The orange flame on the candle flickered, causing a dim light to cast throughout the dark living room. It's quiet. So quiet, in fact, you could almost say mother nature herself declared this Sunday afternoon to be absolutely silent just for this moment to take place.
You're sprawled out on the small leather couch that's in your friend's living room, your fists clenching reflexively as a signal that, yes, you are in pain and yes, you want to pull all your disgustingly greasy hair right out of your pounding head.
Your head is in said friend's lap, and you're facing that wax candle sitting on the coffee table. Your eyes are fixed right on that small, twitching flame. It reminds you of Karkat in a sense; the way he's always so angry like a burning fire. But he always manages to reduce to the smallest little flame when you need him most.
Dexterous fingers are running through your hair, scratching at your scalp with dull fingernails. Karkat always knew how to subdue your headaches as you waited for your painkillers to kick in.
Karkat always knew everything, actually. He knew when to leave you alone, when to be there for you. You could almost say it's something you loathed; the way he knew you so well. But you don't hate it. You don't hate it because you know Karkat just as well.
By the time Karkat finally breaks the silence, your medicine has kicked in and you're back to your moody self. Almost.
"You could really use a shower, you smell like you were left in a vat of B.O your whole childhood," his mumble makes the corner of your mouth twitch in amusement, and you reach over to squeeze his thigh in retaliation.
"You could uthe a nithe dothe of shut the fuck up I'm trying to relakth over here."
"Oh, I'm sorry? Who's the one sitting here in the dark at 3 in the fucking afternoon, missing work, to keep your disheveled asshole sane just because you forgot to take your meds like the disorganized clusterfuck you are?" His voice is dripping with anger and sarcasm all in one go, and you honestly can't decide if he's actually offended or not. You just go with the idea that he isn't.
"You are and I'm thankful. Now will you shut your mouth already?"
His stubby fingers are still entangled in your hair, brushing your feathery bangs away from your forehead. You listen to his breathing, and find the long, short breaths rather relaxing. You're still staring at that candle, which has burned down to about half it's original length.
Maybe that's why Karkat is so short.