Work Text:
He is beautiful in ways you don't quite understand.
He can't see it. He doesn't see it. He won't see it. But he is beautiful.
The circles permanently inked into the skin under his expressive, heavy lidded eyes are beautiful. And the freckles across his cheekbones. The tilt of his head when he looks at you, soft and smiling for moments, is so infinitely precious. Much like the feel of his small, warm hands curled up in yours. He is beautiful.
He makes you happy, he makes you feel safe and loved. He cares for you and you can feel his affection saturate every ranted, angry word. You feel it in every gentle touch, in every hug, in every fleeting kiss and you love him. You love him more than anything you have ever loved. Probably more than anything you will ever love.
So you thank the merciful messiahs every motherfucking day for him, for whatever miracle brought him into your life. Thank you.
And when its dawn and you are both sleepy, after Karkat has dragged you to his recupercoon. After he has settled you down and climbed in with you, and reached for one of your hands to tangle your fingers together, you pull his close and you tell him.
You tell him he is beautiful.
You tell him you love his tiny nubby horns because they are perfect for resting your chin between. You tell him you love the soft, dark curls at the nap of his neck and the sound of his purring when you drag your fingers through them. You tell him you love his voice, his little hands, the way he chews on his lip when he is thinking.
You tell him you love him. You love him with serendipity so pale it tastes like starlight, like the milk coloured sky, like the moon that hangs high in the sky.
You watch him blush and stutter and duck under the sopor to try and hide the red, red blush burning up the skin of his face. You watch him gather his nerves and breath in-out.
And then you listen, you listen to his halting, broken, speech. You listen when he tells you he loves you, he loves your fucking stupid clown paint and your awful grub-munching face. He tell you he loves your shitty doped-up smile and cool of your palms. You listen and you listen while your blood pusher thump-thumps against the bones of your rib cage.
You feel warm, for once, and not just because he is tucked tight against you. It is a nice feeling. The best feeling.
Your arms are round him then, your face buried in his hot shoulder and you smile and smile and smile. He hugs you back, murmuring that he feels the same, you stupid clown, pale like shooting stars and presses a butterfly-kiss to the juncture of your neck. He sighs when you stroke a hand through his hair, fingers massaging the skin of his scalp.
He falls asleep in your arms, a limp, heated weight in your embrace, buoyed by sopor and affection, and you kiss his forehead, and both cheeks. Then, careful not to jostle him, you watch for a while.
He is beautiful in ways you don't quite understand, and you love him.
You love him.