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Sollux carefully lays himself down on his bed, completely worn out from the long trek back to his respiteblock. After that incident he couldn’t bear to stay there any longer, and so he hauled himself up the stairs and away from you. Golden tears streamed down his cheeks. From the pain, he tells himself. It would be pointless and degrading to cry over losing someone he hated anyway, right? He stares at his ceiling for a while, wondering where the hell the two of you had gone wrong and why the fuck he was so upset over losing you. It feels as if a piece of him has been hacked away roughly and the edges of the wound seared closed with a red-hot fire-poker, the curved edge clawing and ripping at the bleeding flesh. He can’t breathe for the pressure in his lungs, can’t see for the blinding tears in his eyes, and can’t even move for the fatalistic lethargy in his limbs.

What the hell is wrong with him? He hadn’t felt like this after Aradia had died and turned into a ghost. Nor after he realized his flushcrush with Feferi wasn’t reciprocated. These emotions are so much more powerful than those paltry drawbacks, more confusing and…and alarming.

Some light source begins glowing outside his room, sneaking in through the windows of his repiteblock. Such unusual occurances have become ordinary on this place. He turns his face away and tries to focus his mind past its pain, sparks of energy flickering around his eyelids and enveloping the curtains over the windows to shut them. He opens his eyes at the last minute—right before the last of the light is blocked from the room—and a metallic glinting on his dresser catches his attention. Your husktop. His eyes narrow in sudden fury—the mood overtaking him as he turns carelessly away from it, putting his back to the object and hissing in agony at the sudden jolt of his muscles. The agony only adds a certain fuel to his inner furnace and he snaps his arm out a few times, pounding his uninjured arm’s fist into the bedding in a passionate ferocity. A few lighter objects are moved from their resting places—some pushed crashing to the ground to break—from the uncontrolled energy of his psiioniics, but for now your computer is safe, being too heavy for him to lift while his body is focusing all it can on healing itself.

He limply settles back into the blankets underneath him, drained from his experiences, and gives in to the emotions hiding behind his anger. With a strong shudder he feels a sob rip through his body, his tears coming faster now and dampening the bed sheets under his face—which he has turned downward to muffle his noises of pain. His fists clenches the cloth beneath it, crumpling it harshly as another sob tears from his esophagus, then another, and another—until he can no longer control the sporadic quakes consuming his frame. The bed trembles beneath him in his sorrow as he mourns his loss, great heaves curling his injured self inward upon himself and sickening him with their force. For hours he is helpless to do anything other than allow the expressions of pain and misery rack his form—until he no longer has the energy for any more suffering, and falls still to allow the salty tears dry on his face in sleep.

Sollux is currently glaring at the computer monitor in front of him as he remembers that night from a few weeks ago. It still hurts him to think about, and his confusion over his emotions has only grown worse time as time passed. Neither of you has spoken to each other since then. In the beginning he was angry, still hoping for the first few days that this was some sort of cruel Kismesis-fueled need to hurt him. But as the days turned into a week he slowly realized and came to terms with two things: First, that you were serious in that you didn’t want to be his kismesis; and Second, that he was still, as embarrassing as it sounds, desperate to have a relationship with you. Nearly every moment when he wasn’t cursing your existance—an instance which seems to occur less and less the longer he goes without seeing you—Sollux was plotting ways he might be able to get you back. Sadly for the hacker, however, that list was neither very long nor very embellished with viable ideas.

Sol slams his hands down on the keyboard, abruptly shoving himself away from the code he was working on. Normally such a pastime would be enough to distract him for hours, sometimes even days, to the point where he would forget to do anything routine and necessary—like eating, or bathing. Now, though, not only did the complex codes annoy and disinterest him, but his emotional state was in such upheaval that he almost willingly ignored those routines anyway. As his seat was forced to a halt by one of the many pieces of clothing strewn carelessly around his respiteblock he looks about his tattered room, covered in debris from his many tantrums throughout the weeks. As he eyes the various items strewn around the area he feels a sensation of restlessness in his chest. Maybe he should take the time to clean…or at the very least pick shit up and put it where it belongs. Despite his aversion and desire to so otherwise he pulls himself shakily from his chair and begins to pile things up in separate corners that are still intact. He is surprised to find that very few clothes are actually in the fray—surely he changed them more than this—but a little less amazed to find how very few intact examples of dishware there are hiding among the trash. Many of them had been thrown against his walls in fits of anger, and were no more than shards by now. However, the number is more due to the fact he just hasn’t found any reason to bring them in, what with his persistent aversion to any form of food. His shaky limbs can attest to it.

With the use of his psiioniic energy he tosses the dirty clothing and bedding into a basket, and then shoves all the trash into one pile to collect in a minute. He grabs the empty plates, bowls, and cups to carry down to the food-preparation block, steadying himself against the walls with his shoulder to keep from falling over. More dejected dishes greet his eyesight as he sets his load on the counter, and he wonders how much longer he can put this chore off.

While he contemplates there is a knocking on his door—an angry, heavy pounding. For a while he ignores, it, but an annoyed “Open up, shithole!” being screamed through the walls forces him to open the thing with a snarl. Karkat steps back with a worried sneer to his features while Sol glares down at him, silently asking him what the hell he was doing over without permission.

“What the fuck, Captor! You’ve been missing for weeks now! You don’t log on to Trollian and talk to your friends, or even bother to contact us in any other way either, despite numerous attempts on the part of said friends to get in touch with you. And then you decide to get pissed off right when you open the door? Hell no! If anything you should be on your knees apologizing for worrying everyone when obviously there is no physical reason for you to have kept yourself holed up in the putrid wasteland you call your living space.”

“Go away, Karkat, I’m not in the mood.” He attempts to shut the door, but Karkat slams his palm into it and pushes his way inside. Sollux sighs with exasperation. “What do you want?”

“Don’t get pissy with me, Sol. I’m not the one sitting in his disgusting hive while I pity myself and ignore those who care about me. God this place really is repulsive. When was the last time you even cleaned in here?” He gestures to the mess in the entrance, which—though pretty obnoxious—isn’t nearly as bad as the one in Sol’s respiteblock.

“I don’t know. And I don’t really care much, either,” Sol answers, turning away to retreat into his room.

“Oh no you don’t, assbyte!” Karkat warns, grabbing Sol’s shoulder. “You are going to stay right the fuck here until this shit is cleaned up. After that, you are going to do the same room to fucking room until all of them are as presentable of pieces of shit as they can possibly be. Maybe then, when your environment is put back into order, your pathetic thinkpan might be able to follow suit and think rationally. Maybe, just maybe, your bipolar tendencies might be reduced enough for you to understand just how pathetic you actually are right now, in this very moment, while stinking with your own filth and covered in the grime of a bad breakup. Then perhaps you can get over this pouting shit you’ve been wallowing in and move on with your life.”

“How the fuck do you know if I broke up with anyone?”

“How I know is irrelevant! The fact of the matter is that your symptoms of denial and depression are the classic examples of such an event, and that even if I hadn’t learned of it through an outside source it would be as obvious as a striped hoofbeast running past me with a bright ass fucking rainbow shooting out of its rectum. You seem to forget that of us all I am the fucking relationship EXPERT here, so you can just fuck off with your ‘I don’t need any help’ bullshit, because—yeah, obviously you do need help, and it is my unfortunate luck of being the one drawn to give it to you. So as the imposed authority you have to answer to until you get better, I order you to start picking this crap up while I get a bag for you to put trash in.”

“I am not cleaning anything.”

“Too fucking bad, Captor, because I say you are. The distraction might actually help you realize how pathetic you are being. The sooner you get over yourself, the sooner I can leave and go back to my own pathetic excuse for a life.” Karkat storms out of the room and into the kitchen to find the waste bags, stomping back in with a disgusted twist to his features. “Next we are going to work on the food-preparation block.” After an hour or more of Sollux cursing and cleaning on his own Karkat finally decides to help him, saying that he wants it to be over more than Sollux himself does and that it would go faster if he lends his valuable assistance. The last area they decide to get to is Sol’s respiteblock, and he nearly tells Karkat to leave it alone before deciding he had wanted to clean it anyway, right? With a sigh he opens the door, opening the curtains to let the moonlight in with his mind—the most light this room has seen in a while considering the majority of it has been little more than the glow of his computer monitor.

“What the ever-loving fucking hell happened in here!?” Karkat’s voice is horrified at the mess, and he takes a moment to gape at the area that looks as if scurry-beasts had set up residence and torn everything down. “I don’t get it,” he starts as he begins sweeping the floor, Sol levitating the pile of trash into the latest waste bag they had opened. “Why the fuck are you so upset over the breakup of a kismesissitude that neither of you were really interested in anymore anyway? I mean, it’s been obvious for nearly a sweep that neither of you hate the other properly, except maybe occasionally—but that’s still normal between regular, platonic acquaintances.”

Sollux sighs in exasperation. “Why do you think we didn’t hate each other, kk? I’m pretty sure each of uth couldn’t stand the other ever thinth we firtht met.”

“Well, the two of you began as a perfect example of a kismesis, but you didn’t really put in any effort to expand the hate inside of you properly. I’m sure even Eridan could tell you cared too much whether your partner got hurt or not, which is likely why he’s been harassing you even though you were in a black relationship already.”

Sollux pauses. “Ith it wrong to care whether or not your partner endth up alive or dead?”

“In a kismesissitude, it is up to a point. You can’t really hate them and feel pity for them at the same time—those emotions cancel each other out. Sometimes you can go from extreme hate to a lot of pity as well, which is what most trolls know as switching quadrants. To be honest, I thought for a long time that the two of you would declare a matespritship instead, but you assholes just kept forcing your kismesissitude to continue. It’s really not that big a wonder that it finally fell apart.” Sollux looks over in disbelief.

“You think I wath flushing red for ____?”

“I’m not sure about you, fuckass. You seemed to be pretty confident that you felt black for her—even if it wasn’t true obsidian like it should have been—but it was from ____’s feelings that I received a sense of… well, if not scarlet, then at least a lighter crimson emotion. She cared about you, too much for a proper black romance partner.”

“Could…could that be why she ended it? Not becauthe she didn’t hate me anymore, but becauthe she felt flushed inthtead?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s emotionally draining to try to hate someone if you feel enough pity to be flushed for them.” Sollux stares at the floor for a moment, absorbing the possibility. Maybe he could get you to feel black for him again—if you could switch to one quadrant, surely you could switch back. It happens sometimes. A small smirk touches his features as he plots what he could do to coerce your hate to come back. Perhaps he could send another, different virus? His memories of the last time he had done so haunt his mind, and he looks over to the husktop sitting unnoticeably on the top of his dresser. Your husktop—which he had been working on rebuilding whenever he found the time and interest to. He had panicked last time, afraid he had hurt you too badly—likely even killed you by mistake. Well, this time he wouldn’t. He had to prove he was a good kismesis for you to lure you back. He had to get you back, if it was the last thing he ever did to you.

A while later Karkat shouts his goodbyes as he absconds from Sol’s room, ranting about how he would need a week to replace the stench in his nostrils with fresh air. He also orders him to eat and take a goddamn shower to wash the stink of weeks from his flesh and adapt better to his newly improved lifestyle. Sol complies with the shower, as he can’t really remember when the last time had been that he took one, but he still doesn’t feel up to eating anything—despite his new optimistic outlook.

He returns to his desk, determined to get something productive done for once. The broken computer catches his eyes and he toys with the idea of finishing that project. He guesses it could act as a sort of peace offering, maybe? Whatever. With that in mind he pulls it over and starts tinkering, unaware of the careful way in which he handles the object. As if it is something precious to him for the fact that it belongs to you.