Archive of Our Own

He can’t remember how they met. They couldn’t have been very old, perhaps no more than grubs. No matter how far back he digs in his memory, sifting through sweeps of time he didn’t appreciate anywhere near as much as he should have, he can’t pinpoint the first time he laid eyes on him. The same could be said of the others closest to him—Feferi, Karkat, Aradia—but as dear as they all are to him, the realization doesn’t cut quite as deeply.

As far as Sollux’s awareness is concerned, there was no life before Eridan Ampora. It seems only fitting that there should be no life after him either.

He tugs half-heartedly at his restraints, testing their strength, and tries to block out the whimpering and whining coming from somewhere off to his left. It sends a spike of pain through his skull, intensifying his headache. Quickly losing interest in the cuffs biting into his bony wrists, he glances around.

Even softened into a familiar palette of reds and blues through his glasses, the shuttle is dismal. The area he’s been imprisoned in is windowless, illuminated with harsh artificial light. It has plain metal walls and floors, no loose items anywhere that can be weaponized. Perhaps around 25 psions, including himself. Some stand or pace, while others, like him, have sunk to the floor in resignation. From the glimpses he gets of signs on clothing and the occasional bleeding wound, almost all are goldbloods, with a couple of rusts and browns mixed in. Some have solid-colored, mutated eyes like him, though none in his signature shades of red and blue. Most don’t. Psionic ability isn’t something that can be assessed through a simple visual examination, but Sollux’s gut tells him that no one here is particularly impressive. Maybe they grouped him with weaker recruits on purpose, an attempt to limit the threat he might pose.

There was no need to go to the effort. He has no particular urge to stage an uprising. That’s never been his thing. If he thought they would cull him for resisting, perhaps he would give it a go, die with dignity or whatever the fuck. But he knows they wouldn’t. He’s too valuable. They would just torture him, worse than they already will, and never, ever let him die. He’ll keep his dignity just like this, knees drawn up to his chest as he leans against the frigid metal wall and glares at the crier, a rustblood in dirt-streaked clothes, like they’d been knocked out and dragged across the ground.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, quiet but harsh enough to carry. “Crying isn’t going to help you.”

Several pairs of eyes turn to him. Some look grateful, others disapproving. The rustblood’s lower lip trembles, wide, tear-filled eyes staring over at him like he just kicked a barkbeast. Their irises aren’t even fully burgundy yet. Sollux’s stomach clenches guiltily.

“Shut the fuck up,” one girl echoes mockingly, putting on an overexaggerated lisp for effect. He lifts his cuffed hands to flip her off, though he knows he probably deserved it. Whatever. No one in this block will be sentient to hate him much longer. Neither will he.

The last time they saw each other wasn’t supposed to be the last time.

In the letter of the law, all trolls were entitled to know the approximate date of their conscription, when they were expected to depart Alternia and receive the assignment that would dictate their future. In practice, only highbloods were so privileged. For those not blue enough to be seen as deserving of rights, the drones often arrived unexpectedly. Some were taken nights after their 9th wriggling day, as soon as they reached adulthood. Others, seemingly forgotten, had been known to make it almost to 11 sweeps. Sollux, already 9, knew that he was living on borrowed time, but he was loath to acknowledge it. If he ignored it, it would not happen. A childish viewpoint, and yet he couldn’t tear himself from its comforting embrace.

When he was curled in his recuperacoon during the day, listening to the low buzzing of his bees and imagining how it might feel for his consciousness to die, it was reassuring to think that it was all pretend. That it wouldn’t really happen, not until he was old and withered. Maybe he was miserable and stubborn enough to defy destiny itself, to let his priceless, volatile brain rot rather than be put into imperial service.

Or maybe he would put an end to it before the drones could come. Die good and proper, steal his power from the Condesce that way. It wasn’t like he hadn’t toyed with the notion before, like he didn’t have the scars climbing his arms to prove it. He would say goodbye to everyone first. He would apologize for not being quite clever enough to figure out another way out. Death was the only concept that kept him living each night, and wasn’t that a twisted irony?

Either way, he didn’t expect the last time to be the last time.

Of the twelve of them, Vriska was the first to receive notice. No surprise there, that someone as vicious and bloodthirsty as her would be among the first of their cohort to ascend. She and Terezi decided to throw a party. Since it would be the last time all of them could get together for a while, Terezi had explained. More like the last time ever.

Sollux ignored the message when he first received it, muting the group chat and returning to his coding. He had no interest in some sort of morbid goodbye celebration. He could hardly tolerate half the assholes he called friends on a good night. They were free to have their fun without him—it would be good practice.

Unfortunately, dealing with several different entreaties for him to come, ranging from the vulgar and enraged (Karkat) to the earnestly pleading (Feferi) and everything in between, it grew to be too much of a bother to maintain his refusal. He grudgingly agreed to make an appearance at the stupid fucking party. He would show up, have a drink, and leave. Easy.

He could have taken public transportation part of the way to Terezi’s hive, out of the city center and through at least some of the sprawling suburban lawnrings. He chose to fly the whole way instead. He was more than strong enough for it. Some part of him wished to savor the feeling of using his psionics solely for himself while he still could. He climbed the stairs to the roof of his hivestem, conspicuously free of lusii. Biclopsdad left perigees ago, off to muddle stupidly through raising a new grub. He’d never been all that helpful, sometimes downright aggravating. He was always seeking to remind him of his place, to urge him not to get so close to highbloods. (The time Sollux had been in the most trouble as a wriggler was when he came home from a multi-night playdate with a hint of a seadweller accent in his lispy voice.) Still, it was a little lonely, just him and the bees. Biclopsdad had only been trying to protect him. Maybe that was the stupidest thing of all.

The fresh night air felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone outside, in this lonely era of trying to disentangle himself from Eridan. In some ways, maybe the loss of thought would be a relief. He was a streak of red and blue against the darkened sky, the chill breeze whipping past him. He was a live wire, a lightning storm. In nights, or weeks, or perigees, medicullers would crack his skull open and spill him into the stars.

By the time he landed in the forest, wandering between moonlight-dappled trees and overgrowth to the clearing nearest to Terezi’s treehive, the party was already in full swing. The first thing he noticed, after the lively chatter and the sound of music being pumped through shitty speakers, was that everyone was drinking like it was the end of the world. To some of them, it was.

“Thank fuck, you’re finally here,” Karkat exclaimed, voice loud and raspy and far too close to Sollux’s ear. Karkat had slung an arm around him, mutant-hot, and yanked until Sollux’s lanky frame folded down to his height. He could smell whatever disturbingly strong punch the scourge sisters had whipped up on his breath. “Sure took your sweet time, didn’t you, you vacuous nooklicker? Ah, whatever,” he continued, idly toying with the mostly-empty plastic cup in his free hand and utterly disregarding the havoc he was wreaking on Sollux’s spine. “You’re...you’re here now. Let’s get you a drink.” He patted his shoulder, off-center.

“Holy shit, you’re trashed.” Sollux chuckled, shaking his head and taking the opportunity to worm his way out of Karkat’s grasp, straightening back up to his full height. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you like this before.” Karkat was normally so high-strung, constantly hypervigilant about anything that could risk exposing his blood color. The troll steering him over to the drinks table didn’t seem terribly high-strung at all. All the tension had been pulled out of him, the calm before the storm.

Even Equius was drunk (and, to his disgust, sweatier than usual). If he still needed proof that all of this was real, that would have provided it.

Eyebrow raised, he snagged a cup and watched Karkat’s clumsy struggle with the ladle in the punch bowl, the way he slopped bright red over the table and the side of his cup. Before Sollux could step in, his eyes locked on a figure across the clearing. God only knows how many drinks in, Eridan’s posture was still razor-sharp. Military form. He held both his own and Feferi’s drinks while she untangled an unfamiliar necklace from her hair. A step or two away, Aradia beamed. A gift from her, maybe. Jewelry was no small expense for a lowblood.

Sollux wanted to blaze over at the speed of light. He wanted to knock the drinks out of those sniper-steady hands just to prove he could. He was always the one who could make Eridan break. He wanted him to remember that, store it in his aquatic vascular system. He wanted him to keep it—keep him—everywhere. Every time for the rest of forever that someone drew violet blood, he wanted Sol to spill out. He imagined licking that oversweet punch off of Eridan’s collarbones after knocking him to the ground. He’d be his barkbeast, he’d be anything. They hadn’t spoken in two weeks and he wanted to die.

He wavered in place like he’d already downed half the bowl. He thought he might have been sparking. Electric over alcohol, tippy toes on a cliff. He could burn this whole place to the ground. Wandering beasts would gnaw on their charred corpses, would drag them out into the sun. Knife-teeth would partake of them, stained the dusky mauve of yellow and violet. In death, bones fitted between Eridan’s own, maybe he would be content.

Karkat was grabbing him, fingers wet and sticky with punch on his forearm. He didn’t want to lick it off, there. The cup in his hand had become full.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Sollux. Are you even listening to me? He’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. We’re good.”

Except they weren’t, actually. No matter who he was talking to, what he was doing, his eyes were scanning the party, searching out Eridan. Their eyes met a few times, violent intensity, and all he could think of was the way things used to be easy. He still had a ring hidden somewhere in his respiteblock, real gold with a violet stone, Eridan’s symbol engraved on it. When he was younger, it was something to be proud of, a sign of their friendship. He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped wearing it.

It was only when he was a few drinks in (and hadn’t he told himself he’d just have one and leave?) that it really became a problem. It was after Feferi and Aradia had slipped off somewhere together and Karkat’s drunken focus on him had wavered that he broke. The last of his patience snapped and he was on him. Not even trying to hit him, which might have been the worst part. He was just draping himself all over Eridan’s side, grabbing desperately at him like a buoy, and Eridan was growling, the sound going all the way to his bones.

“Get your grubby fuckin’ peasant hands off me, Captor. Cullbait psions with swill runnin’ through their veins aren’t fit to touch royalty,” he said, giving him his best sneer. Sollux wanted to unfold it into a smile, that warm thing that only he and Feferi ever got to see anymore. His hand drifted toward his face, but then changed course to his neck, dipping under that striped scarf to trace the bite mark scar he knew was there. Eridan’s face might have gone faintly violet, or it might have been wishful thinking.

“Shut the fuck up unless you’re angling for another scar,” Sollux muttered back, tipsily proud of the way he managed to fit a fish pun in there. “Don’t think I won’t fry you.” His fingertips kept circling the scar, chilled by the feel of icy seadweller skin. They’d given each other plenty of scars over the sweeps, but that bite was one of the ones he was most proud of. Emblematic of all the times he’d held Eridan’s life in his hands and behind his eyes.

“Some of us got more important duties to tend to than getting drunk all trashy-like and fondling bystanders what’re trying to mind their own damn business. Fuck off.” He shoved him, and in half a blurry second, Sollux’s spine was flush against the trunk of a nearby tree, pain reverberating through him. His psionics gave him the upper hand in their fights, but when it came to physical strength, Eridan had always outmatched him effortlessly. He scrabbled at him with wanting hands, grabbing for any purchase that might allow him what he yearned for.

“You’re infuriating.” His voice was whinier than he wanted it to be, red and blue flashing for leverage as he yanked Eridan closer, a psychically reinforced shove toppling him to the grassy ground. “Can’t you ever just cut the shit? Just for five minutes, stop trying to be the worst fucking person alive.” Sollux dropped to his knees before Eridan could get up, dew wetting his jeans and undoubtedly leaving grass stains. He didn’t care about any of that, focused solely on pinning down the squirming violetblood below him, straddling his thighs. They were far enough from the fading party that nobody took notice. Nobody was coming to stop them.

Eridan’s hand curled so tight around his narrow wrist that he thought his bones might crack, wrenching his grip away from his shoulder. “Pathetic. I’m not entertainin’ this shit. Fighting you like this would be such an easy win it’d be straight up undignified of me.” He pushed him off, a little rougher than was really necessary, and as Sollux rolled onto his back in the damp grass, he thought he saw a flash of sadness in those wet, wide eyes.

“I gotta get home, hunting tomorrow.” He picked himself up from the ground, dusting off his clothes and neglecting to offer Sollux a hand up. Inhibitions smashed to dust, Sollux made a grab for him anyway, hand wrapping around his shin until, again, Eridan pulled out of his grasp.

Then he was walking away, too damn proud for his own good, like he thought Sollux couldn’t see that duty was crushing him just as much, that some twisted part inside of them was the same. And Sollux laid there, damp and pathetic and drunk, horribly, hopelessly in love. He soaked in the sight of Eridan’s retreating back like that alone might save him. The only good thing about it was that he didn’t know it was the last time.

His block at the helmsfacility might as well be a prison cell. It’s small and windowless, devoid of furniture or decoration beyond the bare necessities. Boring as hell. As much as he hates interacting with other trolls, he almost wishes they hadn’t all been separated upon arrival. Having someone to watch and eavesdrop on might give him some hope of distracting himself from the psychic screams bouncing off the inside of his skull or the thoughts of ice cold scars under his hands.

He’s sitting on the thin, uneven mattress of the so-called comfort platform and staring at the wall when a small delivery drone flies in with dinner. The tray rattles the table as it drops, upsetting the inedible-looking food it contains. Sollux’s fingers twitch, hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. He considers psionically throwing the shitty food at the drone’s retreating back, but it isn’t worth it. They’re just machines, they don’t have feelings.

When the bitter laugh erupts into the air, it takes a few seconds for him to realize it’s coming from him. What makes a helmsman any better than a drone, save arguably for the prestige of the position? Biomaterial instead of synthetic? Restricted to a helmsblock instead of free to roam? By powering an imperial ship, he’ll be just as much of a mindless killing machine as the drones that drag innocent trolls kicking and screaming to their deaths.

His already nonexistent appetite constricts further. It’s been over 24 hours since the last time he ate, in his estimation, but he just chases mushy vegetables and bits of low-quality grubloaf around the plate with his fork, only managing to get around a third of it down before giving up and pushing the tray aside. It’s his final meal for a long time, but he doesn’t know it. It doesn’t matter.

He stares at the ceiling and tries to make out sounds from down the hall, too quiet and distorted under the cacophony in his head.

The next night, testing begins.

“Relax,” says the mediculler sticking cold electrodes to his skin. A cerulean with a wicked, knife-like grin. “This won’t hurt. Should be a piece of cake for a mutant like you, eh?” His hands are at least as chilly as the equipment, but still warm by seadweller standards. Sollux doesn’t shiver. That’s the measuring stick he uses for everything anymore, he supposes. The world is evaluated in relation to Eridan and all of it comes up lacking. The assistant watching the monitor is a gold. She doesn’t seem overly bothered by this, participating in the subjugation of her own, but she doesn’t look him in the eyes.

Remarkably, the cerulean isn’t lying. This round of testing isn’t painful. So far as he can tell, they’re simply measuring his psionic output for the purposes of categorizing him. Red and blue sparks crackling in the air, he hurls increasingly larger objects increasingly farther distances. He shoots pure psionic energy at the provided targets, ranging from pinpoint accuracy to vast beams that could burn through the wall if allowed.

He refuses the offered lunch break and continues until the familiar, pounding ache of a migraine starts coming on. He hasn’t really pushed himself to the limit, hasn’t given these imperial scientists the kind of light show that always made Eridan stop and stare, but even at less than full power, using his psionics consistently for hours and hours on end begins to take a toll. It’s cathartic, at least. The destruction. If he pretends he isn’t following orders, it almost feels like relief. Something in his frame loosens, just a little.

“We have everything we need for now,” the mediculler says eventually. “You’re quite the impressive specimen. The strongest I’ve ever witnessed. You should have a long helming career ahead of you.”

“Great,” he drawls, still sparking as invasive hands creep back in to peel off the electrodes. “Lucky me.”

There’s an intermittent trail of gold blood on the floor in the hallway when he leaves the testing block. The hulking mechanical form of a drone carries a pair of mangled bodies away, blood dripping in a slow patter as it goes. Sollux makes a face and looks away, eyes fixed on the wall as he slowly makes his way back to his block. There’s no point in trying to go anywhere else—where is there, in this soulless facility? He doesn’t wish to examine the dead too closely either, doesn’t wish to know whether they burned themselves out or were culled. It doesn’t make a difference in the end.

The dinner tray waiting for him goes untouched. After exerting himself so much, he supposes he feels vaguely hungry, but not enough to put himself through eating the borderline unidentifiable food in front of him. Maybe they’re making it worse and worse on purpose, getting the soon-to-be-helmed accustomed to forgoing nutrition. It might be working. The more Sollux paces the perimeter of his little block, the more the gnawing emptiness in his stomach feels like rebellion.

In the ablutionschamber—water freezing cold, lest he accidentally have a moment of something approaching joy—he tries to scrub away the memory of strangers’ hands on his skin, going over and over each sharp angle.

Fights between a psion and a sniper tended to be long-range by nature, but somehow, they ended up getting close more often than not. Sometimes it was an intentional provocation on Sollux’s part, hampering Eridan’s attempts to retaliate. Other times, it was almost entirely subconscious, a magnetism that kept them from so much as entertaining the idea of cutting each other out of their lives.

Even on the occasions they didn’t spoil their duels by allowing them to devolve into immature, undignified tussles, there was always a meeting in the middle at the end. No matter how violent the fight, he never could bring himself to distrust the feeling of Eridan’s hands on him.

When he landed a lucky shot on him one night, gold blood soaking the fabric of his jeans, he was there to steady him almost before Sollux reached the sandy ground. His descent was controlled, calm—most of the pain hadn’t quite hit him yet—but from a glance at the sad, wet look in Eridan’s eyes, he’d think he was about to collapse.

“What the everliving fuck was that about, Captor? Finally realized the complete and utter worthlessness of your life and thought you’d give it up? Or are you so ignoble you couldn’t even be bothered to take my martial prowess seriously?” Before he finished talking, a steady arm was already slung around Sollux for support, a wordless encouragement not to put weight on his injured leg. Begrudgingly, he complied, leaning into the frigid stability of Eridan’s torso. Searing pain radiated from his thigh, and while he could just as easily hover off the ground with his psionics, something about awkwardly hopping and hobbling along the beach felt better.

“What are you talking about now? If you think you can rant me to death, you have another thing coming. Letting your guard down like this is only making it easier for me to kill you, so just be glad you got to have a taste of what victory feels like for once. I’m sure you won’t be feeling it again any time soon.” His arm wrapped just a little tighter around him in return, eyes no longer glowing. His psionics were safely chained up once again, a closed circuit in the organic machine that was his body. Psionic energy traveled primarily via the nervous system, no crossover with vascularity, yet he still almost expected red and blue sparks to spill out along with his blood, dripping to the damp sand as they went.

“Much as you might like to think so, I ain’t stupid, Sol. You could’ve dodged that shot. So what were you trying to do? Take advantage of my hospitality and burden me by makin’ me host you for the day? No way you’re flyin’ home wounded.” The beach seemed so incredibly long. Had it always been so long? The distinctive outline of Eridan’s hive was little more than a speck in the distance, illuminated by distant flashes of lightning. The rain hadn’t arrived yet, but it would soon.

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to have a sleepover, I wouldn’t get myself shot to do it. There’s no deep answer, it’s not some manifestation of my underlying self-hatred or a twisted romantic solicitation. I wasn’t quick enough. You got lucky. That’s all there is to it.”

“As soon as we get back, I’m givin’ Fef a call, get her to come over and fix you up.”

Groaning, Sollux’s face twisted into a grimace and he looked away from Eridan’s too-close face, focusing on the too-distant goal of his hive. He was caught between “it’s not that serious” and “aren’t gonna do it yourself?” Unable to decide quickly enough to reply without there being an uncomfortable silence in between, he just stayed quiet, focusing on the crashing of waves on the shore.

In the end, he didn’t bother arguing about it much. A determined Eridan was more than he cared to deal with opposing at the moment, especially when he was in enough pain to eliminate the possibility of stopping him with force. Instead, he let himself be herded over to the nearest loungeplank upon arrival and did his best not to get any blood on the violet upholstery. If it was stained, Eridan would hold it over his head for the rest of his life.

“Fef’ll be here soon,” the annoyance in question said, looking up from his palmhusk. “And don’t give me that look. You’re so ungrateful. If your inferior constitution ain’t enough to take one little gunshot, I don’t wanna have to deal with the mess your rotting corpse’d leave behind.” He perched on the arm of the loungeplank, adjusting his glasses and peering down in a not-so-subtle attempt to investigate the wound. Sollux clamped a hand over it. Immediately, the pain intensified, blood oozing between his fingers from the new rip in his pants, but he just gritted his teeth and kept it there. Pressure was supposed to be good for bleeding wounds. Keeping Eridan from seeing—and subsequently freaking out—was just a bonus.

“So you’re saying you’d keep my body around long enough for it to start rotting? You wouldn’t just throw me out into the sea? How caring of you, ED. Caring but really fucking creepy. What are you planning on doing with it? Dressing me up, having a tea party? Unfortunately for you, I’m not dying yet. Your sick fantasies will have to remain just that.”

Eridan’s face contorted, fins fluttering in a rapid, irregular way that Sollux had long since learned indicated that he was flustered. He leaned in a little closer, pleased to find that he’d gone lilac in the face too. The color was spreading to his fins and down his neck, vanishing under his scarf.

“Wouldn’t you like that? Unfortunately for you, the Orphaner has far greater duties to attend to than palling around with bloodied mutant cadavers. If you keep mouthin’ off like that, I might start feelin’ the temptation to feed you to Vris’ lusus rather than givin’ you any kind of dignified send-off.”

“Not dying, remember? Not yet.” He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the rather impressive assemblage of throw pillows behind him. If he tipped his head back just a bit too far to be comfortable, it landed on Eridan’s thigh. Cold, ring-laden fingers tangled in his hair and pulled just hard enough to hurt. Sollux retaliated with a mild psionic shock and didn’t move away. Those fingers eventually started stroking through his hair rather than pulling (“You seriously need to start conditioning, Sol, your hair needs hydration”) and for a few minutes, it was like they were wrigglers again, still stupid enough to proclaim to anyone who’d listen that they were best friends.

Feferi let herself in when she arrived rather than bothering to knock. As a result, when she bustled into the block they were occupying, first aid kit in hand, they were still in the very same position, Eridan on the arm of the loungeplank and Sollux sprawled out across its length, giving himself a neck ache to rest his head on his lap rather than just moving closer. Eridan startled the moment he saw her, yanking his hand away like he’d been burned.

“Dumbass,” Sollux muttered under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear. As if Feferi would ever interpret their mutual clusterfuck as pale infidelity.

Inevitably, she scolded them both for getting carried away with the dueling, in the long-suffering tone of one who knew their words wouldn’t be heeded but continued to try anyway. Intent on milking his injury for all it was worth, Sollux mostly tuned her out and let Eridan take the brunt of it, trying not to notice the way he was gradually inching out from under his head moment by moment. At least he did it gently instead of letting his skull clunk down roughly against the loungeplank arm.

The worst humiliation came when she insisted on doing what she’d come to do—tending to his injury. Under the watchful gazes of two seadwellers—Feferi sifting one-handed through the first aid kit taking inventory, Eridan merely doing a poor job of pretending he wasn’t staring at every newly revealed inch of skin—he peeled off his bloodstained pants.

“You would wear the same offensively clashin’ shades of red and blue down to your boxers,” Eridan crowed, before Feferi’s hand so much as brushed his leg. “What miserable lowblood establishment out in the slums sells such hideous underwear anyhow? Did you have to custom-order it?” Arms propped against the back of the loungeplank, he leaned in close enough that Sollux could count the freckles smattered over his cheeks. Tiny violet pinpricks, each part of a vast bioluminescent web. He’d only seen Eridan glow a few times, but even once was enough to know there was nothing in the world more beautiful.

“Why so obsessed with my underwear, freak? Would you rather I wear violet, so all zero of the trolls I strip in front of on the regular know I’m yours? Die.”

“Tellin’ me all about your fantasies now, are you? If you wanna belong to a prince, it’s only right for you to get on your knees and beg for it.”

“Only in your most repulsive dreams. Your pathological thirst for me should be studied. Get some bored mediculler with an interest in research to slice up your brain and get it on slides. Your valuable contributions to imperial science will be appreciated, I’m sure. And when you’re dead and preserved, there’ll be no risk of passing on your—ow, fuck!—your irreparably—shit, FF.” It was terribly undignified to whine like that, but Feferi cleaning the wound was worse than being shot in the first place. The cold of her hands was hardly perceptible past the searing pain of whatever liquid she was dabbing over his open flesh.

“You’re lucky,” she said, all cheery, sharp smile. “It just grazed you. The wound isn’t too deep. It could have been much worse.” At that, she shot a glare Eridan’s way, eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t even need stitches, but it might leave a scar. I’ll just get it clean and bandaged for you. When I’m done, you boys betta behave. No more fighting tonight.” She mumbled her next words under her breath, something that sounded like or preferably ever, but Sollux mumbled his own reluctant gratitude over it, gaze drifting to the sudden cold engulfing his hand.

Arm draped over the back of the loungeplank from where he still stood, Eridan was holding his hand, fingers interlocked with his own. He avoided eye contact, watching Feferi wind gauze tightly around his leg. It allowed Sollux to watch him out of the corner of his eye, taking in the set of his jaw and the pouty fullness of his lower lip. There was still that pathetic barkbeast look in his eyes, irises beginning to fill in with violet. He held his hand like a promise, frozen solid. Sollux squeezed gently when another shock of pain ran down his thigh, like it’s okay, like thanks.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe you’re makin’ me share my recuperacoon with you, you ingrate.” A thumb stroked over the back of his hand. Eridan’s perfectly coiffed hair was drooping, black and violet strands falling down his forehead and into his eyes.

“I am not. I’d fly home right now if you didn’t insist I spend the day.”

They were still arguing by the time Feferi was done.

They call it “helmstech installation.” They call it “port implantation.” Sterilized scientific terms to pretty up the truth of mutilation and butchery. Sollux did plenty of reading in dark corners of the internet before ascension, digging through classified documents and jargon-heavy research papers to develop the best possible understanding of what his future had in store. When the night comes for the medicullers to take him into the operating block, he wishes he didn’t know quite so much.

He can visualize it perfectly, the way they’ll press computer chips and cooling coils into his bifurcated brain, install circuitry down his spine (vertebrae drilled into and filled with ports, all the better to allow the biowires to connect directly to the priceless relay of his spinal cord, always electrified).

There will be more than that, all manner of invasions. Hardware keeps helmsmen alive just as much as the life extension drugs and nutrijections do. He refuses to give that nasty cerulean the benefit of seeing his fear, baring his fangs in a scowl whenever a question is directed his way. Batteries aren’t supposed to speak, right? Might as well get a head start on that right now.

They make an awful mess of his hair, shaving sections of it down for better access when they split his skull open. His hands clench into fists so tight they break the skin of his palms, gold blood smears over his skin. They could have at least waited to do that until after he was unconscious, spare him some small measure of dignity.

His hair will grow back out, but it’s easier to be upset about that than everything else. It’s good that Eridan won’t see him like this.

“Be grateful we’re sparing anesthetic for you,” the cerulean says, having given up on turning his arm into a pin cushion in favor of actually inserting the IV into his already-burning vein. “If it was up to me, we’d get far more interesting data from keeping you awake.”

“I’m just grateful not to have to listen to your bullshit any longer,” is what Sollux tries to say with blackness encroaching on the borders of his vision, creeping in with the inevitability of the sea. He almost drowned once as a wriggler, having underestimated the brutal currents of the Alternian oceans. Eridan dove in to rescue him, clutching his sodden form close with the transparent, childish desperation he hadn’t yet cast aside.

He wakes up unsure whether he ever finished his sentence. It hardly matters in comparison to the agony blazing through every inch of his body. Is this what non-psions think getting shocked feels like, electric and unrelenting? He doesn’t know. He isn’t sure if it’s his own psionics or the incision sites. Maybe neither. Maybe his nervous system itself is rebelling, trying to reject all the metal and other foreign matter so unceremoniously wedged into it.

Sollux cracks an eye open and immediately feels his stomach churn unpleasantly, the dizzying swirls of what must be a recovery block of some sort urging it to empty itself of its meager contents. He breathes deeply, claws carving microscopic tears in the scratchy sheets. Nausea accompanies migraines often. He’s used to dealing with it. His jaw is still clenched tight to keep from crying out, making any embarrassing little noises of misery, but after some time, he can open his eyes fully.

“Good, you’re awake,” says an unfamiliar mediculler, eyes cold and deadened as they rake over his prone form. Funny, Sollux thinks vaguely, curling up tighter and ignoring the pain it sends lancing down his spine and radiating through his limbs. Most trolls think his eyes look unnerving and inexpressive, but at least they have life in them. For now, they do. “How’s your pain?”

“Super,” he grits out. If his head wasn’t already pounding with every beat of his pusher, his jaw might ache. As it is, he can’t make it out enough to know whether he’s in danger of cracking a tooth from the pressure.

“Excellent. Best we get the exam over while you’re feeling good then, don’t you think?” The mediculler blusters on as if his pained sarcasm was earnest, wrenching the sheets out of his grasp. Two others stand near the wall, ostensibly watching. Snatches of their conversation drift over, as unintelligible to his muddled thinkpan as if they’re speaking seatongue.

No, worse than seatongue. He still remembers a few words here and there of it, painstakingly memorized and repeated until Feferi and Eridan stopped laughing too hard at his accent.

The first mediculler begins to unwind some of the bandages cushioning the new ports in his spine. Blood has already adhered them to the wounds. He bites back a whine, face half-buried in the too-flat pillow. The screams of the imminently deceased haven’t been driven out by the tech, rattling around their too-cramped confines.

Then there’s a finger prodding into one of his spinal ports. He thinks he might be the one screaming now.

When it finally relents and his vision clears, all he can do is try to catch his breath, gasping around sobs that threaten to fight their way out. His throat is raw, a mundane pain that does little to distract him from the lightning strikes up and down his spine. One of his palms is bloody again, claws having torn right through the small scabs from earlier. He says nothing as cruel laughter fills the block.

He says nothing right up until there’s a hand against his spine again, then it’s useless. As he tries to writhe away from the awful touch, the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. Stupid fucking fangs bit right through his lip in an attempt to keep himself from yelling, and it didn’t do a damn thing. The other medicullers still stand at the edge of the room, his perception of them blurry through the sparks clouding the air. They’re talking about the news, maybe. One keeps gesturing at something outside the block, where he thinks there might be a TV.

“...Shame about the heiress...” he hears around his own choked breaths as he’s given another moment of blissful respite. “...don’t you think?” The voices fade in and out. The room spins.

“No surprise, is it?” Sollux senses the head mediculler moving closer again. Every aching muscle tenses in preparation. “...always happens.” He loses the thread of their conversation there for the duration of the third round of torture, only singular words floating to the surface. Empress. Victory. Dead. Dead is what he thinks he wants to be too, dead like Feferi, maybe like Karkat, fuck, he doesn’t even know if his best friend is alive. His own mindless, desperate pleas to be culled drown out whatever the medicullers are talking about. He doesn’t want the details anyway, selfishly wants to hide from the knowledge of how the steady anchor between him and Eridan met her end.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he rasps, breathless. “Just cull me already. Stop it.”

Red and blue cloud his vision. A pitcher of water soars across the room and shatters against the wall, bits of wet glass flying like shrapnel. The table it was resting on follows, crashing loudly enough to make his pain worse, but it’s worth it to see those medicullers flinch, even for a moment.

“Should we send for a security drone?” one asks, glancing at the door.

“No need. Even this one won’t be able to do much more than that in his current state.” Just like that, the pain returns.

He’d give anything to make it stop. Death would be a relief.

He just wants it to stop. He wants Eridan, his freezing hands quelling the fire and the familiar wavy rhythm of his voice distracting him from how thoroughly he’s been mutilated. Stupidly, selfishly, he wants him to hold him and talk all sorts of bullshit about how it’ll be okay. Eridan, Eridan, Eridan. At some point, the requests to die have been replaced with ragged sobs of his name, calling for him like a prayer, like a grub begging for their lusus.

“The fuck’s he blubbering about now?”

“Eridan, ain’t that supposed to be the name of the heiress’ moirail? The Orphaner. Expected to be a real impressive sight at the military academy, or so I’ve heard.”

“And this one knows him? Shit. Guess it’s true that powerful trolls gravitate to each other.”

He passes out sometime in the middle of his ports being rebandaged, Eridan still a hymn on his tongue. He wishes he could’ve kept that ring.

The trip to the coast was long, but for a burgeoning psion, manageable enough. Doubly so with the temptation of his best friends waiting at the end of the journey. Sometimes just one of them, as the case may be. Storms blew in along the beach frequently, but after coming all that way, calling off a playdate at the sight of some dark clouds was unthinkable. Sollux was just old enough to make the trip without his lusus insisting on coming along, and he wasn’t going to give it up for anything. He knew Eridan felt the same way, in the set of his shoulders and the way he kept glancing back in the direction of his hive, clearly worried his own lusus would try to interrupt.

“Show me the cool new things you can do with your psionics,” Eridan requested, linking arms with him and nudging him eagerly along the shore. “You said you’re gettin’ real good at throwin’ bigger things now, right?”

He was getting better at burning things too, better able to control the strength and precision of his sparks and lasers, and he said so, puffing up with pride. Eridan just laughed, pulling him in closer to ruffle his hair with one cold hand. The same hair he had cut in front of his ablutionsblock mirror, insisting that Sollux was incapable of doing it himself. Even as young as they were, not yet 5 sweeps, it was implicitly understood that letting another troll wield scissors so close to one’s neck was something like devotion.

“You’re not gonna set anything on fire here, stupid. You just wanna overshadow my sniping. Good marksmanship means nothing to you, does it, Captor?”

“Yeah, right. You’re my biggest fan, don’t even try to pretend you’re not.” He grinned, all dagger-fangs, too many for his mouth. A perigee earlier, another young troll had made fun of his lisp relentlessly. Eridan decked them in the face, his myriad rings stained with blue blood. His skill with a gun was impressive, but that punch was what made Sollux’s stomach fill with flutterbugs. “You wanna see or what?”

“Obviously. Get on with it. That one there, how far can you throw that?” Turning him in the direction of a rocky outcropping, Eridan pointed at a large rock—more of a boulder, really, timeworn around the edges—loosened from the rest. Sollux considered with a shrug, removing his glasses.

“I dunno. Pretty far.” It didn’t occur to him to worry about where the thing might land. Showing off was more important. Eridan’s fins fluttered—maybe excitement, maybe irritation. Sollux’s bloodpusher clenched.

No more stalling. Eyes lighting up with that steady, bicolor glow, Sollux focused on the rock. Fizzy electricity arced through his nervous system, hefting however many hundreds of pounds of stone into the air to the stifled sound of a gasp. His control wavered only slightly, much less than the last time he’d tried. Wreathed in red and blue energy, the boulder was sent flying off into the distance, all of Sollux’s tightly wound muscles unclenching. Psionic exertion was, strictly speaking, not a physical endeavor, but he hadn’t yet figured out how to be relaxed about it. That would come later.

“Sol, holy shit, that was awesome! You’re probably one of the strongest psions of our generation, y’know that?” Sollux was jostled into a hug before he could so much as put his glasses back on. Eridan was free with his affection (too free, he’d overheard his lusus insisting). If he knew then that it would start to change soon, perhaps he would savor it more. As it was, he just hugged back, ducking down to hide his face in the crook of Eridan’s neck so he wouldn’t see him blushing. “Of course,” Eridan continued, audibly reining in his enthusiasm, “You’d have to be. It’s only right, seein’ as you’re best friends with royalty and all. I’m still cooler than you.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yeah huh.”

“Only literally, fishface.”

“Shut up, ya fuckin’ dirt scraper.”

“Ooh, I’m telling your lusus you said fuck.”

And so it went, the two of them trading shoves and elbows as they walked along the beach, laughing at every empty threat and insult. When Sollux spotted a gathering of colorful anemones in a tide pool and slowed to take a better look, peering over his glasses, it was only natural for Eridan to stop beside him and crouch down in front of the pool, tugging him along by the hand.

“They’re kinda like you, y’know,” he said, gesturing to the anemone’s swaying tentacles with his free hand. “In that they sting. Obviously toxins ain’t the same as psionic energy, but even so, there’s some similarities.”

“Sounds like you just think about me all the time,” Sollux replied, still mesmerized by the tiny ecosystem, anemones and sea stars and crabs.

“Well, duh. You’re my best friend. Who else am I gonna think about besides Fef?” He pouted, ever dramatic, and Sollux leaned into his side, shivering at a chilly gust of wind. The rain would probably start spitting again soon, as it had been when he first arrived, but it was okay. They weren’t far from Eridan’s hive, where they could make hot chocolate and curl up together under a snuggleplane or two. “That reminds me, I’ve got something for you.”

“A present? What’s the occasion?” He could only assume it was a bigger deal than the little things Eridan usually got for him, if he was making a point of talking it up ahead of time. There were no holidays coming up though, no wriggling days or 12th Perigee’s Eve. Nor had Eridan done anything particularly reprehensible that might warrant apology gifts. So then what?

“Does there have to be a special occasion? It’s just something I wanna do, that’s all. Be grateful and accept it.”

“Wanna go back now then? Before the rain starts?” He could listen to Eridan tell him about all the tide pools’ inhabitants for hours, but the tide was starting to come in, herding them farther up the beach and taking one pool after another into itself. The temperature was dropping too, and pressing against his coldblooded companion did nothing to warm him up. Plus, well, he was curious about what the present was.

Eridan held his hand all the way back to his shipwreck hive, all the way through the winding halls to his respiteblock. Sollux had been there more than often enough to know the way, but he also knew it wasn’t about that. He squeezed that frozen hand, giggling when he made him purr.

Eridan’s vast block was filled with all sorts of dazzling luxuries, but neither of them hesitated to gawk at anything. Eridan was clearly on a mission, going straight for one of the dainty little jewelry boxes atop his dresser. He hadn’t let go of Sollux’s hand yet, so Sollux chose not to either, sticking close to his side and watching him sift through the box’s contents.

“Here it is,” he proclaimed, free hand brandishing a ring much like the others he was wearing. Gold with a glittering violet stone, Sollux could hardly imagine how much it must have cost. He just watched, wide-eyed, as Eridan lifted their joined hands and slipped the ring right onto Sollux’s narrow finger. The ring finger, where many older trolls chose to wear something from a quadrantmate.

“You’re seriously giving this to me? But why? You love all your jewelry and fancy clothes, and you know it’s not my thing.” He looked down at his hand, the way it seemed like someone else’s thanks to that one simple addition. When it caught the light just the right way, he could see Eridan’s sign tastefully engraved in the stone, making it all the more baffling. He definitely had rings without his sign that he could have given him.

“Trust me, I know your fashion sense is beyond help.” Eridan rolled his eyes, hand lingering against Sollux’s wrist. “That’s not the point. It’s a symbol of our friendship. We’re best friends, the kind you only find once in a hundred sweeps, and somenight, we’re gonna take the empire by storm. You, me, and Fef. It’s a friendship of consequence, the kind it’s only right to flaunt. If you wear that, everyone’ll know you’re in tight with royalty. No one’ll mess with you.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Sollux muttered, drawing him in for a sidelong hug before Seahorsedad could interrupt and scold Eridan for the incredibly sweet, if unnecessary, gesture. “I can take care of myself. You literally just saw me throw that boulder halfway to the forest.”

“Why do you gotta be so stubborn? Just wear it anyway. I like how it looks on you. It means we’ll be best friends forever, Sol, c’mon.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, bicolored gaze still lingering on the glint of amethyst. “Best friends forever.”

Eridan was purring like crazy, louder than he’d ever heard, and Sollux knew he said the right thing. No matter what, he’d make sure it came true.

The acute torture ends after he’s been installed in his new home. He’s still in pain almost always, strung up in the prison of the helmsblock, but it’s manageable. He’s learned to cope in what small ways he can. If not for his brain’s connection to the computer system, he’s certain the boredom alone would drive him insane. He doesn’t dare try to log into Trollian, both out of paranoia about being discovered and a sick, deep-seated anxiety about seeing how hard his friends did or didn’t try to contact him after he vanished so abruptly. But he can still code, can still carefully surf the internet and play games on occasion, so that’s good enough.

The cameras are entertaining enough too. Save for places like ablutionsblocks and the captain’s quarters, security cameras are installed almost everywhere on the ship, allowing him to snoop and eavesdrop to his heart’s content. He never used to care that much about drama and gossip, especially concerning total strangers. Now, it’s one of life’s few joys. He gets invested in crew members’ love lives, in the chatter about who’s up to illicit activities and who slacks at their jobs. It’s a distraction from thinking about his friends. Thinking about Feferi, dead and decayed, or Eridan, cold and alone when he should be right here, the other half of him.

He seldom sees anyone in person but the maintenance trolls. The captain comes into the helmsblock on occasion, a gruff middle-aged indigo who’s merciful enough to let him walk around the block sometimes, but not merciful enough to keep him from falling when he’s let down from the helmscolumn. He seems to enjoy watching how difficult it is for him to scrabble back up from the floor without pulling at any of the still-connected biowires. Small things.

One night, utterly unremarkable in its character as far as Sollux can tell, he hears rumblings of something changing. Everyone, from the lowblood janitors and mealblock workers to the lieutenants, are gossiping about the indigo captain being transferred to a different ship in the fleet. A new captain was just promoted, brought onto the ship to instill some much-needed discipline.

According to some, as Sollux bounces from camera to camera with the intention of digging up as much information as he can, the new guy is some seadweller brat barely half a sweep out of the military academy, clearly inferior to the seasoned leadership of the indigo. Just one more example of seadwellers getting everything handed to them without needing to work for it, some low-ranking crew members whisper over lunch. If they knew they were being eavesdropped on, Sollux thinks, maybe they’d have the decency not to be so boring.

The fact that highbloods suck isn’t exactly news to him. He doesn’t care about there being a new captain, not when it’s unlikely to change his life in any meaningful way. Maybe his pacing privileges will get revoked. Maybe maintenance will drop by a little more or less. None of it really matters much in the grand scheme of things.

He hops to another new feed in exasperation, landing on a pair of trolls gossiping in the hall outside the medblock. Sounds like they’re at least being decent enough to drop names, not that most of them mean much to Sollux. He tends not to pay attention to learning names, unless someone’s interesting enough to make a habit of spying on. He’s just about to tune them out, debating whether it might be better to give up on the cameras altogether for now and get back to his latest meaningless coding endeavor, when one of them finally says something worth a damn. The new captain’s name.

Eridan Ampora.

Maybe his life can get meaningfully worse after all, he thinks, a strange feeling twisting within him. It’s been a long time since he’s felt it, but he thinks it might be nausea. He wants, wants so desperately he thinks he might overclock the helm system, but not like this. The way they left things, he never wanted Eridan to see him like this. Every time he wished to belong to Eridan is being thrown back in his face in one wild blow.

Hysterically, he thinks about crashing the ship before any of this has a chance to matter, killing himself and everyone aboard.

He doesn’t do it, of course. He’s never been able to kill Eridan, not even when his psionics were sparking an inch from his throat. It’s a notion as incomprehensible as a gun killing a bullet, a battery killing its owner. It’s always been that way, he and Eridan. Bringing the ship down would be a mercy he can’t stand to provide.

In the darkness of the empty helmsblock, Sollux waits.