Chapter Text
Close my eyes and move to the back of my mind
Where feelings mean nothing-
Now all those feelings, those yesterday’s feelings,
Will all be lost in time,
But today I’ve wasted away
For today is on my mind.
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“Through the looking glass” was an accurate description as any for how he felt.
Not that he knew where the quote was from. Regardless, its truth resonated through his body like the way he shook when his dad finally came home or the way his music felt when he put it at full volume.
The looking glass was rather small, tilted, and doused in purple. It made the wide, wide world on the other side shift in unfathomable ways and thoughts slurred together in his vision. He might have laughed at it. Maybe he cried. Bubbles eased in and out of view and he made a grab for one, but it danced out of his grasp.
'All up and stealin’ the wicked motherfuckin’ miracles.'
He shuddered and smiled. What was he thinking? Stealing miracles? Never! Miracles were everywhere, like in the grapevines crawling up the ceiling and the slow honks from underfoot. Under back. The boy laid down headily and let the world slip around him. It was a beauty he rarely experienced and yet craved it all the time, needed the sugar high and never the drop. Through the looking glass was true only so long as the tool was available; he hated being trapped inside the place he was looking down on, little insects crawling all over him in the real world. Arms itched and then they didn’t itch because he was laughing, and what was he worrying about the real world for? At the moment the looking glass was within his reach and things were ok, better than ok. Miracles. Things were carved in miracles, shot through the top of the floor and melting around the edges of his brain. Did a brain have edges? The looking glass didn’t care so the boy decided he didn’t either.
Hours passed like minutes and seconds passed like years, lying on the floor of his dirty bedroom. It was a good trip that time and for that he was grateful. He would give thanks to the messiahs when he was more focused, less focused, everything going in and out of focus; sharp, soft, sharp, soft, until it all faded and he fell peacefully asleep like that, huddled near his mattress and crying purple into smeared make-up.
Waking up was a bit of a slap in the face- light was coming from somewhere and it still shimmered in a way that would be gorgeous when it didn’t hurt his eyes to look at it. The room was less purple than before and instead of grapevines crawling up his walls he could make out clown drawings in his mellowed vision. Grinning, he sunk his head back into the floor. Afterglow was there, stroking his face, around his shoulders, down his burning arms, and into his intestines. He was hungry. Cracking an eye open again the boy propped himself up on his elbows, remembering that there was school that day. He opened the other eye and fumbled under his mattress for the extra package of Ho-Hos he kept concealed underneath, but it appeared to be missing. Oh well. Maybe he’d eat something later.
Were his arms burning? Dried blood oozed around torn white skin, and there was a dirt-like substance under his nails, which he figured was his own flesh. Bugs he realized; there had been bugs yesterday, crawling on him, eating him away, gnawing his arms. It made him want to itch again just thinking about it, but this time there was nothing to itch away but scaly flesh. Couldn’t let Karkat see that when he came to pick him up. Right. School.
The boy stumbled up from his position on the floor, hunkering out of his room and into the endless hallway. The world blurred before him in gentle waves, easing his vision as he made his way to the bathroom. Once there he stripped off the pajama bottoms and boxers he had on and stepped into the shower. Make-up came out less easily than the scabs on his arms, but he was content on rubbing it away himself. The raw sensation in his face was welcome when it was accompanied with a buzz. He thought maybe he cleaned the rest of himself off, smiling gently into the shower’s spray. When he stepped out there was a towel waiting near the bath mat for him. Had it always been there? It didn’t matter. He smiled at it and thanked the messiahs, and also Kurloz, who had likely put it there in the first place. Bless that guy.
He dried his hair off and wrapped the fluffy towel around his waist, making his way back to the bedroom. Rustling came from downstairs, followed by a loud bang. Despite his hazy disposition, he hurriedly threw on pajama pants and long sleeves. The pounding he heard up the creaking stairwell was definitely Karkat’s; his brother’s movements whispered. Karkat’s yelled. By the time the stairs stopped screaming and his door slammed open, the boy was at his dusty mirror, reapplying his make-up. Heavy white base, greyed in eyes, an artistic dot or two never hurt. Grey smears settled around his mouth into a clown’s smile. The process was soothing, the make-up a necessity, not only to satisfy his religion, but to satisfy a base desire to cover the dark rings under his eyes and hide away from the world.
“Hey Gamzee I know you’ve been rotting your brain, but your body’s still intact, right?” Karkat seethed, eyeing the mess in the room with distaste. “Move your slow ass up then, we need to get to the fucking school feeder before we get counted late for like the eighth goddamn time this year. I don’t like spending more time than I have to with your stupidity in Saturday detention, despite evidence otherwise. Jesus, cool it with the grease paint fucktard, we don’t have time for this bullshit.”
Gamzee merely smiled at his friend’s anger; that was soothing too, in a way. Karkat made his thoughts stop clawing at him, made the good things seem real. He could listen to that kid scream himself hoarse. Instead, he complied, putting the make-up on his cluttered drawer and rummaging on the adjacent side for his back pack. He wondered briefly if he had done his homework, but shrugged it off and made his way out into the hall and downstairs to the foyer. Kurloz was there with his laptop balanced on the arm of a huge sofa, eyes glued to the screen. He waved them silently out of the house, Karkat pulling the door shut behind them in response. Clambering into the car - a piece of junk, really -
Gamzee relaxed against the passenger seat. The ignition turned and the radio blared to life, the driver thrumming his fingers on the wheel to the beat. It wasn’t really the kind of music he preferred, but it suited Karkat. The garbled noises rolled around in his skull, pulling him into a sleep state that ended abruptly after the shorter boy pounded on his door. Parked. They were at school.
“Wake up call, asshole. You need to get to your first class.”
“Sure motherfuckin’ best friend. Wouldn’t want to leave a brother all up in the detention seat again,” Gamzee replied lazily. Karkat huffed and stormed across the parking lot and into the building, his “best friend” in tow.
The first class Gamzee had was Geometry, shortly followed by Life Sciences. The boy was technically old enough to be a senior, but after having to repeat freshman year and undertaking remedial courses he ended up at the bottom of the food chain as a junior. He didn’t mind. If anything, he was happier to be a year behind the rest of his classmates; thinking about his future gave him a headache. Not to mention he would be in Karkat’s graduating class if he didn’t somehow fuck things up again. It was the perfect situation.
Third hour was a strictly corrective course known as “think tank”. Study hall, more or less. Under the pretense of getting his work done, Gamzee would doodle the class period away in a tiny sketchbook: usually clowns, or faygo, or when he was feeling particularly creative, Karkat. That day, however, the supervisor motioned for him to speak with her. He stood, swaying a little in his after-high glow, and made his way over to her desk.
“Does a sister all up and bein’ to need something?” Gamzee asked the woman, who merely sighed through her nose. The boy could see the way she looked at him: in scorn. None of his teachers really appreciated his make-up on top of his grades and his apparent disregard for authority. He didn’t mind what his teachers thought, or anyone else for that matter. Not everyone could understand his religion or the way of life and that was ok; better to have a few faithful followers than a whole lot of undedicated ones.
The not-follower was speaking, he noticed a bit belatedly. Sometimes he spaced out and lost the conversation like that. He would just ask her to repeat herself.
“-home life isn’t exactly great, Mr. Makara, but as your teacher I’d like to see you succeed, regardless of what’s happening outside of school. We’ve given you a lot of lee-way, Gamzee, and a lot of second chances, but if you aren’t going to use those there is no doubt in my mind that you will fail this year.” A pause. The boy, having tuned in, decided he wouldn’t need to hear her repeat herself. He’d heard the magic word: fail. Subdued panic settled into his limbs and he suddenly needed a smoke. Fail. Couldn’t fail. There had to be options.
Seeing his eyes widen, the old supervisor went on. “You do still have options, and the staff is more than prepared to help you get through this year, but you need to cooperate. No more missing homework assignments, no more skipping Saturday detentions. No more doodling during this hour; if you’re going to pass into your senior year you need to work hard. We will help you, Gamzee, but you need to let us.” She let that information sink in. Pass. He could still pass. The panic alleviated, melting into the wall behind him.
“Sure motherfucker, whatever you say, right? What’s a brother gotta be doin’ if he wants to get his pass on?” The supervisor winced and sighed again, running a hand through her stringy grey hair. Gamzee knew the drill by then; they said there were things he couldn’t do. They promised to help him, like she just had, convinced him it would be in his best interest to cooperate. Then there was the one more thing. Just one more thing to make themselves feel better for letting such a monumental fuck up move into his next year of education. The wall felt like waves on his back; he hadn’t realized he was leaning on it, but he was glad for the support. The room was starting to look blue.
She spoke. “We’re looking at student tutors to get you through junior year. The rest of your teachers and I agree that Karkat is an incredible student influence on you, but he has his own problems he needs to focus on and obviously we can’t rely on him to shape you up. So we’ve looked into some peers who are both trustworthy and succeeding academically who would be willing to look after you. During this period you will be meeting with him to access your progress and ask him questions on your homework. This student will be giving up a free period for your benefit, Gamzee, and we don’t want you to take that lightly. Are we clear?” Clear? Peer tutor? Karkat’s problems? Focus? Focus, he needed to focus. He nodded, hoping that was the correct reaction. Apparently it was. “Good, that’s good. You’ll start meeting tomorrow. Do you know a boy named Tavros Nitram?” she asked resignedly. 'Motherfucker sounds familiar,' Gamzee thought, but shook his head no. The woman just nodded in response and sent him back to his seat. The room, having stopped being blue, pushed him towards his desk and so he obeyed its force, sitting slowly and grasping for his sketch book.
Fourth hour: American Literature, but he had forgotten his book at home. Fifth hour was beginning drawing and the teacher’s voice lulled him back into his sleep place. The teacher in question - a young man in his early 30’s - didn’t care to even notice. Sixth hour found the boy in the lunch room, trying to remember if he had brought any money. Deciding it was pointless, he wandered over to a table situated at the back of the huge space, near the bathrooms. By some truly wicked miracle, Karkat shared his lunch hour, and by some similarly wicked miracles, so did Karkat’s love-crush-girl. Gamzee got the feeling that she didn’t really like him, but she and Karkat got along bitch-tits, at least most of the time.
“Hey, best friend,” Gamzee greeted, Karkat sitting down beside him. Terezi-the-love-crush-girl snickered, resting her tray down opposite of the boys’. Gamzee waved at her, smiling slightly and laying his head down on the table. By lunch time, having fully rested in art class, sleep evaded him, but he was content to listen to his friends bicker. Unfortunately, he was interrupted.
“Gamzee get your stupid clown face off of the table, people put their food there. Actually, you know what, fine, just leave your head there, probably serves some of these idiots right, eating off of your greasy table pillow. Ew, don’t look at me with that stupid puppy dog stoner gaze, looking at you looking like that is like trying to impale myself on a spoon. A rusty, sad, religious spoon. In fact, screw you for even being here, shouldn’t you be smoking a doobie or whatever the taint chafing fuck it is you do? God it’s embarrassing to know you sometimes man, just get your goddamn head off the table,” Karkat said, going a bit red in the face.
“Sure motherfucker, ain’t no problem” the taller teenager responded, lifting his head a little from the cool surface, to squint up at his friends. Terezi snorted, saying something about how Gamzee should probably be offended by that. He wasn’t really listening, entranced in the dull shimmer of the ceiling light. 'Shits miraculous' he thought grinning, 'like how that motherfuckin’ ceiling light all up and gets its glow on. How’s it even do that? Motherfuckin’ miracles is how.'
Perhaps this train of thought wasn’t locked in his mind; bits of his observation had apparently reached Karkat’s notice, who seemed to be exploding at him yet again. “Wow, yeah, as usual your grammar and logic are commendable. Its fucking electric douche bag, there is literally nothing mysterious or otherworldly at all about that goddamn light fixture, except maybe its ability to completely baffle you. And that’s not even much of a feat, considering that exactly everything that can catch your attention for like point five seconds baffles you. You know what’s really ‘motherfuckin’ miraculous’? The fact that after 13 years of hauling your clown-y ass to various classrooms with a colorful assortment of teachers you still don’t know how lights work. Even more miraculous than that? The fact that I’m still hanging out with a guy who doesn’t know how dick-munching brightening appliances function. Fuck, I take back every time I’ve ever said miracles aren’t real, Gamzee, there’s miracles just pouring out of my ass. Actually, while I’m having this incredible revelation, just go ahead and sign me up for your stupid cult, why don’t you? Then we can have miracles goddamn galore.”
“Sure, brother, we’ll get right on that shit,” Gamzee replied, having processed only the tail end of the rant. He knew that his best friend was being insincere about joining the - he winced at the word - cult. That was okay; he figured he was doing enough believing for the both of them.
Terezi, though - he didn’t know if he had enough belief in his body to save that sister. Shifting a bit on the bench and feeling his stomach tighten with emptiness, he peered over at the girl who was fumbling blindly across the table for Karkat’s hand. Haha, blindly. Had to watch those jokes, could be offensive to a sister sometimes. Gamzee’s gaze shifted to Terezi’s misty eyes, vaguely noting their intense focus and cynicism. Despite having a cane and all the other stuff that came with being disabled - like the aptitude to read braille - she wasn’t actually blind. Only legally blind. She liked to stress the legally.
Karkat, on the other hand, had a blood disorder. The boy couldn’t remember what it was called and his best friend’s pinched features gave away nothing, but Gamzee knew it was acutely un-miraculous. The very definition of anti-miracles. He sort of wished he could help his friends, but that was out of his power. Anyway, he could find happiness in just watching the two argue, Terezi gripping Karkat’s hand for emphasis and Karkat gripping right back, leaving him untouched at the edge of the lunch table, smiling like a fool.
The day was over quickly after that; PE followed lunch, and Gamzee lazed around for the majority of it, having nothing to say when his teacher shot him a dirty look at the end of class.
By the time Karkat dropped him back off at his looming house, the boy’s stomach felt like it was trying to eat itself and his brain was pounding against his skull. The sun hurt. Movement hurt. Everything hurt.
Dropping his backpack by the door, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his make-up coming away on his fingers in stomach-wrenching grey and white. Kurloz was already home, resting on the sofa next to his girlfriend. Each had their laptops laying on their lap, somehow managing to still be completely involved in each other too, sprawled comfortably in their own bubble. Regardless, Gamzee’s older brother noticed his entry and signed him a hello. Gamzee signed back a garbled mess, something about hello’s and turning the oven on - he didn’t know if he’d gotten it right, but it didn’t matter. Kurloz was already up on his feet, padding in the direction of the kitchen. Gamzee nodded at Meulin on his way up the stairs and she waved at him excitedly. That sister was all sorts of wonderful miracles, but her quick actions made his head spin and he barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach was trying to upturn itself. What had he eaten that day? Nothing? The day before? RC? Bile fought its way out of his throat and into the toilet, violently waking him from the day’s stupor. Pills. Those would work in a pinch.
Fumbling over to the cabinet above the sink, the boy reached up. Second bottle in the top left corner, behind the Advil: Xanax. Two pills, swallowed, scratching his throat on the way down, accompanied with the disorienting feeling of them grating against his esophagus, and then he shut the cabinet and sunk into the floor. How long was he supposed to wait for the euphoria or the at least alleviation?
It didn’t matter. Minutes later, Kurloz tentatively opened the bathroom door to find his little brother sleeping peacefully on the cold tile. He scooped up the sleeping boy and carried him to his bedroom nearby. After dropping him onto the messy mattress he headed back downstairs to turn the oven back off and snuggle up with Meulin again.