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I *WAS* DONE BEING MAD AT YOU, BUT NOW HERE YOU ARE DRAGGING THIS OUT IN PUBLIC LIKE YOU WANT ME TO KEEP BEING MAD AT YOU OR SOMETHING.

IT WAS JUST A JOKE..

I CAN BE QUIET. X:B

UGH, IT’S FINE. I JUST DON’T FEEL LIKE EVERYONE AND THEIR MOTHER NEEDS TO HEAR ABOUT ALL OF THAT.

IT’S NOT FUNNY!

IN RETROSPECT, IT'S A LOT FUNNIER. I THINK IT'S A GOOD THING TO FEEL THE HUMOR NOW THAT YOU'RE DONE BEING MAD AT ME.

I *WAS* DONE BEING MAD AT YOU, BUT NOW HERE YOU ARE DRAGGING THIS OUT IN PUBLIC LIKE YOU WANT ME TO KEEP BEING MAD AT YOU OR SOMETHING.

THAT’S BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT.

SO? WHAT'S STIGMATA WITH YOU?

IT’S NOT FUNNY!

standbywarrior replied to your post: "WHAT'S STIGMATA WITH YOU."

I'M ALWAYS SERIOUS.

THAT’S BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT.

artist who depicts angels with those spiky halos because they have undiagnosed astigmatism

"It's okay."

Maybe a little too quick on the draw. You swipe at his chin one more time, streaking what slight outline remained from the first smear. It's only one of endless more to come, but you feel better with even a single fraction of a problem resolved. Something.. keeping you rooted in place, keeping your knuckles tucked to his jaw where they'd naturally drifted with the rest of your touch.

But you compromise, and let it fall back to his shoulder instead. His.. wet, gunky shoulder. The fibers of the sleeve are all spongy, now, and not in the fun, mossy way. You barely draw back a step, only enough to offer the dry road away from the waterside. This time, no risks.

As much as you almost want to stay there, as wrapped up in him as he was in you.

"..Do you wanna continue this after we clean up?" A loose rub at his shoulder, grimacing when it squeezes another trickle down your wrist. "Spring won't end if we take a break."

One more gentle touch to your face before his hand drifts away down to your shoulder, and all you want to do is scream in frustration. It feels so unfair that the reason why the previous tension between the two of you disappeared is also the reason why you can't stay here forever, but is it really all that surprising that there's seemingly no end to whatever curse is continuing to haunt your every moment? You can't scream though- can't even risk what could happen if your face happened to follow his hand as it drew away- so you instead take a deep breath and try to memorize the moment.

It feels like a shitty consolation prize when his hand rubs your shoulder, the touch so much harder to feel through the wet fabric than it was on the sensitive skin of your face. It also doesn't help when the act pushes some water out of the fabric and dripping down your chest and back, adding a whole new uncomfortable sensation to the already unpleasant situation. So when he steps away towards the dry path that's safely away from the water, you follow out of equal parts desire to stay as close to him as possible and desire to get out of your gross wet clothes... Or maybe those desires aren't entirely equal, but you can't let yourself linger on the thought too long.

None of the right words that won't freak him out or humiliate you seem to be accessible to you at the moment though, so instead you simply nod in response. Yes, you'd like to continue this after you clean up (if he wants to continue this). Yes, spring will continue on even if you take a break (as long as it's a break together). Yes, you'd agree to basically anything as long as it meant staying by his side.

He finally peeks back from where he's been hiding, mere seconds away from redrowning himself in rolls of wet fabric, but still manages to find the energy surprise you. Saved him? Only because you'd pulled him down in the first place. The way he's looking at you, like a snapshot from the past, it's like you're the guardian angel, instead of the burden that'd brought him falling.

..So what's with that face, framed by your fingers in some portrait of reverence? It's.. your fault he'd needed saving at all. You should feel worse, should feel every rivulet down his hair tenfold, but instead you're.. stuck on that damn face, open and honest and painfully yours. What? Fuck, you really are tipsy.

Your lungs feel shallower, even drained of water. It gives you a half second's hesitance as you're staring back at him, wide eyed with a feeling you can't quite place.

"..I wouldn't leave you in trouble.." Isn't that a given? Lids hooding, more embarrassed, you.. state the obvious, your nail slipping to trace a droplet as it tracks down his cheek. "We look out for each other."

You catch it at his chin, smearing it away before it can drip off.

"Well... Yeah. That's why it should be obvious that I'm okay."

You say it as if it's the most self-explanatory thing in the world, because to you it is. You know he'd never leave you in trouble, and thus it only makes sense that you'd be okay after he intervened. Better than okay, given how easily the previous awkwardness seems to have melted away in the face of the stress you'd both just gone through.

However, that doesn't mean that you can let yourself get reckless. So even though he can probably feel the intense warmth of your cheeks as he brushes something away, you don't let yourself chase his touch. You can't let yourself get too deep in, not when things are already so fragile after all your previous mistakes. It's hard to find the balance though, so it seems easier to leave it in his hands.

"Sorry, I don't mean to make you keep holding me. You fell in too, so I'm sure you're tired."

The words are produced, giving him the opening to tactfully put you down that he might have been looking for all along. But despite having said it, you make no move to get down yourself. You'll always respect his wishes because you'd never want to make him uncomfortable, but you feel every bit as clingy and vulnerable as you had on that first day back. Which... Is ironic enough, given that you'll both have to shower at some point to get all the pond gunk off of yourselves.

Only a few steps more, and your ankle nudges the ledge up to the bank. You should think to say something, as you carefully brace yourself, but the adrenaline of the moment, still racing, makes it easier to hoist him the rest of the way with uncharacteristic strength. There's not a step he doesn't have to take if he shouldn't have to, not a move- But it's easy to sway with imbalance now that you've climbed from the water resistance, his weight rocking into yours as you all but deadlift him back into your chest. Too anxious to avoid another spill, you fumble backwards a safe distance before you even think to let a sigh escape you, at last freed.

"Karkat, 'm so sorry."

There's a rambling edge to the way the words leave you, tumbling out like a bird into water. It's half authentic, half the chill of wet clothes finally beginning to realize itself over your body, now that the surge of rescue instinct has finally begun to ebb away. It's replaced with a coldness like the grave, but the press of him to you offers a slow, feeble reprieve from the breeze otherwise assaulting your sodden state. And he can't be much better. It moves your hand, gone to tuck a wet lock from where it's laid limp, in some summons for eye contact... though you're unsure how easily he's going to part from you. You're careful with the gesture, your thumb lingering where it skims the shell of his ear. Gentle.

"Are you okay?"

It's hard to distinguish between his steps wading through the water and his steps onto dry land, because to you they all have the same gentle rocking sensation as he carefully navigates you both to safety. Sure, you could lift your head enough to look over his shoulder and see what your surroundings look like, but you just don't care enough to bother. Not until he finally speaks again, and to... Apologize? And to brush some of your limp wet hair off of your forehead?

Rationally, you know you should be cold right now considering that you're drenched after getting dunked in the freezing cold water. Despite that, you can't feel anything but a warm flush radiating out from where his fingers graze your skin. You raise your head just enough to properly look at him, and the mix of the lingering alcohol left in your system and the endorphins rushing through you feels intoxicating, even if you could never hope to understand what's happening in your body. Instead, all you can do is accidentally ignore both of the things that he said to you in favor of blurting out what's been on your mind since the moment he pulled you out of the water.

"...You saved me."

There's a heartbeat when you first grab him that you're scared he's going to fall back out of your grip, as hard as he's jolting.. but then, like magic, he falls still. At the same time, you're left with the impending panic of determining whether or not you've just fished out a corpse-

When he's hacking up water, shaking against you like a wriggler reborn. He's okay, he's fine, and that's all you need to adjust your grip, pulling him closer, out of the water still pooling at your waists. You're able to take a few steps back, dragging him with you, before he wriggles in your grip, a killdeer in the headlights the way he's staring..

And then, before you can even haul him to dry land proper, he's thrown around you, tighter than the clutch of your soaked cape. You can't tell if the trickle down your back is more run-off, or the pressure of his constriction managing to squeeze out more of the moisture, but in that moment.. you can't really care. He's clinging, he's all over you, and you're just..

"I've got you," One hoarse assurance as you slowly wade up the incline, gliding him the rest of the way.. hugging back just as tight, immune to the breath at your neck. The only thaw you feel is the relief that he's safe, and you can barely keep your claws from pricking through his shirt as you keep him as close as possible, heart rattling around your ribs with all the magnitude of a tectonic shift. God.

The sound of his voice sounds so much more resonant when you're pressed up against that crook where his shoulder meets his neck, and it makes the reassurance feel that much weightier. He's got you. Because of course he does, when hasn't he? Your throat still feels too scratchy and raw to justify trying to respond though, so instead you just nod.

He's clutching onto you just as tight as you are to him, and you feel safe in the knowledge that you're not getting dunked back in anytime soon. The rhythmic sensation of him wading out of the water is soothing, and you let the terror of the whole situation slowly melt away until you're focused on nothing more than the sensation of being attached to him. And you can't lie, it's nice to have the excuse to be in such close physical contact with him without having to overthink if your next move will be the wrong one.

The drench of your clothes is quick to cling to you, but that's not what snaps you out of your daze. Instead, it's the shower of spray that gets sent sloshing your way, watering your face again from the flurry of motion somewhere beside you- In the split second before you screw up your face, eyes shut to resist the storm, you can identify a white, soaked substance flopping at the surface. And as soon as the water trickles back down, joining the rest of the stream from your hairline, you know what it was.

There's no time for the anxiety to hit. You have to help him. Without a word, you're pushing up off the bank, fumbling to your feet to help- But the slog of the water and slippery algae sweeps you right back off them, back into another splashing collision. This time, it pours in through your cape collar, icing down the skin beneath, holy shit-

And you're jumping back up again, foot finding purchase at last in the gravelly edge of the boundary between shallows and shore. Through squinted eyes, and a spurt of water from your stinging nose, you go reaching for the thrashing figure nearby, inching as close as you can without risk of him kicking your damn legs out from under you..

..Managing to hug around his torso, where you can pull!

You are well and thoroughly panicking now, because knowing rationally that you don't actually have to breathe doesn't stop your body from wanting to do what's only muscle memory. The water is so cold that your muscles feel like they're starting to stiffen to the point that your thrashing is beginning to feel weaker, and you're going to be so mad if you die right now and finally have to find out what happens when ghosts die, but you guess it was only a matter of time before-

There's arms- Treekat's?- wrapping around you and yanking you backwards, and you stop trying to thrash at the exact same time that you stupidly gasp in surprise. You manage to inhale a large mouthful of water just before you're breaking the surface of the water, and then you're hacking it all back up again. It dribbles down your already wet face and chest as it comes up, but it doesn't slow you down as you writhe around in his grip to face your.... Savior.

Your eyes are wide and face pale as you turn towards him, but it's only visible for a moment before you're wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. Your thoughts are so scattered that it takes a few seconds before your self-consciousness reminds you that you're much too close to the tender flesh of his neck that you're not supposed to be thinking about anymore, but you're too wrapped up in the moment (both literally and metaphorically) to even think about removing yourself at the moment.

Thank god. He doesn't tense, doesn't skitter back- it really is okay. So you take it in stride. Literally! Kicking off the walk to.. well. Probably not home, but anywhere sounds good if it means getting some more air. Walking off the drink. That works, doesn't it? Or, was it a cold shower? You can't remember, it's been too long. But nobody's allowed to pass out, and that's best guaranteed with staying upright.

So.. You start moving, guiding him around the shoreline and over the willow roots. Maybe you could go back to the meadow you like, or the conifers he likes, or.. somewhere nice. If the hive weren't so high up, it'd be a cinch, but you don't trust his footing about now, or your teleportation. Knowing your recent luck, he'd wind up three feet off the deck and plummeting to his death. Not a bad way to sober up, but certainly not ideal.

But it's not him you should've been worried about.

There's a ditch you'd picked to sit beside, a shallow scoop where the water trickles down from the river. It's an easy hop over, to anyone watching their step. But with your hand at his back, smoothing up his vertebrae in your best attempts at protection.. you forget to pay attention to what you're protecting from.

First, you trip into the crevice.

Then, you're taking a spill right for the pond you didn't mind enough, and dragging this poor bastard with you where your hand can't help but clamp down in its panic-

Splash!

Shallow, but shocking! It's cold, cold, cold, and you're sprawled there in the half second before he's sure to land with you, gaping up at the sky between sopping bangs like the gods themselves could explain your misfortune.

The feeling of his arm wrapped so casually around you is nice, so you stay leaned into his grasp as he leads you along to wherever he's decided is your next destination. You're not sure why he seemed worried about your ability to walk, so you're still slightly worried that this is all just his way of preventing you from whatever horrible fate he thinks is in store for you, but you try to let yourself enjoy the feeling while it lasts.

Which, as it turns out, is not nearly as long as you'd expected. He's gripping you, and you only just begin to worry about if you'd misstepped when you realize that was actually all him. He's tugging you downward as he falls, and it's too fast for you to calculate the trajectory of where you're both now falling to until there's a sudden sensation of cold, followed by the sting of hitting a surface stomach first.

It takes a second longer for the follow up sensation of wetness to hit you, and then you realize you're now in the pond. You don't know which way is up, and your instinct to flutter your wings is stifled by the burdensome wet sweater that's keeping them from doing more than fighting against the fabric. You curse yourself for wearing one of his sweaters instead of your own, because you'd been too afraid of destroying his belongings to cut holes to slide your wings through. You flail out with your remaining limbs and you must kick the bottom just long enough to propel yourself above water, but it happens too fast for you to process before you're twisting and falling back into the water as disoriented as you were before.

Even as he says that, he's brushing up closer to you like the damn cat, the soft pink beneath his eyes practically emanating a new warmth. That's the only reason, surely, that you find your own darkening a hue or two, your knuckles twitching indecisively around his sweater. Your sweater. That you lent to him..

"..Uhhm.." Do you buy it? Not really. Actions speak a lot louder than words, you hear, and he wouldn't be doing this if he.. If he were sober? Your mind fills it in like a knife to the back, putting a worried scrunch in your face. He probably wouldn't be like this, if you hadn't put him into that state. He doesn't like touching you, doesn't like when you touch him, always.. jumping away.

But you have a responsibility. Both as a palemate, and the one who caused this.

So you let your hand unfurl, just to slide around to his lower back, where you can properly walk him. Though.. you stay there staring instead of starting the pace, awkwardly idling in his presence for any sign of discomfort. Checking that it's okay.

"Then.. we can go."

Spoken, unmoving.

If that's okay.

There's a brief flutter of panic in your chest as the fabric of your sweater comes loose from his grip, but there's not enough time for the panic to spread before there's the sensation of an arm sliding around you. It's low, lower than you'd expect from just a strictly platonic friend... Or maybe you're just reaching now. Hah, reaching, you're so funny sometimes.

You can only remain entertained with your own internal monologue for so long before he interrupts you with a reminder that you were supposed to be going somewhere now. You glance over at him, and aren't sure how to interpret the expression you see. It looks like he's blushing, but there's an unhappy-looking scrunch to his face that aches in your chest. Is he... Embarrassed to be dealing with you like this?

"Yeah, we can go."

It's too late to go back now after you've already desperately fallen all over him like you keep doing over and over again, but that doesn't mean you want to contemplate it any longer. Instead, you turn your gaze out into the forest that you'd both presumably be meandering through soon enough.

From where you're leaned, you catch a glimpse of his own troubled ascent. Reminder of what you've done wrong. The same way he'd hurried to join you, you're dismounting from the tree to stumble closer to him, fingers grazing his side beneath the stretch of his arm, the prize overhead glinting like a grist crystal. But your attention's drawn to the angel wielding it, instead.

"You can walk okay?"

Already looking him over, for some sort of tremor or dizziness that'd manifest itself in his stance. Aside from how he'd already risen, though, there's no evidence to suggest incapability. But that's not enough to shy away from supporting him, the nails that'd teased his sweater fibers already transitioning into a loose fist amidst the fabric.

Maybe you were too distracted by your quest to scoop up his litter, because you could have sworn he'd been standing over there next to the tree... Yet here he was, now standing right next to you. And grabbing onto you like it was the most natural thing in the world to him. When the fuck did he have the time to do that when you only looked away for an instant?

The contact feels nice and not at all as stressful as your prior moment had been, so you let yourself lean into him a bit. Where before you'd been too filled with adrenaline as you calculated how best to extricate yourself before you did something you'd both regret, this interaction has enough plausible deniability to it that you can let yourself enjoy it. If your cheeks happen to take on a rosy flush, that's none of your business. If part of you hopes he interprets your leaning into him as a sign that you can't walk and thus need to be forcefully dragged along, that's also none of your business.

"Course I can walk."

Tired. No, that can't be right. It's only just become spring, hasn't it?

"..No, I'm okay," You make a point of resisting the moss pillow, forcing your head back to attention. It pulls your gaze out of the greenery, back to its original target, and.. to the specific strain of confusion slash concern he wears on his sleeve, never inauthentic. Is it for you? Just the thought seems to push at that blanket, pulls you a little closer to wakefulness.

"Are you?"

Not waiting for a response, you start your fumble to your feet- It's instinctive, a strong impulse you obey before you even realize why. The smallest hint of sleep, that he might be projecting it (correctly) onto you.. that's scary. So you better get up. Maybe then, he'll wake up, too.

"It's, um- I think we should walk." A clumsy explanation for an even clumsier dismount, pausing halfway up to your height to smack the willow trunk for support. Sorry.

"I'm n-"

Too distracted by the sight of him stumbling his way upward, you leave your thought unfinished. Instead, you find yourself rising up as if to catch him. Not that it would have mattered with the way your reaction time seems so slow, and especially not with the way that you yourself wobble to try to maintain a steady stance. You blame the slightly uneven ground beneath your feet for the miscalculation, but you have no idea what his problem was.

"Hold on, let me just..."

The shine of sunlight hitting the glass reminds you that one of your bottles remains above the water though, and you're sure he wouldn't want to litter in his own forest. It should be so simple to bend down and grab the bottle, but the way up poses more of an issue. You must have swung back upwards too fast, because all of the sudden there's a sensation rushing up to your head and spinning around. The dizziness feels overwhelming, and you take a deep breath to steady yourself. Just as fast as it came on, it's gone. So in order to pretend that never happened, you raise the bottle up to signal that you've accomplished what you wanted to do before you both departed.

It's disappointing when he keeps tearing, but it's the same as shredding corpsemeat. There's no pain to be wrought once the nerves are severed. So you watch him work his nails into dead matter, eating away at the baseline of all life. But you don't so much as twitch with discomfort.

"I know.. pretty much everything."

The warm feeling from before is ebbing in again, this time up over your head, like a cozy hood. It feels like melting into a hot bath, one degree at a time, but instead of your brain oozing out your ears, it's just making you sleepy. Enough to tug at your eyelids, but a good nestle back into your surviving grass makes for a grounding point. Crumbling earth, scratchy texture, pressed into your clothes. Rooted. You keep as alert as you can manage, from where you're letting your cheek start to smush into a spongier patch. Moss, maybe?

"Woods is my job. So's everything in it.. Like animals."

Distracted by the sight in front of you, the half-shredded blade of grass gets dropped back into your lap as you cock your head in confusion. As strange as you've been feeling today, he's been acting even stranger. He's blinking slowly now and sinking down into the ground like he's about to take a nap... Even though he's the one that invited you out here?

You know he can't help the sleeping sometimes, but it's still somewhat concerning nonetheless. You were both out here now to celebrate the arrival of spring, which means he should be sleeping less these days. Especially not when you're in the middle of spending time together, or so you'd like to hope.

"Are you tired?"

One blink. Then two.

"Yeah."

It's not a big deal to you. It never was, or else you would've made a point of it sooner. Here, out in the woods with nothing but fermentation in your belly, it's even less a concern than normal. Something tells you it's probably not a good idea to explain much more, though, the same way you know better than to explain much of anything ever. It gets too complicated! And.. he doesn't like Balit. The cat shouldn't have to inherit any of that negativity..

So you watch him pluck at grass. Anxious, maybe? There's never a real reason to damage the environment, so you have to assume. But.. a few torn blades won't kill the place, so you stage a soft intervention over an ill executed tackle. Not that you could manage launching yourself off the ground, about now. Even the thought makes you sick.

"..She's not going anywhere. You don't have to freak out."

Code: Stop pulling grass.

"Oh."

A beat of silence. What the hell are you supposed to say to that? It seems like it should have been relevant to mention at some point, but clearly he didn't think so. You can't help but wonder what else he doesn't think is relevant to mention.

"I just didn't realize you knew."

You can nearly feel the beam of his gaze targeted on your picking though, and you guess it probably isn't very nice to rip up the living plants in the forest where he can at least communicate with the trees. Instead, you rake up some of the plucked blades and deposit them into your lap.

From there, it's easy to pinch a single blade between your thumb and forefinger and dig your thumbnail into the blade to tear off a tiny piece. You keep your eyes on him as you work your way up the length of the blade to slowly shred it. With each piece you split off, you mentally count. He trusts you, he trusts you not. These ones have a finite number of pieces you can split them into. You don't like the answer you get though, so you feel for another blade and begin to repeat the process.