PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE READING THE FIC!
This is a birthday fic for my biggest Tumblr Idol/”actual” Tumblr crush, Zanney.
I got the idea for the plot a while ago but stupid as I was I didn’t start writing until last minute. *facedesk*
The fanfic features (off)BroadwayKarkat (I went with the pink sparkly version. I’m sorry!) and Case's Karkat. I was too lazy to come up with a proper back-story to why BK/cG and Karkat would be interacting with each other, so I just picked Case’s since he has worked together with Zanney.
I apologize for any spelling and grammar errors. I TRIED!
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are very busy. You promised your human followers from that other universe that you’ve forgotten the name of to record another entry for your blog several days ago. And you’ve just STARTED! Your past self is a bulgesucking idiot for not doing this earlier, instead forcing current you to do it.
You have just finished answering the fourth question when you hear steps behind you. By the lack of sounds from your door, and the transportalizer just outside of your room, it could only be one person. Or, to be more accurate, troll. You don’t even turn around.
"What the ever loving fuck do you want? I’m too busy for your shit today," you growl.
The silence that follows is enough for you to stop focusing on your work and turn around. Your pink clad, singing, alternate universe self is never quiet. If he’s not talking, then he’s singing. If he’s not singing, then he’s humming. He always make some sort of sound. It’s like it’s impossible for him to be quiet.
But here he is, standing a few feet away from you, completely soundless. He just stands there and gives you a small wave. You raise an eyebrow.
“What do you want?”
He simply shakes his head at you and turns around. You watch him as he walks over to your pile of pillows and blankets. He stares at the pile for a while before falling down on it; face first, without a sound.
You roll your eyes and turn back to your crabtop. Fine let him be weird, see if you care. You have work to do.
It takes way longer to finish than you expected. Usually it takes you less than an hour to go through the questions, answer them and post the finished thing on your blog. This time it took you almost three fucking hours. How is that even possible? That’s a stupid question because you knew the answer long before asking yourself that. You were distracted by the complete silence of your room, save for your own breaths and the practically soundless one from your alternate self. You’re used to having loud trolls, and lately humans, around you. You are not used to being in the same room as someone who doesn’t make any sounds at all. It’s just plain weird. And it creeps you the fuck out!
When you finally post the audio post you let out a relieved sigh. You stretch a little, your back making complaining crack-ing sounds. You could really go for a nice movie and some relaxing right now before your ever present headache from being around the others for too long returns. Except you still have to deal with the silent troll currently lying in your comfortable pile. Better get this over with. You stand up from your chair and walk over to your alternate self. He is still lying face down on the pile. Has he even moved at all the past hours? You frown. Your Broadway self does have his weird moments, but not like this. You poke his leg with your foot.
“Are you dead?”
Silence. No movement. You frown deeper and kick his leg.
“Hey! Don’t fucking ignore me!”
He’s still silent, but now there’s some movement at least! He rolls over on to his back and glares at you. You glare right back down at him. His eyes have some red in them, just like yours. Looking at him is like looking into a mirror. The first time you met him, when he suddenly appeared in a dream bubble, it was pretty freaky. You have met countless of you’s in dreams, but never one that is so… Alive. You try not to think about how the fuck it’s possible for both of you to be alive and meet each other in dream bubbles. It burns your think pan more than spending more than ten minutes in the same room as Strider.
“What’s wrong with you? Meowbeast got your tongue?”
You smirk down at him. Mocking him always got you an earful of loud ranting, which you always countered with your own. This usually goes on for about an hour, followed by a few punches, then singing and maybe a movie if you have time. You consider your relationship pretty healthy.
But this time he stays silent, still glaring at you. If you were a weaker troll you would have been extremely unnerved by his silence by now. But you’re not a weaker troll. You prove this by maintaining your stare for several minutes. Then he breaks it by rolling over to his side, his back against you. By now you are quite a bit above ‘slightly irritated’ on your mood scale.
“What crawled up your nook and died?” You growl at him.
He calmly raises his hand and flips you off. That’s fucking it. You will not take any more of this bullshit!
You snarl and attack him. After a very brief struggle (Did he even try to put up a fight?) you’re sitting on top of him and you’re both glaring at each other again. And he’s still not saying anything. His silence is almost more annoying than his singing. Almost.
“Just say something! Anything!”
You’re pretty frustrated at this point, and all he does is staring at you. Silent. Fucking silent. You can’t stand it.
“SAY SOMETHING YOU BULGESUCKING WASTE OF FUCKING SPACE AND AIR!”
Scratch that previous thought. You’re frustrated as hell right now.
Your Broadway self is not supposed to be quiet. He’s supposed to sing and dance around while you shout at him to sit the fuck down. He’s supposed to threaten you into doing back-up vocals for his songs. He’s supposed to bury you with sheets of papers with lyrics written on them until you agree to record a song with him. He is not supposed to just lay there and look at you like that, like he’s about to…
You do a double take. He’s not glaring anymore. He’s just looking at you with an empty look, as if he was accepting his death or some shit like that, and you’re pretty sure that there is some red wetness in the corners of his eyes. What the hell?
He raises his hand and simply points at his throat. You frown at him for a moment. Then your eyes widen as you realize what he means.
He has no voice. Your Broadway self have lost his voice.
You just sit there stupidly for a few moments before you move, climbing off of him and sit down next to him. You can honestly say that you never once imagined a time when he wouldn’t have his voice. His voice was pretty much the only thing about himself that he bragged about. It was always “I can hit that high note” this and “I’ve come up with a new way to get emotion into my voice” that. For him to be mute was completely unthinkable. Yet here he was. Completely soundless. Voiceless.
“How?” You can’t remember if your voice has ever sounded that soft before.
He waves his hand and his lips move as he form silent words. You get the meaning of it after a moment.
Too much singing.
How was that even a thing? With your Broadway self there could never be too much singing. It was just impossible!
“Will you get it back?”
He shrugs and then cracks a smile as he waves his hand again.
It will be fine.
But he sucks at lying to himself. You both know that. Since technically you are him and he is you.
You reach out and starts stroking his hair. It isn’t until know that you notice that he didn’t bring his top hat this time. You’re pretty sure he forgot it because he was deeply into his thoughts about his voice. You know because you know yourself, and he is you.
He moves around a bit until he’s lying with his head in your lap, and you are still stroking his hair. You know he’s close to crying but you don’t comment on it. You admit that now you are actually a bit unnerved. You have never seen him like this, ever.
The first time you met your Broadway self was in a dream bubble. You can’t really remember how long ago it was, but at least long enough for you to forget the time. Anyway. You were somewhere on LOPAH and you both had pretty much just stared at each other for several minutes. Before then you had met several dead you’s. But he wasn’t dead. His eyes were proof enough. Then came the questions. Which one of you was dreaming? Which one of you was actually dead? What did you both do before you went to sleep?
Turned out you both had gone to sleep normally before ending up in the bubble.
Then came the questions about yourselves. Why was he wearing a pink tail coat? Why was your voice so “unrefined”, as he put it? What point in time were you both from? What universe?
You still haven’t figured out what universe he is from. All you know is that it’s extremely different from the one you come from.
The second time you met your Broadway self, he came to you. He suddenly appeared in your room with a wide grin and holding a sickle against your neck and forced you to sing a part of one of his songs. Then you both proceeded to answer your questions together.
The third, four and fifth times were random visits with lots of verbal fights, one fist fight, a romcom marathon and just plain hanging out.
The sixth visit ended up with you being pretty much forced into doing back-up vocals for one of his songs. You complained the whole way through. You will never admit to anyone that you enjoyed it. A lot.
Several other random visits happened. Fights, movie marathons, more fights, more movies. Then he got into the habit of throwing random papers with lyrics at you, in hope that you would pick one to sing with him. One time he almost covered you completely in paper. You flipped your shit everywhere and then picked a random paper and told him you would sing with him if he would just leave you “ALONE FOR FIVE GODDAMN MINUTES!”.
The song turned out pretty good if you say so yourself, and you did have lots of fun recording it. Not that he needed to know that. Or anyone else for that matter.
After that you didn’t see him for a while. Until now. And now he is mute, and… Oh fuck he’s crying now! You don’t know what to do other than keep on stroking his hair, which is exactly what you are doing. You don’t need to ask him why he’s crying. You already know.
Singing is everything to him. Singing is his life. Without his voice he can’t sing. Without singing he’s nothing, according to himself. You remember him mentioning it before. And the rest you have figured out by yourself.
Your Broadway self is very confident in his talents on stage, but off stage he almost have lower self-esteem than Tavros. Even when he started his “off-Broadway” thing, this problem still remained. You are almost one hundred percent sure that he thinks of himself as useless without his voice. That he has talked himself into believing that people only likes his voice, his singing, and not him as the troll he his. He thinks no one cares about him now that he can’t sing anymore. Which basically is the end of the world for him.
A huge load of bullshit according to you.
You wait for a while, to be sure most of his tears are gone, before you start talking. You choose your words carefully. You want to say the right things, without getting too mushy with emotions.
“Listen up and listen good, shitstain, because I’m only saying this once. I know what you’re thinking and you are fucking wrong! You are more unique than you think. Your voice isn’t the only good thing about you, and we both fucking know that. It doesn’t matter if we sing or scream at our moronic teammates. We are more than just a voice. We are Karkat fucking Vantas and being mute is not going to change that!”
You look down at him and he stares back up at you. At least he stopped crying. Next thing you know your vision is filled by white teeth as he smiles the biggest smile you have ever seen (Terezi included). You grin back at him.
“Besides that thing is most likely temporary. There’s no way any gods or higher powers or whatever the fuck else is out there could ever steal your voice for long. They would miss it too much. Plus your fans would be whining too much.”
He lets out a series of short breaths, still smiling, and you realize he’s laughing. Your grin widens.
“How about a movie? Your choice!”
He nods and sits up and stretches and wipes his cheeks. You let out a small sigh and shake your head, grin morphing into a small, warm, smile. You might have a soft spot for your Broadway self. Maybe. A small one.
But he’s still an annoying nooklicker.
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