maskormenacelogs | you were always weird but i never had to hold you by the edges like i do now

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you were always weird but i never had to hold you by the edges like i do now

WHO: karkat and ruka.
WHERE: heropa; some rooftop.
WHEN: march 10.
WHAT: ruka finally goes nuclear, karkat struggles to contain the fallout.
WARNINGS: tears, talk of suicide.

Living with Ruka had always brought with it a certain sense like that of waiting for a bomb to go off. He'd been almost certain no one else knew about the potential danger she could pose, if she lost control again. On top of that, he'd been sworn to secrecy on the matter. It made it difficult not to feel responsible for her, in the event of a repeat of Venezuela. When she'd gotten sick (they'd been sick last time), he'd been so sure that this would be it, that it would be the final push to topple her over that precipice.

Then Eridan had to get Ported out, ever a master of timing. She didn't seem to entirely comprehend it, the line between reality and hallucination had been so blurred, and in her state, Karkat had done nothing to try and convince her of the truth. After she was cured, he'd tell her, not before. He hadn't considered what might happen if she put two and two together before he could. Coming home to her wide-open bedroom door and finding what looked like the remains of a small hurricane and a distinct lack of Ruka were enough to instill a deep, cold sense of dread, for what it could mean.

He'd spent how many months waiting for this bomb to go off, to contain the blast, prevent it from damaging her or those around her, and he'd managed to miss it? The front door had been left hanging open, too-- she must have left in a hurry. Without her fancy sports car, though, at least he supposes she must still be in the same state.

He doesn't even pause to pull on a jacket, when he dashes back outside.

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She should have expected it to be this way. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she always knew it would happen like this, but knowing and predicting, recognizing patterns, preparing for the inevitabilities, somehow it was, is, feels so much worse than she prepared for. It's not just one thing. Not just one person missing, or two, or ten; not just one person returning. Not just, not fair, not right, thoughts spinning out of control, like a string of pearls torn apart, beads hitting the ground and scattering in a thousand directions.

Where was she going?

There's no answer to that—Ruka doesn't know Heropa enough to have any place to go, any safe recluse where nobody will find her. There's no away. There's no out. It's no worse to cry at the back door of the malt shop than it is behind the public library or anywhere else, but one foot continued to land in front of the other, pushing her forward, somewhere. Her lungs burn; her heart has the disjointed rhythm of a rubber ball trapped inside a drum, and every beat and collision is pain upon agony within her. There's nothing she can do, there's nowhere she can go, there's nobody she can trust, nothing, nothing. A bright and beautiful Florida afternoon, but to her everything is little but shade and shadow and hollow despair. There's no point to any of it, but she kept going. She only really knows that she'd been running for the burn of air in her mouth, but at least nobody can see the red of her face now, wouldn't have been able to tell how much of that was from crying instead of from sweat. Not that it matters, she would think, if she had concern enough to think about it. Her heart hurts too much to be self-conscious about the way she looks. That could come later.

Her thoughts feel blurred, smudged out, dark charcoal smeared over lightly-written graphite letters, and going so far on instinct and auto-pilot, she wouldn't be able to figure out how long it's been since she left the house in tatters. The same day? The same hour? Maybe. It's easier to breathe now, at least, sitting still on the roof ledge, with the wind tugging at her hair, her clothes, chilling the hot tears on her face.

The town itself is small, so none of its buildings are very tall—nothing like the skyscrapers of her youth, or even of the past season. She doesn't remember getting up here, but ascending only ten or so stories by external fire escape would have been simple enough—even if she had to sabotage the lowermost ladder to descend to ground level without someone on the escape itself to knock it down. It's fine. It doesn't really matter, does it?

Nothing she does does, in the end.

He loses track of time, the steady rhythm of his footsteps against the pavement a metronome he times his breathing to, he keeps pace, barely paying attention to where he goes. It's not his eyes he uses to search for her -- sense of his body, of his self is at a record minimum, as he stretches his awareness out, to the very edges of his power, allowing every heart within range to pour into his unobstructed, waiting for the sense of one he knows.

Abruptly, at random intervals, he will change direction, attempting to cover as much ground as possible, in case he misses her. Heropa might not be quite as much of a labyrinth as the City had been, but it's still quite a lot of ground to cover on foot. Public transport is out of the question, though -- there's too much chance he'd miss her. After a while, though, he grows tired of sidewalks, of pedestrians polluting his search, and reverts to an old habit, one he hasn't visited since arriving in this universe. It's not sidewalks he traverses, now, but rooftops, fencing, not so much running as allowing himself to be carried by his own momentum -- gravity does half the work. His muscles burn, and his throat aches for thirst, and he isn't wearing the right clothes for this, but he still moves, vaults and climbs and jumps, straining to push his heart to the very outer edges of his range, waiting--

It's familiar in the way her name, her face is familiar. Just a flicker, barely perceptible, almost out of range, he might have even imagined it, but it's enough to turn his feet in the direction the flicker had come from. He knows it's ill advised, to open himself up and approach her so freely, unaware of the danger she might or might not pose, but he needs to find her. He follows the pull, where it leads him to the sabotaged fire escape, up, up, up--

He pulls himself over the edge of the roof, to collapse on his hands and knees, gasping. He doesn't look up, to confirm she's there, but in between attempts to catch his breath, he manages to force out, almost inaudible--

"Ruka."

She doesn't have the same proximity sense of hearts as Karkat does, can't identify a new presence by presence alone. It's the sound of any person on the roof with her that raises her hackles, suddenly aware of herself and her surroundings.

It's someone from the building on a lunch break, or out for a smoke--when her head spins, her arm is already wiping the tears on her face, hoping against hope that they won't bother her. Her gaze first goes to the roof access door, but the sight of that body on hands and knees, that mop of untidy black hair, those doorstop horns...

Recognition is a match into kindling, and the flame is no thing kind.

Without a word, she turns away, looking out over the city once more.

It's a few more seconds, before Karkat is able to pull himself back to his feet, attention having been returned to his body and the screaming muscles he'd so abused in order to find her. Once on his feet, with her in his sight, he hesitates in saying anything. There's almost something defensive in the stance he takes, in the way he doesn't approach her.

The way he looks at her is the way someone might size up a potentially dangerous wild animal, and his tone is one used when trying not to spook.

"Ruka?"

"No, it's Kanaya."

The words are ashen in her mouth, barely strong enough, loud enough, to be heard past the edge of her teeth. Her back is a curved slouch, for once, her arms resting on her knees, hands knotted with metal, feet still dangling over the open expanse. The repetition of her name does not draw her full attention to Karkat; her words are no invitation.

The whole heat of her flame is nothing save Go Away.

Despite the unwelcoming atmosphere, it's a little better than what he was expecting. Truth be told, he hadn't known what to expect. Ruka wearing that cold, mocking smile she'd had when she'd tried to gut him like a fish, maybe. With the recent epidemic, Venezuela has been very close in his thoughts. Still, his guard doesn't lower, and he makes no move to obey her unspoken demand, remaining where he stands.

"What are you doing up here?"

She's too close to the edge, for him to feel comfortable leaving. Not knowing her history.

Edited 2014-03-16 05:57 (UTC)

Her thumb traces the engraving in warm metal, but it does not comfort her. The reminder is tinder. Her bones feel like snapping in the heat.

She wonders if she can shut him up from here, or if she will only snap his neck in the clumsy attempt.

"Don't be so fucking dense." The rattle in her voice is as much warning as the same from a snake. The heel of her shoe drags across the wall. "I'm not in the mood."

"I'm well aware of that," he chooses his words carefully, trying to keep to a neutral tone of voice. Dangerous, her heart screams at him, and the very last thing he wants is to provoke that danger, for her, or him, or anyone unfortunate enough to wander onto the roof for some air.

"Will you come down with me?" Skipping straight to the point.

"No."

Not chosen well enough—or perhaps there was no choice good enough. She doesn't turn her head to look at him, but the tightness of her shoulders can substitute for a glare. The tightness of her voice can substitute a dagger.

Despair can feed so easily into fury.

"You're the last person I want to go anywhere near."

It hurts, but it's an old hurt, by now. It's a hurt that can be pushed aside for later, some other time. This is not about Karkat's feelings.

"We don't have to talk, or stick together, or anything," he tries to appeal. "I'm not here to fight with you, or make it worse."

"Would you just shut up?"

Tears still run hot through her lashes, when she acknowledges their journey. Her jaw aches, the joints in her hands feel like rusted iron where they bend, her heart—

Her heart...

The breath in her throat curdles on that one thought, and she closes her eye against the sun. "Leave me alone."

"You don't--" His breath hitches, catches. It's emotion that doesn't belong to him, but it's strong enough that it might as well. Maybe he should, for once, just go, walk away, let what happens, happen. It's not like he won't be able to say he tried.

Except...

"You don't want to be alone."

Anger spikes, even as her shoulders shake for the tears she has to struggle now to fight back, and with a careless swing she turns her body on the raised ledge of the roof, one leg dragging up to rest on its flat surface.

Red. Red, red, red in the bloodshot sclera of her single eye, puffy from crying and raw from so many attempts to scrub the tears clean, red in her thin cheeks, blush and rash, exhaustion and hurt and humiliation all painted across her skin with a blood-soaked sponge, red to her throat and the tops of her ears, red in the swell of a lower lip gnawed for anxious restraint.

Red, the point of her tongue as she spits fury.

"Fuck you." Bitter, furious bitter, and that sentiment, that Go Away-heat of hers, only rises in temperature. "Yes, I got as far away from you and everyone else as I could because I don't want to be alone. Right, yeah, that makes perfect sense, Karkat."

Dangerous wild animal was close, in Karkat's estimation, to her present state, but it's not quite close enough. Being hurt, being cornered, those make the beast so much more dangerous.

"You never make any fucking sense," he snaps, regurgitating some of her own fury back at her -- he can't help it. She's not just dangerous; she's infectious, to someone like him, with powers like his. "You don't want to be alone. You just... you don't think there's any alternative. Do you?"

His own heart beats too fast, for adrenalin. He wants her away from that edge. If she's dangerous, he'd rather it be a danger to him, than one to herself. Too many people he cares about have taken their own lives, while he was either unable or unaware to lift a finger to stop them, to help them. Ruka already being one of them.

"It's either alone now, or alone later, and later is worse."

"Alternative?"

Neither of their desires for away are met; neither can be. Like magnets of the same pole, they push one another back, and the closer they're brought together, the stronger that repulsion. The more Ruka reaches for Karkat's awayness, the closer he draws in; the closer Karkat draws to Ruka's awayness from that ledge, the more precarious it becomes.

But such parallels do not inform Ruka's actions; it's no thematic rebellion that sets her limbs into motion, turning, pressing knuckles and flat fists against that ledge, pushing down, pushing up. It's no metaphor that motivates her, convenient as it is.

Ruka rises to her feet, perched on the raised ledge of the building, her back to the sun. Back to the open ocean of steel and concrete below—only a single step backwards. But there's no delicate frailty to her stance, no waifish romance. Her thinness is rendered in sharp lines, bony arms and cut ribs; what sunlight illuminates her front is cut on her shoulders and bleeds down the rest of her. Even her hair, for once loose of its varying braids and fashionable styles, does not soften her look. The gold bracelet clutched so tightly in one hand may as well be a knife for the way she holds it.

"As if I have a choice? How can I, when what I do means nothing? When what I want means absolutely nothing?"

If ever Ruka were a creature more than human, it would be this moment. With the sunlight bleeding on her, she better resembles the root of her name, her power, than the child burdened with it.

"Especially to you!"

She cuts an impressive silhouette, bathed in the afternoon sun. There's something about the way she holds herself in it, about the way she speaks that commands respect, perhaps even fear. There's power behind the words and her movement, strength that doesn't come from anywhere so mundane as the physical.

Noticing this lends an almost surreal quality to the confrontation, and without thinking, he takes a single step forward, heart now thundering somewhere in the region of his throat. He can't catch her -- he'd more likely send both of them tumbling over the edge. He can't stop her. All he can do is talk. All he's ever been able to do is talk, talk, talk. And when has she ever listened? It's enough to make him want to despair, in his own uselessness.

A pleading note bleeds into his voice.

"It's not meaningless," which sounds so empty, coming from him. "I do care about what you want, Ruka! I give so many shits I'm likely to be nominated for some kind of charity award over the next sweep, just for all these shits I'm handing out. It's not meaningless, but if it comes down to, to a choice between what you want and your continued well being, I'm kind of obligated to go with the latter-- it's my--" Responsibility. To take care of her, when she won't take care of herself.

"I'm your friend. I want to help you!"

When has she ever wanted to listen to anyone but herself?

Her arms tremble at her sides, restrained tremors, Fury and Denial the red running beneath her face, through her heart and veins.

"Of course you do. That's why you won't let me grieve on my own, like I want to! That's, that's why I can't have any time to myself, so I can figure out my own heart, without having to worry about how it affects you."

The lower hem of her eye patch is dark for dampness; when her face turns just right, when the wind tugs at her hair and her clothing just right, the sunlight glitters on the wetness of her cheek and her eye.

"If I wanted an audience, I would have asked for one." Her teeth bare like fangs. "If I wanted you to play voyeur, or pretend you're anything but glad and relieved that he's gone, I would have stayed at that stupid house!"

His reasons for finding her seem to grow weaker and weaker, in the face of her anger. He wanted to make sure she was safe, but how can he be sure she wasn't, until he showed up? He wanted to help her, but how can he help someone who won't accept it? More and more, he's realizing that for how well he knows her, he doesn't really understand her.

"That's not why I'm here," he struggles to keep his voice level. Another slow, cautious step towards her. "I'm not here as an audience, or to get off to your suffering, or whatever made up fantasy bullshit you think best supports being pissed off at me-- you have plenty of reasons to be pissed off at me without adding fake ones to the mix, come on. I'm not glad he's gone."

He spits the last word as though it tastes of acid, hands balling into fists.

"I was trying to make sure you were safe. What kind of assumption do you expect a guy to make, when you leave the place looking like you're aspiring to a one woman demolition crew, and don't answer your calls? And then I find you sitting on the edge of a rooftop? If you want me to leave you alone, I will, I'll fuck right off back where I came from, just-- come down. Safely. Please."

And for all that, you still don't understand the first thing about how I feel. It's nothing she hasn't told him before—and isn't that always her defense, when he tells her what he finds in her heart?

Was it always more truth than deflection?

"Aren't you?" The words don't sound like a question, the way they come out her mouth. Mouth so dry, throat so clogged for tears, the consonants pop like twigs in the blistering heat of a pyre. "Because it's going to be so much easier for you, now, isn't it? Without him? Without the danger he is to you, that you're convinced he is to me? There's a thousand reasons why you're better off with him gone." He doesn't even know, does he, the rightly aimed suspicions Eridan had for Karkat? The lengths she went to, to protect him?

What a freedom it must be for Karkat, to be released from the burden of Eridan Ampora!

But for Ruka, her hand holds tight to the golden bangle he gave her, fingerprints of adoration and etchings of inevitability burning scars against her palm. This small bit of metal serves as no useful anchor; the weight may guide her, in calmer times, but such feeling is only dragged along with the rest of her for the strength of the storm.

"I'd expect you to understand I'm upset! Only knowing half of it, you should understand that much!" Her empty hand scrubs at her wetter cheek, and the illusion should now be transparent—it's one he uses so often, after all.

Her anger was never rooted with Karkat, no matter how easy a target for it he is. Anger was her blustering defense against this, her Agony.

"Nobody else is going to be miserable about either side. Nobody would sympathize with my whole heart, so why leave it open?! Every hope of mine is gone. My whole world has traded light for ice, and nobody else would understand it. I'll suffocate for grief. Why would I want to be seen like this?! I only wanted to be alone! I thought you would understand that much!"

She gestures to the city behind her, the brilliant sun. Her voice is pleading and raw. "If I stayed down there, of course you'd find me. Anyone could! How, how could I explain any of this, to anyone? I don't want pity, I don't want a, a shoulder to cry on, someone to tell me how to feel, what I feel, how to react. It'll be okay, Ruka, it'll get better, Ruka—no, it won't!

"It's not possible anymore."

The fires of her heart seem now, finally, to burn her where she stands: the ugly, splotchy red of her face is darker, more pronounced, and her whole body quakes for sobs. Hiccups intersperse her words, catching emphasis in her throat.

Why he was so preoccupied with her safety eluded her—who gave a shit what kind of place she went, so long as it was isolated? She grew up on the top of a building ten times as many stories, or something like it; she wasn't afraid of heights. Neither was he, as far as she knew, why the preoccupation with going down?

Slow and thick like cold paint, understanding crawls down her neck. That's what this is all about, she realizes. Again. He doesn't even know, does he, how it happened before, but this is the conclusion his heart found. None of her feelings were ever as important as this, were they? All her bluster, those accusations and confessions, he wasn't after those at all.

"You think I'll jump."

"I don't know what to think anymore!" He bursts out, frustration, desperation in his voice. His hands come up in front of him, palms open, as though she could deposit the understanding he lacks in them. "But I'll tell you what I see. I see someone with a long, long history of disregard for both her own emotional well being and her physical safety standing on the edge of a ten story rooftop after sustaining a series of life altering upheavals she is only just lucid enough to comprehend as anything more than mindless delirium. You tell me what that looks like! You're so much smarter than me, so please, amaze me once again with your boundless wisdom!"

He won't like the way she doesn't say anything. He's not wrong, after all.

Ruka's gaze turns to the side, her good eye looking out at the world behind her, the height, the drop. In New Vesuvius, it was on the roof of that Symposium, under the crystalline night sky... and deciding the fall wasn't long enough to kill them both. And before, even before, when it was Bruno so worried about her on the roof of a building, hadn't she flung herself from that height, solely to spite his concern?

She caught herself before she hit the ground, that time, but she hadn't had to. She doesn't have to, now. And maybe it would be better, if she does, and doesn't. They don't know if imPorts will come back, after all, and there's a good chance they won't. Would that really be so bad? There's no real future for people like them, like her. Aside from Karkat, nobody would really care enough to miss her, anyway. Isn't that true? Everyone has their own lives to live, and they all push through loss like moderate snowfall.

Aside from Karkat.

Her free hand seeks that bump against her sternum, curled metal beneath her shirt. The coils of claws dig into her skin, and it's so easy to mistake it for a hand against her heart. She doesn't look at him, but neither does she move. No step forward, and no step back.

"You don't give yourself enough credit, sometimes."

Her heart requires an anchor.

"... Neither do I."

Edited (tenses!) 2014-03-17 06:45 (UTC)

"I know what it's like."

It was so long ago, and he'd been fractured into two separate entities, personality reduced to shades, but he remembers how those pieces of him had chosen death and despair over her, no matter how she'd pleaded with him, or tried to reach him. He'd been blind to everything beyond his own suffering and self loathing.

"It's hard to find any reason to keep going, when everything you can manage to bring yourself to give a shit about is so transient, when it's impossible to keep a hold on anything. Everything seems so pointless, when you consider the grand scheme of things, and realize that even if you manage to find an element of permanence somewhere, in something, there's no way to anchor yourself to this world. One day you'll leave, just like everyone else. Either you lose the people you care about, or they lose you, and you lose yourself."

The wary, focused way he looks at her hasn't changed -- the concession isn't enough to dispel the aura of dangerous wild animal. Slowly, he takes another step forward, chipping away at the distance between them. If he can just get close enough, without her catching on, without her snapping... His mind calls up the image of her scaling Karkinos' arm, one rung at a time.

"I wish I had some... magical, insightful, cinema-level inspiring bullshit I could tell you, to make you feel better about it, but this is our reality. It sucks, and it's hard, and it's okay if you want to demolish the house every now and again in protest, I'll even help you smash it up if that's how you want to deal with it, but you can't give up. Not like this."

It's an easy sneak, now, with her eye fixed on the world behind her, instead of the boy before her. Her hand holds tight to the bracelet, pushes hard on the necklace pendant, shackles and bonds, as if they're enough to keep her tied down. But one is only a ghost, now. If (if!) Eridan returns, she's sure, she's sure, he isn't going to be hers. Younger, older, whatever, he won't love her. If Rua comes back, will he be her brother, or some other copy? If the father still absent returned, will he know her name? If it's some mentor, will she look at Ruka with kind eyes, or ignorance? If some old friend, some surrogate brother drifts back into her life, will he have the same sense of pride captured by growth in youth?

She's loved so many people, and every one of them has left her. Aside from Karkat, aside, aside, aside, any returns will be no one but strangers with the same taste in film. Even her hometown friends, her birth parents...

Was there any use, preserving those memories? Why not give up? Why not?

"It's not going to get better."

"No, it's not," is the soft agreement, while he continues to edge across the chasm between them, trying to will her to turn around, walk toward him. "Our lives suck, and they're most likely going to keep sucking. There's nothing you or I can do about that."

He really shouldn't go out for a career in motivational speaking.

"But they're not meaningless. Temporary doesn't equal worthless. Losing him doesn't invalidate everything you went through together while he was here."

It's hard to try and convince someone of something you're only barely convinced of yourself.

"Giving up does."

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