You feel like, at the end of the day, you got your wish – it feels like you're flying as you grope your abdomen and whimper. The ceiling above you is blurry and dark and makes you scared, because you don't know where anybody is, and there's no way you could sit up.
It feels like you ingested some of Gamzee's slime, and that thought makes you whine louder.
Gamzee won't be here to save you. He'll never, ever save you again.
And you cry.
It's weird, because you think back to the time when you cried when Gamzee had you for the first and only time – you cried out of loneliness, you cried out of happiness, you cried because he loved you and you loved him, or at least, the drugs made him love you. In your head, you reason that it's alright, no one could fully love you anyways, and at least you got to experience love, even if it was fake and drug-induced.
You cry harder.
You cry not because of the situation you're in, but because of the situation everyone else is in. Vriska is being Vriska, Eridan is being a murderous hipster, and Gamzee…
You don't want to think about him at the moment, and yet the parts of you that love him – which is all of you - does, so you fight with yourself inwardly and decide that it's okay to remember that once upon a time, in what feels like centuries ago, there was a man named Gamzee Makara and one day he found you in the ectobiology lab and made love to you, and he doesn't anymore, because he went insane and left you behind.
Your fingers are slick and sticky, but you prod the lance in your body, wishing that you could just die already. You've already tried to rip the lance out, but you're weak and your head is spinning so you stare up at the ceiling and bite your lips until they bleed.
There's a honking in the background, and screaming, and then silence, and you still stare up at the ceiling. You don't have the energy to move – if Gamzee finds you, maybe he'll be kind enough to just kill you already, and put you out of your misery. Footsteps echo in the room, and you cry harder, because you know who they belong to, and it's not someone you want.
"Tavvy," He croons, sounding just a little bit like the old Gamzee – but there's no affection in that icy voice, and he laughs at you when you flinch at being called that…it brings back too many memories. "What a beautiful MOTHERFUCKING SIGHT we have here," He plops himself down next to you, his face bleeding indigo blood…it's almost enough to make you want to wipe it away, kiss it, and make it better.
You realize with sadness that even if Gamzee was still sane, you wouldn't have that power to do that anyways – you didn't have the power to stop him from killing people, did you?
You gargle in response, unable to say anything due to the blood welling up in your throat. You wonder why you're not dead yet. You wonder if this is just a layer of hell, and this is your punishment for never being strong enough to do anything in life…
Gamzee towers over you, and your vision is going blurry, and then it's gone in one eye, because Gamzee's blood is plopping disgustingly from the cuts on his face to your forehead, dripping slowly into your eye.
"I killed the motherfuckers," He begins, leaning down so that his face is mere inches from yours, and you want to scream, "I FUCKING KILLED THE MOTHERFUCKERS, how about a FUCKING THANK YOU?" When you shake your head, hitting him square on the jaw with one of your horns, and squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob again, he slaps you, his claws making deep wounds in your cheek, "I fucking killed all of those motherfuckers for you, Tav, I motherfucking killed them all so that I could fucking protect you," And this time, Gamzee cups his cheek, his thumb rubbing into the cuts that you can't really feel, smearing your own blood onto your lips, when they were already blood-coated to begin with, "They were gonna take you away from me, and I couldn't live without you, please believe me Tav," And his voice breaks and becomes soft and sweet and your one open eye widens until you think that your eye's gonna pop out. You almost wish it would.
You wish that you could tell him everything that you're thinking. You wish that you could tell him that you want to kill him. You wish you could lift your arms, and wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze.
You wish you could tell him you love him.
Your one seeing eye returns to the ceiling. You want to die. You fumble around with the energy you have left, and, upon finding the other's limp hand, you curl your own in his, just for a few seconds. You imagine that it's your Gamzee's hand you're holding, instead of this one's. You imagine he's saying he loves you, instead of telling you how he murdered your friends in cold blood for no good reason.
You imagine you're not breaking on the inside when he yanks it out of your grasp, then digs his hand into the carnage of your stomach.
You imagine that you're not feeling pain as the man you loved rips out your entrails and, with your blood, paints on you, paints on the floor, and calls it a motherfucking miracle.
You imagine that, with your last breath, that you're flying, and your Gamzee is standing next to you, spacey and wobbling and smiling, looking as beautiful as he did the day you met him, and you can't help but curl your hand over the hole in your stomach that extends so, so much further than just physically.
With the memories of your Gamzee in your head, you can't help but die with a smile on your face, knowing that you died with the warmth of a loved one's hand still clinging desperately to yours; you died not feeling, for the second time in your life, lonely anymore.