Told you it was a more interesting pairing. This was fun to write!
Leave comments and crit as always!
You're okay with pretty much everything.
And so is he. That might be because of the sopor, though.
The reason you're okay with everything is because you're dead. And you don't really have any more things to do at the moment. You're waiting for when the demon comes around to Derse, and that's going to take a while, so you sit at the computer and pretend to troll these humans. The humans don't really matter. Nothing much matters at the moment.
Nothing much matters to him, but it's not out of a sense of purpose or anything similar. He's simply content where he is, in a haze of half-sleep and good cheer. Most of the time, he isn't on the computers. He's sitting in the horn pile, idly honking or muttering to himself, or just staring into space. He often offers the others a chance to recuperate, but they always decline, fearing Their voices. You've never feared Their voices. They weren't anything to be scared of.
You're not too sure why you decide to hang out with him. Maybe it's to get away from Equius. You're okay with him, but not the same way you're okay with everything else. You suspect a normal person might be disgusted. But that doesn't matter.
You quickly learn things about him. You learn that he truly believes in the Mirthful Messiahs, a fact that hasn't changed despite being on this asteroid. You learn that he prefers grape Faygo, but he'll drink most flavours without complaint. You learn that he has a flush crush on Tavros and he's thinking of acting on it. You wish him luck.
You're okay with being his friend. Others aren't, but they don't matter.
Then one day he's not okay. He comes up to you, with bags under his eyes and fear in his pupils.
"Sis," he says, "I'm hearing wicked voices in my motherfucking thinkpan."
You sit him down. Haltingly, he tells you that there are voices in his head, telling him to be a Subjugglator, to paint pictures with blood, to stand tall and be the Mirthful Messiahs and to kill Karkat and Nepeta and Eridan, and when he tells you they're telling him to kill Tavros his makeup is tracked with tears.
You lock him in his room. You're not okay with it, but it has to be done. You send trays through a slot in the door, containing food and water and a vial of dilute sopor to help wean him off his addiction. He thanks you every time.
By the third day there are cacophonic bangs on the walls. He screams like a street preacher, chokes down the sopor, refuses the food. He can't cut himself because you removed sharp edges from his room and blunted his teeth and nails, but he still savages himself. You refuse the others entry. Even Karkat. This matters to you. It's the first thing to matter to you in forever.
By the fifth day, he's silent. You risk opening the door, and he sits there in a crater of a room looking like he's about to fall over and die.
He grins.
"I did it, sis," he whispers, voice a croak. "I beat those blasphemers. They won't trouble a brother no more."
"Good," you say, and you smile.
It takes forever to clean him, to wash the sweeps of grease from his hair and clothes and reapply his make-up, and when he's finished he looks like a new troll. He plants a chaste kiss on your forehead.
"Thanks so much, sis."
"That's okay," you say. And it really is.