem kind of . . . wrong?
Whatever. He could just go ask Karkat, wherever the guy was.
Why was that, anyway? In the movies the newly-sexified couples always woke up and cuddled together and were all cutesy. This was definitely not cuddly or cutesy, and while John did feel not a small pang of regret at having sex with Karkat, he'd have much rather woken up all lovey-dovey than alone, even if it would have been slightly awkward.
Maybe Karkat didn't care. Maybe Karkat was, like, sulking shamefully in a corner somewhere.
John decided to leave his shoes, socks, shirt, and suit jacket off for now, instead opting for trousers and his glasses before wandering out of the bedroom to see if he could find Karkat in the living room or kitchen.
Karkat ended up standing on the line where the carpet ended and the tile of the living room and kitchen respectively began (or maybe it was the other way around), his back to John, elbows folded in such a way that Egbert could guess his husband was holding something up to his mouth. He was dressed, too, in what looked to be pressed black dress pants, shiny dress shoes, and a white button-up shirt. It was too perfect an opportunity, really, and while John might have now been an adult, the Egbert prankster's gambit was an inherited trait that would never leave him.
The floor was carpeted, but John Egbert, Master Prankster and Super-Awesome Friendleader would take no chances. He tiptoed, every step careful, light, not allowing his feet to slide across the floor or rest too heavily. Karkat never bothered to turn around and look at him, which John counted as a success for his amazing stealth skills.
He was almost directly behind Karkat, ready to do something—anything, maybe yell, maybe jab his fingers into the angel's ribs—when Karkat's flat voice announced, "Egbert, I swear to the holiest of angels if you do what I think you're going to do, I can and will lock you in the bedroom with nothing but the oldest, most boring Bible I can possibly find until you can recite the entire thing with your eyes closed."
John pouted but dropped his hands, moving around so he could stand face-to-face with Karkat. If he wasn't mistaken, Karkat's eyes dipped down briefly, running over his exposed torso before flashing back to John's eyes, cheeks dusted lightly and eyes a tad darker.
Well, they did sleep together last night. It was only to be expected they would feel a bit more . . . something towards the other's body, right?
"Mornin' to you too," John greeted with a goofy grin.
"Good morning," Karkat muttered into a steaming mug, lifting it up until it hid his mouth and chin.
There was a slightly awkward silence, but it barely survived for a whole second before John was opening his mouth to speak again. He couldn't help it; he hated this sort of silence! "So, uh . . . why are you wearing that? Are you going somewhere already?" His eyes darted to the digital clock on the microwave, catching the digital numbers 8:16.
"Sorry, I didn't mean for you to wake up before I got back." Karkat shrugged, mug descending so John could once again see those black lips and pointed chin, flashbacks to those same lips pressing against his ear and neck last night invading his mind. Stop! We'll deal with that later! "I'm heading off to the church."
"Church?" John parroted, until he realized that yeah, Karkat was an angel. Of course he would go to church. Duh.
Karkat shot him a look that read along the same lines, rolling his fiery eyeballs before explaining, "If I go to holy grounds on the Sabbath—and just so you know, yes, churches are holy grounds. Yes, the Sabbath is Sunday—I can talk to the angels and God in Heaven. It's the only time and place we can communicate, so I fully plan to use and abuse the privilege, thanks."
"Oh! Cool! Can I come?"
Another incredulous look. "John, you don't even have any clothes yet. No, you can't fucking come. Just stay here for right now and go back to sleep or something."
"Oh yeah," he deflated, shoulders slumping and lips twisting into a frown.
Karkat looked away from him. "I'll be back soon enough. Feel free to shower and wear anything that suits your fancy in my closet. It's all casual wear."
"Thanks."
John guessed they weren't going to talk about last night after all. It was disappointing and a bit alarming; his father had always taught him that communication was key to any close relationship, and here he was years later, not properly communicating with his spouse.
Maybe . . . Maybe he should bring it up?
"Um, Karkat," John started awkwardly, fumbling for words. He needed to say something, he knew it, but when the angel trained those fiery eyes on him and his words slid through the air between them, his heart began to pound with reluctance and uncertainty. What if Karkat didn't want to talk about it? What if there was something here John wasn't seeing? Something important?
It had happened in the middle of the night . . . So what if it had all been a dream?
But no. John woke up naked for Pete's sakes! Why else would his underwear be around his ankles in the morning? They definitely did stuff last night.
"Are you going to spit it out or are you going to continue opening and closing your mouth like a bulge-sucking sex worker?" Karkat demanded, cutting into John's thoughts.
He felt himself go hot. Gosh, please don't be blushing. Please don't be blushing. "Uh, yeah, about that. Do, er, you remember last night?"
The angel's face went cold for the first time since John had met him, expression hardening. Cruel and closed off and deadly, and while some would have been frightened, John was just . . . hurt. Somehow, he had the feeling that Karkat was throwing him out of the angel's soft spots.
"What about it?" Karkat questioned, voice strangely emotionless, eyes flicking away from his.
"I . . . Just, um. Are you attracted to me?"
Oh no. No. John did not just blurt that out. He did not say that aloud to the husband he just met yesterday.
But oh, he did! Karkat's eyes were widened and his whole body seemed to freeze in place, breath held and everything. All of it was bad, very bad, warnings shrieking through John's head and yet he just kept talking.
"I mean, we are married, so it's perfectly fine, and I'm assuming if you were open to sex with me you couldn't be repulsed by my looks, but. I was just curious. Like is sex going to be a thing we're going to keep doing? Because I wouldn't mind if it was, and—and I'm going to try really hard to shut up now. Haha." It was the worst fake laugh he had ever tried for, but Karkat still hadn't recovered from his shock enough to react.
This is why John couldn't keep secrets. It took no time at all for them to build and build and compress until John spewed everything on his brain right out. Boy, he had really dug himself a fit little grave this time around.
But gosh, he really didn't want to screw this up. Karkat was an angel—a guardian angel. His angel. This guy was supposed to be a good guy, and what's more, John's lifelong husband! What would it mean if he ruined a relationship with a person like Karkat? How would they be able to do marriage things or live together peacefully?
"I—" Karkat closed his mouth, swallowed, and opened it again. No sound came out. He ran a hand over his face, carefully not looking at John, before ducking his head and turning to walk towards the door.
Crap. No, no, no! He couldn't leave yet! This was Bad! Very Bad! John needed to stop him right now and fix this!
John opened his mouth and tried to say something, anything, but he couldn't think of anything to say but "Karkat", which helped absolutely no one. His throat constricted as he watched Karkat hurriedly put on his scarf, sunglasses, and gloves, leaving the apartment in a rush of fly-away hairs and hidden eyes.
Great. Only a few hours in, and John had already made his husband flee his own apartment.
You slept through your alarm again.
You could hear it ringing distantly, your brain sluggish, heavy as you dragged yourself to the annoying shores of consciousness, where the world was too bright, too ignorant of its own vicious flaws.
Lifting your head from your pillow was a struggle, gravity and exhaustion weighing on your skull, trying to force it back down into the puddle of drool you created as you slept. You paid it no true attention; instead you focused on the grating blare of your alarm clock, screeching high-pitched and awful right into your ear.
You tore its plug from the wall and chucked it across the room with no shame or remorse, sighing when you heard a sickening crack, and then merciful, beautiful silence.
That, of course, wouldn't last long, and you knew it.
With no small amount of difficulty, you pushed yourself up, blinking and sleepy, eyes lazily running over your room.
Bright morning light was carefully blocked by thick black curtains, painted in grey creyllic by your own hands. The curtains kept your room dark enough as to make it hard to see, only the familiar outlines of your furnishings, messes, and hanging decorations communicated to your eyes.
You sat up, the world swaying with the movement. Fuck, you were exhausted. Sleep sounded extremely tempting, even given the important events that would need your diligent guidance today.
A series of knocks came from the other side of your bedroom door, probably to make sure you were finally awake and getting ready.
"Go the fuck away," you growled at the knocker.
The noise stopped, the world falling silent once more. Peaceful. Thank the merciful heavens.
You really needed a Tylenol.
John fidgeted awkwardly in the mirror, unable to keep eye contact with his own reflection for too long despite the whole thing being completely ridiculous.
He was wearing Karkat's clothes, nothing fancy, just a black long-sleeved shirt with the Cancer symbol stitched into the front, a bit big but comfortable enough. The pants, at least, fit him: simple gray skinny jeans that kind of surprised John. He wouldn't have pegged Karkat as a skinny jean guy, but honestly, how much did he really know Karkat? John just met the guy yesterday, for Pete's sakes!
Even if they did engage in some rather riské activities.
That thought sent blood furiously running up to John's neck and face, noticeably reddening in the mirror. Gosh, he couldn't believe he had actually said all that earlier. What had he been thinking?
Trick question. He wasn't.
With a heavy sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and exited the bathroom, flicking the lights off as he went. The apartment was strangely silent without Karkat, almost creepily so. It was lonely and foreign to wander about it like John had done earlier, and to be perfectly honest, he really wanted to go outside and leave here until Karkat returned. If the angel was willing to talk to him anymore.
He missed his sister. With everything going on, he hadn't had the chance to visit Jane since last week, and though he knew she wouldn't speak, he really wanted to see her.
Oh, why not? He didn't have anything else to do, and Karkat wouldn't be back for at least an hour.
Just in case the angel returned before he did (John had no idea how long Karkat's church's sermons were or if the angel stayed for life group), John grabbed a sticky note off the kitchen counter and a blue pen, scribbling a quick message and sticking it to the microwave door. Should be obvious enough.
went to the hospital to visit somebody. feel free to come over if you want! don't wait up!
-john
He hoped that wasn't too curt or desperate. John really had no idea how relationships were supposed to work.
It didn't take much time for him to grab his wallet, keys, and phone from his discarded slacks in Karkat's room, and took even less time for him to exit the apartment, strangely relieved when he found himself in the hall outside.
John only realized he didn't have an apartment key when the front door closed behind him. The door was locked when he tried it, which sucked, 'cause he'd have to wait for Karkat before he could go back inside. Oh well. He'd just have to waste more time visiting Janey.
The receptionist gave him a knowing wink as he left the complex, which was embarrassing as anything, but he just blushed and hurried outside.
It was warm, the type of unrelenting heat that suffocated and smothered a person, but with a slight crisp edge hinting at the coming fall. John, unfortunately, had left his car parked in front of the church yesterday, so he was forced to trot down the block in a black long-sleeved shirt. Suffice to say, by the time he actually reached his vehicle he was dripping sweat and panting like a dog.
The closest hospital was an older St. Jude's, a building that was conveniently placed between Karkat and Jane's homes, easily found from either starting point. This was particularly awesome because John sucked at navigation and might have just made himself completely, totally lost had the hospital been located in a part of town John didn't visit much. Thankfully, it was just a few streets from Taco Bell, a cheap and reliable source of fast food when one couldn't afford anything fancy.
He parked outside and started for the entrance, feeling both comforted by the familiar sight of the hospital, standing there all stone and glass and wood, knowing his sister was sleeping safely inside, and at the same time, he felt kind of . . .
Numb.
In the wake of yesterday, of getting married to an oddly nice (if not potty-mouthed and ridiculously easy to read) angel and having an inappropriate moment of fun with said angel, John had forgotten just how lonely it was back in his normal life. He knew it had only been for a day, and thinking like this was probably stupid, but somehow he hadn't ever realized just how alone he was without Jane or Dad. All of his friends and other relatives could only be reached through phone or internet, leaving his family the only true source of reliable social interaction he had, so without them, he couldn't help but feel a bit like an island staring at the distant mainland's coastline.
No one even knew he was now married. Not his friends, not his family . . . just him and Karkat and his boss.
It was a little depressing, actually.
The inside of the hospital was as John remembered it: freakishly clean, blue and white tiles ugly, pink cushioned chairs loud and squeaky. A nurse John didn't know but whom he had seen there multiple times before and never so much as cracked a smile sat behind the ugly counter, typing something into a desktop computer.
John approached her, murmuring who he was and who he was here for, but the woman waved him off disinterestedly.
Shrugging to himself, he followed the familiar path to the elevators, patiently waited for a pale couple to step off before entering the elevator with an old man clutching a cane and a young mother holding the hand of a sleepy child.
John asked for their floors, punching in his floor (12), the mother's (14), and the old man's (5) without further comment or word.
It was always weird for him to stand with strangers when he came here; despite his social personality, he could never think of anything to say, didn't know if the other person really wanted him to attempt conversation. He knew when he visited Jane those first few times he had wanted nothing to do with anyone else. Honestly, he probably wouldn't have been able to carry on a normal conversation if he'd wanted to. Talking with strangers was a task for people who were okay, and back then, John had been anything but.
He still wasn't sure if he was one-hundred percent alright now, but he pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind.
A ping and the elevator doors opened, revealing a hallway of the sixth floor. They watched the old man hobble out of the elevator in silence, uncomfortable and tense in the short space they shared.
The doors closed, and once again, they were ascending.
You shoved your feet into some beat-up converse, makeup artful in its placement on your face, essentials dumped into your pockets and hidden in your socks, some even strapped to your chest under your shirt or clipped in your hair, the surrounding locks gelled and styled to hide the items.
It was all you needed to start a successful day, so with one last look in a mirror to make sure your expression was perfect in its unassuming innocence, you were out the door.
Your neighbor, a kindly old woman without any annoying pets and an obvious penchant for gardening was on her front yard tending to her bushes. Her insistent generosity could be irritating, but not only did she make an excellent cover when you needed one (she was under the impression you were a nice boy who valued privacy. Ha. Ha.), but the food she sometimes cooked and delivered to your family was exquisite. There was probably no one who could cook a casserole like your neighbor.
She spotted you when you turned to close your front door, calling your name and waving. You forced a smile and waved back, calling, "How's the garden, my lively sister?"
"Oh you!" She giggled, beaming. "You're such a sweetheart! It's going great, thank you!"
"As it should be. These motherfu—er, miraculous buds must know the sis takin' care of them deserves all kinds of blooms."
It was always too easy to charm women like her. She smiled and waved you off again, her face noticeably pinker. You knew she loved hearing that kind of stuff, no matter how she pretended you were just being nice.
"Now, now, enough about me! I'm sure you have things more fun than sweet talking old women like me planned!"
That you did. You wondered what she would do if she knew what you considered "fun".
With a fake chuckle, you started walking to your car—a spacious black vehicle with four-wheel drive and a habit for draining gas quicker than your shower drain could take water. "Nah. The brothers and sisters I hang with aren't nearly as cool as you, Mrs. Robinson."
"I doubt that! But thank you!"
You opened the car door and slid into a dark, cool interior, slamming the door shut so you weren't forced to keep chatting. Aggravating old hag.
On days like today you typically had no specific places you wanted to go, but that didn't stop you from parking the car out front a busy place like Walgreens or Wal-Mart and taking to wandering about town on foot. Generally, this way you could always find someone easy enough to take out to drinks or escort to your home, but sometimes on a blue moon you would have to use force.
You never, ever returned without another. The first and only time you did that, there was hell to pay, and you didn't want to experience that shit ever again.
As you drove, you felt yourself become more and more awake, more aware of the world. With that awareness came the strings of the others, no words or whispers or laughs just yet, but the knowledge of their presence in the back of your mind was strong. They watched through your eyes, their own vision coinciding with yours, turning your all too human visual of the world brighter, more intense.
Shit. Usually you could drive out and be in a parking lot before it got to this point, but you must have spent too much time dawdling at the house this morning.
That was bad. It was so much harder to focus when they woke up; it was one of the reasons you traversed town on foot instead of driving everywhere. They liked to clutter your brain and say things just to set you off or pressure you; things you would end up doing anyway, yeah, sometimes, but things that would be too suspicious if you acted on them right there and then.
Soon they would start commenting and suggesting and talking. Motherfuckers didn't know how to keep quiet for anything.
Don't speak of me like that, the Angry One growled.
It's the truth, brother. Deal.
We are not petty mortals like you motherfucking fools, He hissed, We are much greater, more mirthful. We are the reason you are even still alive. You are blessed to have us, and what's more to be allowed our words in your sinful thinkpan.
You had no comment to that, so you didn't rely to Him. Your brother and father told you the same thing every day, so how could you argue?
That's what I thought, the Angry One smugly replied.
You should not be so hard on the mortal, the Righteous One commented. He isn't smart enough to know of our miraculous ways.
Honk! the Clownish One agreed.
Blasphemous son, the Angry One spoke, Go and feast upon the delicious Faygo.
You couldn't. They didn't sell Faygo anywhere but at a specific gas station in town, and that station just so happened to be far behind you now.
I demand a mirthful drink, motherfucker.
You didn't want to, but the other two began clamoring for Faygos as well, so with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, you U-turned and made your way back, pulling in to the locally owned gas station.
Your tank was full, so you didn't bother refilling; instead you parked out front of the building and walked on in, politely greeting the bored-looking female at the register. She didn't return your salutations.
Kill her, the Angry One snarled.
You could not. She was working, and there were other people-and security cameras-in the room.
Kill that motherfucker!
No.
Beat her, scrap her disgusting flesh from her muscles, delight in her screams and keep her breathing until she is nothing but a body without the organ known as skin.
No.
Strip her of everything she holds true and dear in the name of the True Messiahs.
Shut up! You couldn't!
You resisted the urge to shake your head as you walked back to the drink selection, choosing a grape Faygo at random and returning to the register. The female rung you up with an unimpressed look and demanded, "One twenty-five."
A hand dove into your pocket, and you grumbled as you fished for your wallet, giving the girl two dollars.
As she counted out your change, you found yourself caving to the screaming demands of the Angry One.
"Would you like," you started as she handed you a handful of coins, "To join this motherfucker for a bitchtits good time?"
The girl gave you a flat look. "No."
Well, fuck. You tried for a dopey, disarming grin. "Aw, man. You sure, sis? You look like you could use a wicked time."
"I'm sure," she answered curtly, pushing your change in your direction.
Disappointed and irritated—Murder her! Murder them all!—you took the money from her and left, exhaling a breath as you unscrewed the top of your Faygo. What a little bitch. She couldn't even act nice about rejecting you? You were positive that you had acted perfectly friendly and inviting.
A Taco Bell was standing open and tempting next to the gas station, and you found yourself drifting over, peering into the glass for a different target.
Kill all of these motherfuckers. None of them deserve to live.
No one was sitting alone. No one looked like they could use a hug or anything. Damn.
You moved on, searching for someone. Someone to chat with, manipulate. Someone who could be easily taken and totally, utterly destroyed.
Jane looked so frail in her hospital bed, pale and skinny (when had she become so thin? She had never been this small before) and delicate, like if you looked at her too long she would break.
John hated it. He almost couldn't stand to look at her like this, so . . . so defeated, he guessed. So un-Jane.
It sickened him. He wanted his Jane, his sister back and beside him again, laughing and scolding him for being an idiot. He wanted Jane to know and acknowledge and help him with the world again, to tell him what to do and that it was okay and she would help him and he wanted to tell her he was so grateful for everything and that he was so, so sorry.
She didn't deserve to end up like this. Jane was lively, generous, and independent. Not this twig-like corpse lying in a hospital bed, aging and withering away.
He hated it. So he left.
John hadn't expected the sight of Jane in the throes of comatose to bother him so much; he visited her all the time, usually, and it had already been at least a year since she ended up here. But it did. It really, really bothered him.
He couldn't go back to the apartment complex without a key or Karkat, and he didn't want to go home or to Jane's house alone, however, so he sat out front of the hospital instead, hugging his knees to his chest.
It was slowly approaching noon already, sun lifting high and hot into the sky, drenching John in sweat and emotion-induced shivers.
Sitting there, shuddering and sweaty, he couldn't help but wish his life wasn't a big drama. John had never liked dramas or romantic things; he was a man of action and comedy and adventures that led to self-discovery. This, though, this was none of that. Okay, so maybe a bit of a mental and emotional adventure, but not a very good one! It sucked. It sucked and he didn't like it.
And so what if he was just being bitter or dumb? John thought he deserved a moment of self-pity, thank you very much.
He was staring at the road in front of him, eyes down and position small and defensive, hoping no one would bother him. John was sitting in a hospital for heaven's sakes; surely everyone could get the message that he didn't want to talk about it.
Unfortunately, that wasn't apparently the case. A pair of purple converse went out of their way to stop in front of him, turning so the toes were pointed his way. John didn't bother looking up.
"Uh, you okay my motherfuckin' bro?" A deep voice questioned, his volume unpredictably fluctuating, which was really weird in itself, though John just ignored it for now.
"Fine," he answered the man tersely. "So feel free to leave me alone."
The shoes paused thoughtfully for a second before disappearing from view. John was about to sigh in relief, but his relief was cut short by the sound of grass rustling right next to him.
"That isn't leaving me alone," he called irritably.
"You don't really up and look like you need to be alone, brother. Why don't you talk to me about it? Get it off your blood pusher so you can get all the shit out and make room for miracles."
John went quiet for a few minutes, reluctant and unsure how to respond. When he did speak again, the words seemed to part his lips without his brain's consent. "I'm not sure if I believe in miracles."
"Aw, don't be like that. Miracles are all around us! Just look at the softness of this green stuff, or the way the sky's cloudless and open up to us all like a big blue hug. Motherfuckin' miracles everywhere, dawg. You just aren't looking." The man sounded so certain and content that John was actually a bit envious. This guy probably didn't have his sibling in the hospital.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" John snapped.
"Nah. This brother has all the time in the world."
He had to be high. There was no way a sober person would say this kind of stuff and mean it.
"Dude, I don't know what you're smoking, but I really just want to be alone. I don't have the energy to deal with this right now," he said, rubbing at his temples without looking over.
There was silence for .03 seconds. "You want me to buy you something and get your mind out of this funk?"
"No, I—" oh, what the hell? Why not? John could probably use something to either calm him down or make him forget. Knowing it was around noon didn't mean anything to him. "You know what? Why not? I'm in."
Finally, for the first time since they started to talk, John looked over at the other man. The guy was an absolute freak show, and while he knew Dad would scold him for thinking like that, it was true. He had on gray and white face paint like a horrific parody of a clown's; dark, messy hair; black pajama-like bottoms with gray circles all over it; a high, out-of-it smile; and a black shirt with an unfamiliar purple symbol on it.
John was torn between running away as fast as he could or pretending the guy was normal.
The man rose to his feet, still smiling, and offered John a tanned, calloused hand. "Name's Gamz."
Moment of truth. The road was right there, and though his car was at the back of the lot, enough people were milling around out here to cause some problems for Gamz should the guy chase him. This man could be dangerous. John didn't know anything about him, and freaks were everywhere these days.
He swallowed, put his hand in "Gamz"'s, and allowed the weirdo to pull him up. "I'm John."
Gamz's smile widened and John couldn't help but feel as though he had made a terrible mistake.
It wasn't hard to get John drunk. Sure, it took a might chunk of cash from your wallet, but it was much less than it had been for some of your other . . . works.
By the third drink, it was deliciously obvious that John had never delved into the world of alcohol and intoxication, and by the fourth drink, he was blabbing his whole life story to you. Nothing you haven't heard before: spoiled kid loses both parents, has no idea what to do in the world without hands constantly guiding him, sister gets into an accident, the loser doesn't want to work off the bills so he marries a rich guy who is most likely (though John never said this himself) is a sex-crazed geezer.
You honestly couldn't wait to take him home. People like John were the best; kids who had it all, lost it, and now think they're the most miserable people on the planet. You despised people like John.
After a few more drinks, John started to cry quietly. You were glad he wasn't a wailer, and you "politely" offered to drive him home. He was too inebriated to agree or disagree, and too outside the world to realize how weird it was that a stranger was driving him home when said stranger didn't get anything out of it.
He expressed slight confusion when you rolled up to your house and not his, but you simply shushed him and he followed you in.
In fact, the whole thing was laughable. He didn't express any concern when you led him by the shoulder into the basement, the pathetic cool still crying and stumbling down the stairs, and didn't appear alarmed at all until you shoved him into the wall. He screamed then, terrified as you grabbed his head and beat it into the wall behind him until he shut up. Then he went limp, unconscious, and you took the chance to tie him up into a chair in the corner of the room and duct tape his mouth shut.
You'd have to make sure to wash his skin when this was over with, but it was a small price to pay for a little bit of fun before the real event started.
The last present was still on the exam table when you lifted the sheet, flies collecting and eating away the innards, decomposing arms spread wide like the motherfucker was getting ready to embrace the mirthful messiahs right before he died.
Like that fucker would be granted permission to hear the Vast Honk.
You pulled on your gloves, cheap latex things made for cleaning the house, but ones that worked nonetheless. You moved to start cleaning up the last project, but the Righteous One whispered an idea to you that you couldn't quite refuse.
Leave the body there, He said, And let John see what you're going to up and do to his sinning vessel.
You tried to picture the overwhelming fright that would enter John's face, wondered if he'd be a pants-wetter or not. The thought made your grin.
Why not? It sounded like a great idea to you.
Humming happily, you turned away from the body to instead focus on the holy utensils, bloody from the last work. You picked up one of the scalpels, eyeing the tip for a minute and deciding that yeah, these would need to be sharpened before their next use.
There was a sink in the basement, so you began meticulously taking a handful of tools over and using a small sponge to clean the old and dried blood from the blades and handles, a work that was much longer and required more vigorous scrubbing than you would have liked. So long was it that John began to wake up with many a grunt by the time you were cleaning up your last batch.
The first thing he saw was you, and his astonishingly blue eyes (eyes you might have to keep for yourself) widened, muffled words and yells catching on the tape at his mouth. He tried his arms and legs, made more noise when he found them restrained, and screamed when he noticed the slowly-rotting body on your exam table. You continued humming as he did, smile widening and growing more genuine. As much of a chore as it all was, you did enjoy this part.
A lot.
"Can't understand what you're spilling out with that tape all up on your mouth, Johnbro." You told him giddily, turning to smile at him over your shoulder.
He whimpered.
You chuckled and turned back to your work.
With the cleaning out of the way, you moved on to the next very important step: sharpening. You skillfully and quickly set up your vise, sharpening stones, and procured your half-used bottle of lubrication, setting to work on your various tools, switching stones when you moved from scalpels to knives. Your hooks, you thought, looked just fine, so you didn't bother any with them.
Your guest of honor continued whimpering and shouting into the tape at his mouth, pathetic to hear and more so to gander at when you glanced back at his trembling form in the chair.
If you grinned when you turned back again, well, you could only hope he saw it.
John wasn't sure if he had ever been this scared in his entire life. Horrifically, he wasn't sure if he had even been this scared outside the emergency room, waiting to find out the news on Jane's condition after her crash.
Watching an obviously experienced killer clean and sharpen blades was sickening, frightening even more when said killer continuously turned around and smiling madly upon seeing the hostage's fear. And when Gamz turned and began to do away with the body on the table, slowly taking it apart and placing a few limbs in large buckets scattered across the floor of the basement, so slowly that John was positive he was doing it just to scare John even more? He almost fainted.
Unfortunately, he stayed wide-eyed and awake the whole time.
The dried blood was cleaned up with baby wipes—he'd never be able to look at those the same again-and a washcloth soaked in antiseptic cleaning solution, the body's flesh carefully dabbed and washed with soap and water from another bucket.
If John thought he hated seeing Jane in her hospital bed, he loathed watching a decimated corpse getting picked apart and cleaned.
While Gamz was busy carefully wiping a severed arm down, a shadow flitted down the stairwell. John's attention immediately went to the dark staircase, heart gunning, mind racing, No, no! Not another one, please! Only, when his eyes actually looked, peering, scared, and maybe just a bit tearful . . .
There was no one there.
He dismissed it, eyes snapping back to Gamz, who looked up at him at the same time, strangely vibrant blue-purple eyes locking with John's blues. Gamz gave him another crazy, petrifying grin, and John felt bile rise in the back of his throat.
There had been a few moments in his life, especially since Dad died, where John was sure he couldn't go on. Where he was almost certain that it would be the end of him. None, not one, could hold a candle to the nauseating realization he had now: he was going to die. He was going to be killed in an insane man's basement, Karkat and his friends and distant family never knowing what became of him, Jane never having another visit and possibly waking without any family left in the world. Here, right here, in only a few minutes, John would replace the corpse on the table and would become the new carcass.
He wouldn't leave this room alive and breathing.
The last pieces of human body had disappeared off the table, and with a glint in his eyes, John watched "Gamz"—if that was even the guy's real name—saunter closer, predatory and excited. This guy, this sicko, was actually excited that John was going to die here.
Another shadow moved behind Gamzee, came closer and closer until-oh sweet baby Betty Crocker cakes, that was Karkat!
How that was possible, John didn't know, didn't care, because his guardian angel was here, and while that should have made him relieved and warm, and half of him very well was, the other half just became even more frightened. His husband and he were in the basement where no one would know to look for them with a killer.
John tried not to look at Karkat, who was rapidly approaching Gamz—That stupid idiot! Run away!—so as to not expose him, but it was so hard when Gamz was looking at John like a piece of meat, thick and juicy and ready to be eaten. It was terrifying to keep his eyes on the devil when there was an angel right there, a beacon of goodness and safety right there.
Karkat suddenly pounced, and John could only watch in horror as the angel darted forward, poking Gamz's back, and—and Gamz completely froze. The clownishly-painted mouth dropped open, blue-violet eyes widening in horror and awe and realization, muscles tensing, and then the guy fell to his knees and tore at his hair and started to scream, "I'm a monster! I killed them! I killed all of them!"
The angel cooed and ran a clawed hand through Gamz's thick, dark hair, frowning and reaching behind the killer's head to undo a leather strap (what? What even?) and fling a knife off to one side, Gamz gravitating and burying his face in Karkat's stomach as he shrieked and sobbed.
John could only stare on in confusion and numbness, because what? What did Karkat just do? Why was a monster of a killer hugging his husband, and why was his husband allowing it?
"It's okay," Karkat soothed the balling Gamz.
But no, it wasn't okay. John was tied to a chair in a basement, shaking with fear, exhausted and numb and shocked and had been ready to be viciously murdered on the table right in front of him and had seen the obviously-tortured remains of a stranger he hadn't known. Nothing was okay. No part of this was alright, or "okay", or decent, or anything but not okay.
Karkat's inhuman eyes raised to John's, the concern there blatant, even as he continued carding gray fingers through the murderer's hair. "John, are you alright?"
He started to answer, but he forgot about the duct tape covering his mouth, so he stopped and just sort of blankly stared at Karkat, because despite everything and all the turmoil clashing inside of him, he couldn't seem to dredge up any emotions to show the rest of the world.
The angel made a face and began moving towards him, Gamz shuffling along on his knees with his arms wrapped around Karkat, face hidden in Karkat's torso. When they reached John, Karkat carefully but quickly undid the binds and then paused, whispering, "This is going to hurt a bit," before ripping the duct tape away from John's mouth.
He was right. It hurt a lot, but all John could do was voice a half-hearted "ow" and slump back into his chair.
"John," Karkat said softly, one hand still on Gamz's sniffling head, "Come here."
The human looked at the angel above him and then at the killer hugging him, and fear and bile and horror and confusion all bubbled up in an intense mess of emotion and John shook his head. He couldn't do it. No, he couldn't and wouldn't get that close to—to the guy who tried to—
"Do you trust me?" Karkat asked.
John couldn't speak; his throat was constricted, tight, so he just nodded.
"Then come here."
No. The killer was down there, close and any closer would be too much. He could barely even look at Gamz without wanting to run to a trashcan or toilet.
Shuddering, John shook his head and huddled in on himself, arms around himself.
Karkat frowned, wrinkles forming between his brows, but he backed off and gave John some room. He didn't really want it, to be honest. The closer Karkat was, the safer he felt, but the murderer was with the angel, and he didn't—couldn't—no. Just . . . no.
"They're gonna kill me," Gamz whimpered. "When they see I didn't . . . do that to him, they're gonna do it to me instead."
"Shoosh," Karkat soothed, "It'll be alright. You can come with us."
No. John didn't want him to go with them. John wanted to leave him here to sit in and stare at the buckets around the basement and stay far, far away from them.
The ceiling creaked, sending Gamz into a scared shiver and Karkat into an alarmed frown. "John," Karkat called softly, eyes staying on the ceiling. "We need to go. Now. I think the others have arrived."
John shivered and moved to stand, his legs wobbling violently and teeth chattering. Karkat moved to help him, but John shook his head. He was quivering so hard he was probably ridiculous to look at, but he could stand on his own, which was enough for him for right now. They could work on calming him down after they abandoned Gamz and left this terrible place.
"Okay," Karkat whispered after a few minutes, "We should be okay to go upstairs now. Try to keep your protein chutes shut for five seconds."
John followed Karkat, who forced Gamz to stand and tiptoe in front of him (probably so John didn't have to walk behind him. He'd have to thank the angel for that later) while the two of them ascended quietly after.
The basement led directly to the living room, which also happened to be where the front door was, thankfully. No one was around, but from somewhere else in the house John could hear a dark, honking music. He saw Gamz shudder out of the corner of his eye, but they all seemed to ignore it and simply made for the door. Unlike in awesome movies where a villain would have definitely appeared and challenged them before they could leave, that didn't happen, and the three of them found themselves outside and running for the street before anyone could say the word.
"Take your car! We might need it!" Karkat hissed at Gamz, who hesitated before obliging, hopping into his vehicle and starting it. "We're going for my car! You just hurry up and leave!"
John followed Karkat's lead down the street to where an ordinary-looking truck sat parked off on the side of the road in front of an unknown house, Gamz's vehicle passing them by, though the killer slowed when he spotted them.
Crap. They might not be able to lose him after all.
Karkat and John hopped into the truck, put on their seat belts ("Safety first!" John exclaimed at the seat belt-less angel, who grumbled reluctantly in response), and took off. Gamz followed them off the street and out of the neighborhood like a lost puppy, and John couldn't help but watch him in the rearview mirror, still shaking from earlier and completely unhappy to have Gamz still with them.
"John," Karkat grunted from over the steering wheel, eyes narrowed at the road.
"Yeah?"
"Do you know what I did back there?"
How would John know that? Of course he didn't! He didn't know anything about angels and their apparently weird powers! "No."
"I asked the Holy Spirit to enter him," Karkat said, still not looking at him. "When I did that, it cleaned the evil out of that man, and not only did it give him guilt and a conscious, but it made him into another person. He's completely and totally different than whoever was down there with you five minutes earlier. You got that?"
John swallowed and looked out the passenger window, eyes fixed on the large, wealthy houses they passed by on their way out of the neighborhood. It really was a beautiful place, to be honest. It was too bad its scenery was tarnished by John's new experience in one of its houses. "I understand what you mean," he said after a beat of silence, "But that doesn't mean I can just . . ." He wasn't sure what to say here. "Get over it"? "Let it go"? "Look at him and not be scared"?
Karkat's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "I asked you if you trusted me and you said yes, right?"
". . . Yeah."
The angel blew out a breath. "Then I'm going to need you to make on your words and trust me on this. I promise you, I know what I'm doing. You won't be hurt again, okay? I won't allow it. There will never, ever, ever be a repeat of today, okay?"
It took John longer than it should have to reply to that, but when he did, he meant what he said. "I believe you."
Karkat locked the door, eyes staring at John, who was sitting on the bed, curled up into a ball with the sheets wrapped around his body. "Are you sure you can handle this?"
"No," he admitted, hunching his shoulders to put his face deeper into the blankets, "But what else are we going to do? It's not like you're going to let me kick him out or anything. I'll just have to deal with it, I guess."
"John." It seemed to be all the angel could say for a few minutes, expression pained. He stood there for a little bit before walking up to his husband slowly, one knee coming up to rest on the bed, gray face hovering close to John's. "He won't hurt you again, I swear. Gamz couldn't come in here even if he wanted to. The door's locked, and I set up some . . . extra protections to keep him and any other hostile force out."
John shivered and burrowed deeper into the bed, hiding his face from Karkat. "I know."
Karkat was quiet for a moment. "Come here."
He didn't have much of a chance to follow the order before Karkat was pulling his body towards the other's, draping John across his clothed chest. In fact, this time they were both slightly clothed, wearing only tee shirts and boxers, yes, but still more than their first night sleeping together.
John stuck his face in the crook of his husband's neck, inhaling deep. For whatever reason, the smell of the angel was extremely comforting, and if Gamz's earlier display was anything to go by, it wasn't just him who thought so. It actually made him feel a little weird, knowing other people reacted the same way to Karkat's scent. He wasn't sure he liked it.
Their heart were placed close to one another's, so close that John could feel the steady thumping of his angel's, soothing him to a point where he felt his body relax, his exhausted mental and emotional status dragging him to sleep.
Maybe it was just the great speed at which he was falling asleep, but he could have sworn, laying there blinking and yawning, that Karkat started to glow. Literally, glow.
"Karkat, I don't mean to alarm you," John mumbled, "But your body is trying to become a light bulb. And I think it's succeeding."
"Shut up and go to sleep."
"Okay." So he did.
I won't talk about who "you" is, as it's pretty obvious throughout the fic, and for those who are reading this for information and after they read the chapter.
"You" has what I tried to depict as schizophrenia. Some things I will say about this, however, are as follows:
1) There isn't a lot of information about this out there. Unless one was to go out and buy a psychology textbook or the like on the subject (which I do plan to do later), it's extremely hard to find anything over it. Most of what you CAN find on the Internet, however, says basically two things: it causes people to be severely delusional/disconnect with reality (meaning they don't necessarily have to hear voices to have schizophrenia) and it's different in every person.
2) I have never met and do not know anyone with schizophrenia, so I'm not a reliable resource on how they may act socially.
3) People with schizophrenia are NOT BAD PEOPLE. That is not what I'm trying to communicate here AT ALL. Gamzee having schizophrenia is just what made the most sense to me when taking his character out of the context of Homestuck and putting it into a world like this one. Please do not assume schizophrenics are bad or all killers or something, okay?
So with all of this, you should be able to conclude one thing: I am not a completely reliable source of information on this topic and may have totally and completely screwed it up. In fact, this chapter wasn't written with a good representation of schizophrenia anyway! If you haven't noticed, I went a bit lax on it at the end there because I didn't want to get into how much Gamzee worshipped the voices in his head because honestly? I started to get freaked out because I'm a huge wuss and I don't care.
So if you notice anything wrong, please point it out. Even if it's not over this topic! I understand I could have royally screwed a bunch of stuff up, and I am not trying to offend anyone or claim I am all-knowing. If you see something, feel free to point it out!
Thank you for reading! :D