Spectacularly Mediocre

“Yeah, and?” If Summer didn’t care, Rick really gave no fucks. Hunching over the worktable, squinting at something that Summer couldn’t see from her vantage point. She knew he was squinting, though. He always squinted when he was working.

“ Aaaand, he’s been quiet ever since the night of the dance. You know, with the whole cronenberg disaster that you started.”

One very well maintained eyebrow quirked up pointedly, but Summer’s nose was back in her phone after a cursory glance. Rick didn’t reply for a second. From the stiffness of his posture Summer correctly guessed that something had caught his eye and that he’d reply when he’d finished picking at whatever little bug had irked him. Mostly correctly, anyway - he didn’t end up replying. It was like he’d forgotten Summer was standing there at all.

That’s fair, Summer thought to herself. I’m being quiet and he’s a narcissistic bastard.

She cleared her throat. Rick groaned.

“Ugh, what. ”

“Are you going to tell me what happened to Morty then or do I have to tell Mom that you traumatized him again.” Cutting straight to the point. Rick turned, eyes narrowed, looking Summer up and down. Summer pocketed her phone, folding her arms over her chest and giving him that laser-focused glare Rick would otherwise be proud to say was from his side of the gene pool.

So it was a battle of wills, then. He glared her down as well, but in the silence it was becoming increasingly obvious that Summer wasn’t backing down from this. She actually cared.

With a surrendering, aggravated noise Rick threw his arms up and swiveled back in his chair to face his desk. “Listen, Summer, I don’t have time to-- to, to constantly make sure his fragile psyche is still holding together. If you want to tell your mother, I-I-I don’t give a shit, she won’t do anything about it anyway. She’s too scared I’ll run off again.”

He pounded on his chest in the middle of the sentence, forcing out a loud belch. Summer wrinkled her nose and scoffed.

“Whatever.” It wasn’t exactly the most stinging of dismissals, and Summer knew it, but she wasn’t about to fight with Rick over whether or not he should feel remorse or heaven forbid, empathy. Whatever he’d done to fuck Morty up this time, she wasn’t about to get him to see that it was probably his fault. He’d never see it, not in a million years, and most likely in a few months’ time Morty’s going to have it repressed as usual.

Honestly, Summer had no idea why she even bothered sometimes. Clearly their parents had stopped trying long ago. She turned, not bothering to close the door as she went back down the hall to the living room.

Morty was there, as usual. He’d been there for a while now, easily since before breakfast. Always that same look - the mouth slightly agape, staring somewhere just a few feet up and to the left of the TV screen instead of actually at it. His homework sat on his lap, not even touched - not even the classic dicks and doodles 14-year-olds would normally spend time procrastinating on. Summer felt a cold clench in her chest to see him sitting there with the thousand yard stare of someone who’d seen a lifetime of war. He’s just a kid.

How did her parents not notice this?

Rick was right, in a way, she supposed as she passed the living room and headed into the kitchen to get a drink. She turned the tap, staring through the kitchen window and to the outside where Jerry was obsessively cutting the weeds, again. After a while, her eyes became glassy and she, too, stared off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts. Beth was too scared to stand up to Rick for fear of him leaving and Jerry was….well. Summer loved her father but he was what he was and nothing would change that. He’d never do anything to jeopardize his clearly failing relationship with Beth, and that meant letting Rick steamroller over them both and continually break their son over and over.

Cold water flowed over Summer’s hand and it shocked her so badly out of her reverie that she squeezed the glass too tightly, shattering it in the metal sink.

“Summer?” Morty’s voice even cut through the air a little weaker than it used to. He sounded like an old man, frail and weak and barely having the strength to talk. It wavered with more than his normal stutter and Summer’s eyes stung. “Are you okay?”

Are YOU okay? She wanted to ask, wiping her eyes. Jesus christ, did I forget my meds today? I don’t usually get this weepy. Morty’s going to be fine. I’m just overthinking it.  

Right?

“I’m fine,” She called. "I just dropped a glass, that's all. Clumsy me, haha." The laugh came off as forced but she knew he was too out of it to notice. Lowering her hand from her face, she realized she’d cut it on the glass. The smell of iron clung to her nose from where it wafted from the stain under both her eyes. She could hear Morty’s footsteps coming into the kitchen, coming to check on her. Shit.

Summer grabbed a dish towel and viciously rubbed her face clean, wrapping up her hand just as Morty came in. If he had anything to say about the redness around her eyes, he said nothing. His own eyes slid from her towel-wrapped hand to the still bloody shards of glass in the sink. He turned, leaving the kitchen again.

“Oh. I-I’ll get a first aid kit.”

Summer stood there, stunned. He’d never really been queasy for just a little blood, it took a lot to really freak him out nowadays when it comes to gore, but the way that he simply shut down and didn’t react in the slightest scared Summer. It sent a chill up her spine.

No person in their right mind just sees that much blood and doesn’t even care. Something whispered in Summer’s mind. He’s NOT okay. Do something-

“Morty--” Summer called. There was shuffling, and Morty poked his head around the kitchen doorway again before coming in with the large first aid kit from the broom cupboard.

“Yeah, Summer?”

Summer faltered as he opened the plastic case, pulling out bandages and antiseptic. He motioned for her hand, making a ‘gimme’ motion without looking at her that she’d seen Rick do to him a million times. It made her stall, and Morty looked up at her.

“Are you okay? Are-- are you going to faint o-or something…?”

He’s already so much like Rick.

“Uh….no.” Summer mumbled. She held out her hand. Morty said nothing, peeling back the towel that was now thoroughly stained a deep red. He didn’t even flinch, not a single wrinkle in his blank expression to show that he acknowledged it.

“This is going to hurt.” He said instead, picking up the antiseptic spray and pausing for a moment. He looked up at Summer for the barest split second, and Summer caught the concern in his eyes, in the way he frowned. The way he waited for permission.

Her chest hurt. Why are you so worried about me? What the hell happened to you, Morty? Are you even Morty anymore?

“It’s fine. Go ahead.” She said, then winced as the alcohol hit her open cut. Morty bandaged it quickly and tightly, doing a much better job than Summer could have ever expected from him. As he tied it off and cut it, making sure the gauze underneath was in place, she stared at him. Something in the very back of her mind wondered how often he’d had to bandage himself, or others, or even Rick.

The thought left a bad taste in her mouth. “...Thanks.”

“No problem. Now clean up the glass, that’s your own damn fault.” There it was, just the tiniest spark of life. Hope flared up in Summer that maybe he wasn’t totally broken just yet, but then the spark died as he went back on autopilot aand put the leftover bandages back in the kit.

Summer watched him pack the kit away, leave the kitchen and sit back down on the couch. Task accomplished, fugue consuming him once more, he’d forgotten what he was doing and left the kit by the arm of the couch where he sat. His homework reclaimed its spot on his lap as if he had never gotten up, and he resumed staring at the not-TV screen with that blank, slightly agape look on his face. Summer watched him for a good five minutes but he just...didn’t move. Not even to scratch.

On that day, the coughing is worse than any other day before. Your ribs feel tighter than usual, as if you’d been stuffed full to bursting with something that refused to go back into your chest. The thing trying to get out of you is making a final push out and up into your throat and around your ribs. You’re in the middle of talking to Latula when it happens about something Mituna had done. Your voice had started to raise. The argument continued, grating as your breaths grew short. Anger bubbled up in your chest, resentment and hurt; wishing that she could just see things the way you do.

And then the hurt becomes more physical than emotional. That wasn’t anger, you realized, that had filled your lungs so. You start coughing. Your words turn breathless and wheezy as you gasp for air, one hand to your chest. Latula’s face goes from bored irritation at your constant lecture to instantaneous worry; her brows furrowed, her frown shifting to something a little more concerned. She reaches out a hand to you and you slap it away out of instinct as the coughs bubble from your chest and force their way out of your throat. 

“Don’t touch me--!” You rasp, dragging in a breath that sounded all too much like a death rattle to your ears. Obediently she pulls back, then turns and runs in the opposite direction for help as you sink to your knees. You barely hear her calling out to you to stay there. Not that you could really go anywhere, anyhow, sunk to your knees in the grass, clutching at your throat.

With all your strength you push one hand into the ground under you, trying to get to your feet but nothing happens. All your energy has withered away. You just keep coughing and the pressure under your ribs gets worse and worse. For one terrible, terrible moment you’re horrified that you might actually break a rib from the pressure and coughing, and hug your middle tightly with one arm. 

Your sweater’s collar feels too tight around your neck and you tug at it harshly. You gag; something works its way up your insides, scratching and tickling and making the coughing feel suddenly all too wet. With a dull panic you realize you can feel something moving as it crawls its way from inside your chest, up your throat, tickling your uvula and causing your stomach to heave. 

Using every ounce of energy you have left, you muster the strength to force yourself to stop coughing. You work the muscles of your throat and dredge up the last few drops of spit in your mouth, trying to eject whatever it is from your body and out onto the ground. 

The thing turns out to be a snow-white lily petal. 

Of course, it’s not snow-white anymore. Mucus and blood stained its veins yellow and red and it altogether looks disgusting, laying there in its shiny wet splendor on the ground. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t for those fluids. If it weren’t for the sheer horror of the fact that it had just come from inside you.

The pressure in your chest wanes and you can breathe again, but you don’t. You think you’re going to be sick. 

You’re already gone by the time Latula returns. The door to your hive slams shut and you’re panting, wheezing for breath that claws at your throat all the way down and rakes at your lungs until you have to sink to the porch floor to fight off the dizziness that slams into you. You rest your head against the door and try to calm your racing heart but it’s just not working. It’s useless; the panic has fully set in.

You have the lovers’ disease. 

If you could breathe properly, you would be hyperventilating. Your mind races, thinking of something - anything you could do to ease the pain. There’s always the usual cures, you think; confessing or getting a surgical procedure, but both of those terrify you to no end. You know for a fact that Mituna and Latula are already flushed, or damn close to it. Getting turned away would only make the disease ravage you faster...that, and you just know you couldn’t handle the heartbreak of seeing the platonic pity in her eyes as she rejects you verbally. A once and for all final nail in the coffin, both for you and your paltry romantic fantasies.

The surgery is just as bad of an idea to you. Sure, it would eliminate all the issues, you’d be free and clear and cured...but you’d never remember Latula at all, and if that wouldn’t be the most obvious indicator for anyone who knew you that your coughing had been something other than a flu, that you were a useless excuse for a troll with a stupid illness because he can’t get up the globes to get over an old crush--

You suck in a rattling breath. Letting your mind run into anxious rambling will not help you now. You try once again to rationalize, but all you can think of is how you would most definitely be culled if you opted for the surgery. You’d be put under some highblood’s care and treated like a gilded pet, a trophy to remind other highbloods just how nice and kind and understanding your new owner - sorry, caretaker - really is. 

With a burgeoning sense of dread you realize that you can’t cure yourself. There’s nothing you can do now or ever, short of falling out of love with Latula, that will ever make this disease go away on your terms. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, but all that comes out is a choked whimper. You drag your hands through your hair. The silence of your hive seems to press in on you, the lilies in your chest pressing back out, until it’s all you can do to just sit there and cry out your resigned fate in silent tears. They fall fat and thick down your cheeks and you shudder, but you don’t make a sound. You can’t. You’re caught between the devil and the deep blue sea and there’s no lifeboat in sight for you that won’t immediately sink. 

So you lay on the floor and cry. 

You cry for what seems like hours, days even, but could have been mere minutes for all you know. Once all your tears are spent you lay there for a good long while, silent and still, giving the occasional cough as the lilies shift and writhe inside you. 

You can feel them now - you don’t know how you didn’t before. They twist and squirm like the so many living things they are, scraping your lungs and stretching root and stem alike along your insides. You can feel them reaching up unto your esophagus. Even the silken petals feel like razorblades against your throat and your breath comes out around them in a squeaky hiss. You swear you can feel the flowers piercing through the meat of your lungs, strangling your heart and rattling your ribcage as it slowly burrows its tendrils into you.

The thought makes your stomach turn. You get up from the porch and race to the ablutions block, barely making it in time before you’re forced to kneel in front of the gaper. The coughing returns and you see stars.

All that comes out is petals. Petals, and the occasional leaf and stem. Seeing the bloodied but beautiful flowers floating in the water makes your stomach turn again, and again, but no matter how much you heave all that comes out is flowers. It’s as if the disease has already spread, laying claim to your stomach as well as your lungs. 

Vaguely in the back of your mind you wonder if you’re even able to eat anymore. 

You stare down at the flowers with a dazed sort of fear swimming through your veins, paralyzing you. There’s nothing you can do anymore to save yourself. It’ll get worse, and worse, until your organs are simply nesting hosts for the roots of flowers pushing their way through the surface of your skin. You’ll leave a pretty, mangled corpse lying in your bed, starved and poisoned, suffocated by petals. Barely visible under the forest that will grow from your flesh will be your body.  

Already you can feel them worming their way up the back of your throat, past your mouth, up into your nose. They tickle the little space between your eye ducts and eyeballs. You pick at your eyelid and feel a bud growing there, just under your eye.

With shaking legs, you stand. You strip. Your tears have stopped long ago, now, your face sticky with them but no more falling. You’re not sure if it’s because your ducts are blocked or because of the tired resignation that’s clouded your mind. It’s far too late for you, but that’s alright. You watch the tendrils squirm under the skin of your chest. They’re already wrapped around your ribs, pushing out into your skin. You can see the delicate petals and stems wriggling and slowly scratching away at your insides, wearing down your flesh until they can poke free. 

It’s far too late for you. But that’s alright. 

The sound of church bells came from nowhere and everywhere, echoing in his head. Cronus took a jerking step forward, then another, and another. His legs felt filled with lead, his body moving on its own, compelled to move forward. Two large doors stood in front of him, massive oak structures carved with pictures of snakes and angels.

Without thinking, Cronus reached forward, brushing his hand along the carvings. The wood was warm, and seemed to beat with his own pulse.

The doors swung open. Inside was the church he’d seen so many times; glowing almost with the orange light filtering in through the windows, as if the sunset were setting the very rays of light on fire. Heat kissed his features, a heavy blanket of warmth settling over his body as he stepped inside. Row upon row of pews met his calloused hands; he barely noted the touch.

The saints painted on the windows all bore His face.

At the altar stood one lone figure, surrounded by red candles, humming softly. His voice echoed, bouncing off the high ceiling. His back was turned to Cronus; he only knew it was Him because of the soft waves of dark hair, shining brass in the light.

He was not the massive, godlike monolith He usually was. This time He was dressed in a simple robe of black cotton. He seemed relaxed; a candle in His hand as he lit the others, carrying their flame on and adding to the glow of the room. It was almost too bright for Cronus to look at, too hot for him to bear, and yet his legs kept moving him closer of their own accord.

His eyes watered. He wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or if he was crying.

“You’re late.” The boy’s soft voice sounded musical, a chorus of echoes joining him. Cronus’ heart raced.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

A soft sigh. “All will be forgiven in time.” He said, turning to face Cronus. His brown eyes shone brilliantly in the dusk light. The candles had vanished, but Cronus still felt their heat, heard the crackling roar of the flames. "Kneel.”

Cronus knelt before his God in worship.

The next day began with a lecture about finals.

The end of the year was fast approaching, every professor was warning them. If they hadn’t begun studying yet, now was the last few desperate moments they could cling to in hopes of studying enough to pass.

Cronus, as usual, couldn’t be fucked to pay attention. The lecture went completely over his head, as did most things in his classes. He’d been too half-asleep to care, dozing and having this odd sort of day-dream about fire and a church until-

“Ampora!”

Cronus snapped out of his nap with a stunned ‘whuh?’. The students around him snickered softly and Kankri shot him a cold look. What was that for?

“Did you hear anything I said?” The professor looked at him with a sharp glare and Cronus cringed back. Geez.

The professor sighed and shook her head in clear and stern disappointment. “I said, I’ll need you to see me after class. Mr. Vantas, as well, if you’d join me I would appreciate it.” She repeated herself. “And until then, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat my lecture as a time to catch up on sleep. We have beds at home for that reason, I’d much rather you play hooky than insult me.”

More snickering. Cronus shrunk down in his seat, scowling. His cheeks burned; he hated being made a fool of, especially in public like this. It gave him half an urge to slink out of the class right now and give the prof the finger as he went. Glancing over at Kankri, he was surprised to see that the preacher’s son looked almost the same way, his cheeks flushed a bright red and a scowl on his pretty face. He looked none too pleased about having to stay after class, or about having been called out in the same breath as Cronus. If he had to venture a guess, Cronus would say it was the second reason more so than the first.

Well, that made two of them, at least, that didn’t appreciate the snickers and sly grins. Cronus sighed and sat back, tapping his pen on his paper idly. The prof sunk back into her lecture and once again Cronus paid no attention, merely focusing on trying to stay awake.

It wasn’t working too well. Soon enough his head was in his hand, eyes slipping shut.

"Kneel.”

Cronus knelt obediently. From this point of view the preacher’s boy was so much larger than life, so grandiose and immovable. He wondered if, if there was really a God and a Heaven, if this was what looking up at Him would feel like.

The boy’s hand cupped his face. So warm, and soft. Glowing embers made of silk on his skin. Cronus closed his eyes and leaned into it, a shuddering sigh leaving his lips as he raised his chin into the touch. He thought that the other wouldn’t do anything other than touch him, just like he’d always done, caress his face and croon out how worthless, how pitiful and pathetic he was, how undeserving, but no.

The preacher’s son slapped him. Hard. It felt cold, the wind whistling past his face, the pain so much sharper than the dream-haze he was used to. So much more real. He could feel the bruise on his face throbbing--

Wait.

Cronus groaned and rubbed his face. More laughter this time, subdued snickers and giggles from the students around him, and the disapproving face of the professor in front of him, scowling down with her hands on her shapely hips.

“Jesus, fuck, why dontcha just beat me to a pulp next time,” Cronus muttered, still half asleep. “That hurt. ”

“It wasn’t me, it was Kankri,” Her gaze flicked to the boy in question and Cronus looked as well. Kankri was scowling, a horrified, disgusted look pulling at the bridge of his nose as he stared Cronus down. Instantly Cronus could feel his cheeks burn - shit, was he talking in his sleep? No good. The prof was still talking and he had to strain to focus on her words. “...And if you fall asleep in my class one more time I’ll make sure your cheeks match. Understood, Ampora? I expect better from you. Now go on, head to the dormitories, if you’re that tired. Take Kankri with you. While I appreciate a good bit of slapstick, it’s not tolerated in my class.”

Cronus mumbled a ‘yes ma’am’ and grabbed his backpack. At least he’d remembered it this time. Kankri stood up beside him, not even waiting for Cronus to finish packing before he was out of his seat and marching to the door. The professor's words about some kinda early morning meeting slipped past Cronus' ears as he had to jog to catch up, grabbing a slip for both of them.

“That was one hell of a hit,” Cronus said once they were out the door and into the hallway. “Where’d you hide all that strength?”

“Don’t talk to me,” Kankri snapped. “My first reprimand, and all because you had the gall to fall asleep in class - what was I supposed to do, just sit there and listen to you snore the whole time? You’re lucky I didn’t push you off the chair, but I don’t want detention, too.”

It was just snoring. Cronus breathed a sigh of relief. “Listen, kid, it ain’t the end of the world--” he began, but Kankri cut him off again.

“ Don’t call me kid. ” He hissed. “And what did I just say? Don’t f-- don’t talk to me. Just leave me alone.” He was gripping the straps of his backpack so hard that Cronus was sure they were turning a sickly sort of white from the strain. His brows raised; he’d never heard Kankri swear before, not even hint at it.

“Geez, okay.” He said, then sighed. “Sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to get you in shit. I just didn’t sleep all that well last night, that’s all.”

That part at least was true; between nightmares, worrying about Eridan and sleeping on the world’s hardest cot he couldn’t have had more than four or five hours’ sleep. Not the worst by a long shot, but still just enough to have him shambling around like a zombie all day.

The apology at least seemed to soften Kankri up a bit. He rubbed his face, his hand drifting down to the front of his shirt, gripping it tightly. Not for the first time Cronus wondered why he did that; maybe it was some kinda self-soothing thing. Whatever it was, it was weird, that was for sure. But nobody could ever say that Kankri wasn’t weird, anyway.

“It’s fine.” Kankri muttered bitterly. “It’s not as if Father will see the reprimand note anyhow. As you said, not the end of the world. Just a pinprick in my record. Scouts will likely look at it and say, oh, a history of violence. This is fine.”

There was a sort of anxious laugh at the end that bordered on manic. Cronus’ brows raised. “You, uh…” He said, trying to parse his words. “You got a whole lot of neuroses goin on in that big old brain of yours, dontcha? I mean...hittin’ a guy once does not a history of violence make, ki--uh, Kankri.”

Kankri glanced at him. There was something appreciative in his eye, like he was glad Cronus didn’t pull the ‘kid’ nickname with him again. Bless him, Cronus was trying, at least. When he looked away, though, the frown was back and he glared at the floor.

“Not for you, perhaps,” Kankri murmured, “But for others it does. For me. Better schools will only take the highest achievers, the cleanest records. Keeping one’s nose clean and in the books is the key to getting into those schools.”

“You sound like you’re just repeatin’ back what someone else told you.” Cronus said bluntly.

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Not really.”

Kankri pursed his lips. “Oh, really? Then please, mister ruffian who clearly knows more about ivy league schools than me, please educate me on how precisely one gets into a prestigious school with a fight on their record.”

Cronus couldn’t help it. He tried, he really did, but the snickering words left him before he could rein in his filthy mouth.

“Suck the dean’s dick?”

“That’s disgusting! You - get BACK here! Cronus!”

He howled with laughter as Kankri’s cheeks went red, the preacher boy chasing him down the hall and outside, screeching the whole way.

Kankri stopped, however, when the laughter cut short. He had to skid to a halt to avoid bumping into Cronus - and Kurloz. The latter offered an oily smile to Kankri.