The paintings along the circus train’s cars were fading, now that Gamzee was gone and didn’t smear them on just as tenderly as his own clown paint anymore. Mituna just climbed right in when the train wheezed to a stop, and ducked from car to car until he found someone he could talk to about a job. He hadn’t brushed the train off to turn back to his ordinary life, and he didn’t go see the show, either. Mituna was just another lost and aching human willing to climb on to a circus train that creaked like a scream, after all, that rattled into town with spider webs stitched between its boards like glue. So, when Kurloz met Mituna Captor, he didn’t believe he could grow to matter much at all. He was all that it meant to live beyond death, beyond life – whatever Gamzee had ever known of that horror-story freedom, and plenty someone like him would never have wanted to find out without a little encouragement. He was the traveling circus both he and Gamzee had run, before, and he was the grave dirt ground into the boards of their train. He had learned those things from his sire, and they mattered. He was tendrils threading themselves deep, deep into a motherfucker’s mind, like some kind of awful, poisoned roots. Kurloz was sure he would never be that side of Gamzee, but he was the knowing smiles, the jokes victims heard in a throaty murmur just before they finally died. He went as if it was to that afterlife he wouldn’t stop rambling on about. When the human Karkat said fuck it – said he had better not come to regret this, you ridiculous undead asshole – and offered Gamzee a basement, offered him soft lips on his forehead, he went. “I’d feel better, if you said you hated me.”
Mituna captor and latula pyrope skin#
To not feel his own hands snap bones and stretch skin apart like peeling into a juice-splattering fruit. “You got to tell me the truth of it, motherfucker,” Gamzee had said, voice heavy and dripping with all his years, with all the poisons he took to forget and grow hazy. It was as if Kurloz was supposed to want a pulse more than a purpose. Who he’d had to hurt, to get stitched up that way. Even when he tried to explain why he’d had his mouth sewn shut when Gamzee stumbled across him way back when. Even when Kurloz explained that he had been a skeleton of a man, before. Gamzee had expected Kurloz to hate him for making him into that new creature, that new thing that would never really belong anywhere. You can’t walk in the bright ways, the middle ways, brother. When Kurloz had to be reminded to wear soft, understanding smiles and sink into the shadow at the edges of the street, Gamzee laughed all rattly in his long-dead, clotted throat and apologized. When Kurloz had to be taught to feed and to bury himself away from the daylight, Gamzee shuffled his feet and tried to make it into a game, as if he were helping out a child. He’d told Kurloz as much when he was still young, practically from the first moment he’d woken up as an undead accident. Gamzee had never wanted to die without dying, to become so heartbreakingly thirsty. Not for someone living to squeeze warmth back into his stiff, dead hands. He hadn’t traded the godly terror and release of the hunt for anything, not the way his sire had. No, he hadn’t grown soft and domestic, not even after so many dusty, blood-thick decades. Kurloz Makara thought he had taken after his sire in all the ways that mattered. Stats: Published: Completed: Words: 8415 Chapters: 2/2 Comments: 14 Kudos: 96 Bookmarks: 12 Hits: 983
Occasionally makes sex-related puns, such as "5P0RN75". This includes, but is not limited to, E=3, A=4, S=5, O=0, T=7, I=1 and B=8. Replaces most of his letters with other symbols. Possibly 9 solar sweeps/19 earth years (Spent Beforan 3 solar sweeps, 6 1/2 earth years, in the session before dying)
(Kiss my chagrin tunkel you snank ass chumbuckest) K17H5 MY CH4GR1N 7UNK3L Y0U 5N4NK 4ZZ CHUM8UCK357
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