Closure (Karkat X Reader)

Chapter 8

"Okay. Four of these fuckers down, how many more left to go...?"
"Umm... forty seven, I think?" Karkat's jaw drops.
"FORTY SEVEN???" I bite my lip.
"Don't worry, a lot of it is just small stuff. Like snowglobes and shit. The real monsters here are the furniture," I say, gesturing to the meager set of chairs we spent an hour putting together, "but the TV stand and stuff can wait. For now let's just pull out decorations. I'll handle the Memory labels, and you can do the silverware and cups and stuff." I say, choosing the Memory out of fear of his accidental unpacking. Damn. I wanted those to be unpacked last, although I was going to send most of the stuff to my aunt's storage center. She would've taken care of me, but I decided to spare her and choose my minorship instead. So, in reality, unpacking the Memory boxes really entailed picking and choosing only a few items to lay around my apartment. Ideally, I'd like to send all of it to her, but my post-traumatic stress counselor said it would be ideal to take out at least four or five things. I visited her until I moved, but she never could actually give me any real insight, so it wasn't too much of a loss. Most of our sessions only consisted of her trying to get me to talk about my feelings, but eventually giving up, resulting in random coping advice.
"Alright,"
"And if you want you can eat dinner here, though I only have a few microwave meals and stuff. They're in the cooler if you're hungry later."
"Do you seriously just use that cooler to store all of your shit?"
"I still need to get the fridge out of the old house. All I had as a moving team were a few old friends, and no one could carry it. Well, that and the washing machine, but the complex has a laundromat."
​​​​​​"That makes me sad for obvious reasons."
"Meh."
"We should get started."
"Probably. It'll take an hour at most, though, and it's only five, so feel free to take your time, because I could use some company. Solitude is enjoyable, but after a while you could use somebody to talk to."
"You enjoy talking to me...? Wait. Did that sound creepy? I sounded really fucking creepy, didn't I."
"Dude. How the hell was that creepy?" I ask, sauntering over to the first box.
"I don't know. I just don't like saying the wrong things." He replies, mimicking my movements. He pulls out a teal coffee cup and puts it into the cabinet.
"Why? It's not like I'd unbefriend you for slipping up on a sentence, numbnuts." I open the cardboard container to reveal a bunch of my mother's old yearbooks. Nope.
"I know, it's just... like... I always feel like if I slip up, I'll suddenly end up with no friends or something " I close the box and move on the next one. Pictures.
"So... you're afraid of failure? Or how about abandonment?"
"Are you seriously psychoanalyzing me now?" I take out the first frame. It's the same one I took out yesterday. I put it back in and take out a photo album, leaving all of the framed photos untouched. I'd rather have a practically invisible photo album collecting dust on a shelf as opposed to frames in front of my face serving as reminders of nothing but tragic death.
"No, I'm not doing that in particular, but what I am doing is trying to understand you. I tend to try to figure people out as I get to know them. Nothing personal, but I just do it with everyone."
"I'm pretty sure that's a justified definition of psychoanalysis."
"Whatever you say, Karkat." I set the book down by the box with the yearbooks. He mumbles something inaudible and moves onto the silverware box.
I go through several more boxes and end up with mom's prom dress, her wedding dress, and an old stuffed animal. With those and the album, I count four items. My work is done. Thank the fucking Lord. It was starting to get painful.
"Are you done with the silverware and stuff?"
"Yeah. I have been for a while, and I've been trying to get your attention, but you were in a really fucking weird trance or something while deeply inhaling expensive looking dresses."
"Wait... you saw that...?"
"Yeah, and I kind of wish I didn't."
"Shut up." I say, strutting over to the cooler. "So, whaddya like? I got burritos and frozen Pad Thai. Not much of a choice, but you've got some room for free will." He doesn't answer, so I turn around to see him stating at the wedding dress draped over a box."Nosy, much?" He snaps back to reality and stares at me with apologetic eyes.
"Holy shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"It's okay, Karkat, I would be curious too. Here, burrito. It's two minutes in the microwave." People generally do things like that, but I just try to cover it up with other topics. Generally, they get the hint.
"Oh, uh, thank you.... I'm really fucking sorry, I-"
"CHANGING THE SUBJECT!" I say a bit louder-and a bit angrier- than normal. He has the same flash of hurt I saw earlier, but instead of talking about it, he just puts the food into the microwave. I start to feel bad as we silently watch the microwave whir. "Look, I didn't mean to say it like that. It was my mom's, and it's just a really sensitive topic for me, kay?"
"Yeah, whatever. I was just being nosy." He replies in a clipped tone. I sigh as he pulls out his food. We eat in silence. When he finishes, he gets up. "Thanks for the dinner. I should probably get going; Kankri might want me." He begins to walk to the door when I speak up.
"Are you really serious?"
"What?"
"I get a little sensitive, and you get all butthurt and leave like a wimp? Seriously. Come on, don't leave like that. I have Netflix and an ipad. The screen's small, but Netflix still has a shitton of romcoms." He looks like my honesty materialised and slapped him in the face.
"Uh..."
"You know you want to" I say in a singsong voice.
"Mmmmm..." he crunches his lip in a frown. It's quite adorable, actually, but I would never say that aloud. "Fine."
"Yay!!!" I say with false cheer, grabbing his arm and sitting him down on my bed. He blushes, but I pretend not to notice . I grab my iPad and sit down next to him, putting on some Sandler movie as we get situated. As we're watching, the sun outside begins to go down. I get a bit drowsy, and the last memory I have is the sound of his heart beating as my head falls onto his sweater-clad chest.

​​​​​​

​​​​​