Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fairy tales are absolute bullshit. Most stories are, too. They're this idyllic fantasy meant to distract us from the fact that our lives are an absolute pile of slowly decaying shit. That's it. Period. Stories and fantasy exist as mindless drivel; they're the opium that started the war. Pure horse shit. Sure, any two-bit fucker can pick up a good story and run with it. But it takes nothing less than some sort of divine intervention to actually make life anything like a polished, carefree tale.

At least, that's what you've always thought.

And, as you sit on a worn-out community center sofa, with the everyday cacophony of others going about their routines, this idea only seems to reinforce itself. You tap your foot to the beat of a steady waltz. You stare at the wall. You play with the lint in your pocket, rolling it into a small, loose ball.

Another day is going to pass, and it will be just as goddamned boring as the next. And it will be as goddamned boring as the one before it, too. That's all there is to existing, right? You go through pre-programmed motions, dodge anyone asking you why the hell you never say anything, and stifle any traces of your natural magical abilities.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're a goddamned magical being. Your sister, Rose, is, too. Most of your friends are, actually. Magical jackasses tend to gravitate towards one another, you suppose. You're the heat subset of magic; you can control fire and earth. Most of your other friends are the other type: cold. They control the wind and water. There are many more nuances to this classification system, but you don't care enough to explain it all. Besides, the nuances don't matter. If you can perform any sort of magic, you're automatically labeled as an enemy of the United States of America.

It's this big, complex political movement. The whole thing started two years ago, when the government announced the Great Offense Program, which mandated that all legal identification list magical abilities. Anyone with a check next to their abilities slot is fucked forever. Up, down, left, right, and sideways. You're fucked no matter what you do; you could find the secret to immortality, and the world will ignore you until some goddamned "normal" fucker finds it.

Your thoughts come to a screeching halt at the sound of the door opening. The bells tied to the door clang together, echoing in your head at a volume far above the usual. Someone is pissed; they'd have to be to slam the door that fucking hard. You tug at the collar of your shirt and hold the fabric against your neck. It's softer and more malleable than it should be, seeing as it's supposed to be formal. Your gaze, which is hidden behind your usual shades, drifts upwards. It's not really your business, but you're curious; you'd like to know who disturbed your uneventful day.

Your answer, as you'd expect, stands in the doorway.

The figure framed against the light of the outside world isn't exactly tall. Sizing it up in comparison with the doorframe, you'd guess it belongs to someone no more than five foot five. Five foot six, if you're feeling generous.

As the door closes, the lighting offers you a more useful overview. Admittedly stocky, masculine build. Brown skin. Grey eyes. Messy black hair. An angular jaw, which morphs into a rather round chin. Thick, furrowed brows. When he approaches the desk and begins to speak, you find that his voice is loud and scratchy, yet oddly pleasant. It's neither high nor low pitched. "You can't just book my act and then make me park halfway across this fucking godforsaken continent," he growls, tugging on the left strap of his muted red backpack. "HEY!" he shouts, and you instinctively recoil. "Any fuckers in here care to tell me where I can talk to someone? No?"

You pull your shirt's collar so that it presses against your skin more than before. You try to sink backwards and become part of the sofa you're sitting on.

When the stranger's eyes finally stop sweeping across the room, however, they land on you. He approaches and, while you're a solid half a foot taller than him, you can't help but feel intimidated. Your heart races, and each beat sounds like a gunshot. Instinct prompts you to prepare for an attack. You ready yourself to take a blow, yet none comes.

Instead, you're lured from your shell by a surprisingly soft voice. It's still a bit loud and scratchy, but it seems far removed from the disgruntled shouting from before. "You look like you know a decent amount of shit. Where in this entire ocean of indescribable fuck can I find someone to talk to?" His commentary is expressive and transparent, something you've always valued.

Nonetheless, you know nothing on the topic. You allow yourself a huff and a shrug.

"Really?" You prepare for him to grill you, as people are wont to do. You pull your knock-off iPad, which you like to call an iCrap, from your bag and ready yourself. Your finger hovers over a button, which, when pressed, automatically spits out a load of bullshit. All of the text amounts to little more than, "I'm not fond of speaking, don't care what you think, and will not put up with your head-up-your-ass shit about therapy."

Instead, you're greeted with a pleasant surprise. Rather than ask you some sort of stupid, invasive question, he offers you a bemused, albeit somewhat confused smile. "Okay. Let me try this again. My name's Karkat. I do cheap magic tricks to amuse a handful of easily-impressed people and get paid to do so. I was hired to entertain the kids at this fucking dump, and I got an email this morning. It sounds a lot like they dumped me for some other fuck-for-brains, but I don't know until I talk to someone. You sure you don't know some fart-wafting fuck-waffle I could talk to?"

Again, you shrug. Years of practice and necessity have taught you how to type with a combination of speed, ease, and accuracy. After a few seconds, you let the computer spit out what you want to say. "Look, buddy, I just come here because my sister teaches knitting to the old farts around here. I don't know jack shit about how this place works. The reception desk is around front; you came in the back way. Maybe that helps. Maybe not, but that's all I can really tell you."

"Hm." The sound rises from deep within his throat. "Shit. Fuck. Damn. Thanks, jackhole. I'll never forget you." He says this with a dismissive wave, though there's a poignant smirk on his face. You feel as if the commentary is supposed to be sarcastic, but you can't bother yourself enough to actually evaluate it.

Instead, as this stranger, Karkat Vantas, departs, you fiddle with your tablet. You open up one of the many mindless games you have installed, and occupy yourself with the pointless tasks it sets forth for you.

 Your name is Rose Mary Lalonde, and you like to keep idle chitchat to a minimum when you're working. To mindlessly prattle on about pointless matters is nothing more than a waste of time, and you're not exactly here because you love teaching wary old people how to make low-quality knit goods. No, you're here to do your job and get paid; you always save or spend half of your earnings, and invest the other half into your local Safe Net Alliance. After all, supporting the ongoing war against the Grand Offense Project is a noble cause. It's also a personal cause, seeing as you are a magical being.

Of course, that's neither here nor there. When people ask you how exactly you get your final knitted goods to look so nice, you will invariably inform them that a good product comes from a skilled hand. This is true. You are quite proud of your knitting abilities; however, you are also not below using a bit of witchcraft to add a bit of character. Why hand-knit those decorative floral touches when you can just conjure a few up?

12:25. Your eyes wander away from the clock mounted above the door just as it opens.

You find yourself catching a glimpse of a woman so beautiful you must call her, as Dave would say, "fucking damned gorgeous." She has a tall, elegant figure, and her short hair is a healthy, shining black. Her odd, jade green lipstick compliments her flawless, dark brown skin. "There was a sign outside pointing me to this room for a knitting course," she explains, her voice soft but commanding. It takes you a few minutes to overcome your initial shock and respond to her commentary.

"Yeah," you grumble, "This is the knitting room. Knitting... Class..." Heat rushes to your cheeks.

She graciously overlooks this development. "My name is Kanaya Maryam," she explains, "I came here with a friend of mine, and I figured I'd get some knitting practice in while I was here. Who knows how long he'll be."

You laugh, though the joke wasn't that funny. You're not even sure it was supposed to be a joke. "Yes," you say this, take a deep breath, and regather your wits. "Well, how much experience do you have?"

"Not much," she admits, pulling from her purse a tangled mess of yarn. Initially, you assume this is just a disheveled skein. This assumption is quickly proven wrong. "This was my last attempt."

Again, you laugh. This time, though, it's genuine. You know you're not supposed to laugh at customers, but this is the most amusing attempt at knitting you've ever seen. You can see a few stitches, but it's obvious that Kanaya needs more than a little guidance. All things considered, though, you're not exactly opposed to being the one to provide that guidance.

Chapter Text

Admittedly, you're surprised no one has noticed that your radical fire-based magic tricks aren't just tricks. Most people assume they're just clever uses of projections and holograms, which they are not; no, these are real, bona fide fireballs, which you juggle and toss around like it's nothing. They're perfectly capable of burning anyone who doesn't happen to be gifted with warm type magic, and you're keenly aware of this. Your act is based around you being on the top of your game. To make sure that the voice of your magic duo, John, doesn't get hurt, you're constantly controlling the exact temperatures, positions, and intensities of all of the flames. It's a mind-boggling experience, which you find easy to master. After all, you've been doing it for the past two years.

Collectively, you call yourselves The Flaming Breeze. John's cool-type magic balances yours out perfectly. He'll handle his winds with ease, and keep the air in the room circulating, so that all the fire magic doesn't end up torching the entire room. To keep anyone from getting suspicious, he also specializes in actual, illusion-based magic. His favorite tricks include: pulling a rabbit from a hat; throwing a deck of cards, so that the right one sticks to the inside of the glass; and pulling random things from behind unsuspecting audience members' ears.

As a whole, you make decent money, despite working irregularly, and often being relegated to the dank, vomit-scented interiors of shitty dive bars. So, you find it a nice change of scenery to have been invited to the set of Skaia Today, a local talk show style livestream, which plays daily on their website from noon until 1:30 PM. It's a bit of an odd setup, but it's worked well enough to keep the show going for the past three years. Though there are five primary hosts, only one of them is ever on screen at a time. The producers (and the website) claim this creates a more personal bond between the interviewee and the host, and that's not exactly wrong, you just think it's a bit of a hokey excuse.

As if to up the freakiness factor, each host has their own unique on-air nickname and persona. There's Techno, a lisping, bespectacled tech nerd, as his name so implies, whose real name is Sollux Captor. Terezi Pyrope, a blind woman with an uncannily enthusiastic love for all things legal, is known as Legislasher. (And, not to say you watch Skaia Today, but, if you did, she would be your favorite.) Wizard, a lanky, morose loner-nerd type, is a less frequent star on the show; his real name is Eridan Ampora, but there have been rumors circulating that he's thinking of quitting. Bonedigger is the fourth host. Real name: Aradia Megido. She's an archaeologist by profession, but also hosts the show in her free time.

Finally, there's the one you never bothered to learn the name of, Wordsmith. He's a loud, critical man, whose face you've never seen, but you've briefly heard his voice during a podcast. What you heard, you didn't exactly like. There wasn't anything inherently wrong with him, he's just intense. He's brash and outspoken, and the way he wears his heart on his sleeve makes you feel things you can't identify.

Not that you're complaining.

You're not going to complain about how weird the entire concept of Skaia Today is, at least. You have much better things to complain about. For instance, of all the hosts you could have gotten—keeping in mind that Legislasher, Techno, and Wordsmith are equally frequent hosts—you've ended up with the one you least want to engage with. Outside of his usual antics, Wordsmith just so happens to be a very vocal critic of your magic tricks, and he's gone so far as to make occasional Twitter posts, demanding you release your secrets.

Now, however, in the backstage area of the building—which is literally just a carpeted space, furnished with shitty sofas, uncomfortable single seats, a few tables, and a small kitchen area—you find yourself face-to-face with your host. And, to your surprise, he seems familiar. You can't place his name, though, and that bothers you. It bothers you very, very much. But, you don't let it show. You keep a straight face, as always, even as he approaches you, with his stupid cigarillo sticking from his mouth like a lollipop stick.

The minute he sees you, his brows furrow, and he smirks. “Fancy seeing you here, Dave.”

‘How the literal fuck do you know my name?’ you want to ask; but, you don't. As always, you stay silent. You aren't legally required to right now, nor will you die if you don't; so, you're not going to. Normally, it this point, you'd revert to sign language, but John isn't around to translate, so you're stuck staring this stranger-but-not-really-stranger down.

He, however, seems to read your mind in the time it takes you to consider all of this. “I'm Kanaya's friend. I was her Best Man at the wedding. From what I understand, you were so drunk that you were little more than a blithering anal polyp, curled up on the floor, amidst a carefully curated collection of your own fucking vomit, so you probably don't remember that.”

He's right about that.

“Okay.” He shrugs and rubs his neck. “Well, since you don't remember it, I'm Karkat Vantas. I'll be your host for today.” He concludes this statement by pulling a glossy business card from his faux silk coat's inner pocket. It's black, smooth, and nice to touch. The text is simple, and the design is squarely set in the realm of minimalism. As you mindlessly thumb over its surface with the utmost determination, he continues, “I came to let you know that I'll probably be a little rough on you out there. Don't take it personally. It's part of what the producers want. I don't actually mean any of the steaming hot molten discharge that flows out of my gabbling maw, okay?”

You nod.

“Great. We're on the same page.”

“Mhm.”

Now, he nods. “Weird. From what I hear from Kanaya, you normally don't shut up.”

Burying your hands in your pockets is a sign that you're not talking, and you're also not signing, nor will be typing. It's a shorthand you've developed with Rose, and it works. As far as you're concerned, you really don't want to be here. You won't be opening your mouth and making an ass of yourself on a semi-public medium. The only thing you care about is the nice pay you're getting for appearing on the show.

“Okay. Well, uh...” He's uncomfortable. His hands wring together, and his eyes dart around the room, grasping for something to focus on. After a few seconds, he shoves his hand forward, towards you, before saying, in a voice a few notches too loud for the situation, “Good luck out there. Glad to have you on the show.”

You cough. You dislike shaking hands. Other people's hands are never predictable. Who knows what they've touched? Moreover, who knows what those hands might do to you. For all you know, he's about to wrench your arm out of your socket. Not that he would, but it's a possibility that exists. When he doesn't let up, you shake your head.

Finally, he withdraws his offer. He settles, instead, for a nod that tries way too hard to look cool. Then, obviously confused by the entire interaction, he wanders off.

By the time the show is halfway over, you're ready to leave. For all your smooth-talking online, you're not made for real life socializing. The lights are too bright, Karkat's voice is too loud, and John's oddball sense of humor has become about as grating as the roughest grit sandpaper. When, after a solid forty-five minutes of blabbing exclusively to John, the behind-the-camera producer signals for Karkat to speak to you, your body tenses up.

“So, we've flogged this stupid fucker to death with our sophomoric inquiries for long enough, right?” The producing staff snicker while you seethe. “How about you? What's your deal?”

[“My deal is that I've been frying underneath this shitty studio lighting for the past forty-five minutes, like a shitty egg on the streets of downtown Houston in the middle of summer. I'm hungry, tired, and I'd really like to just skeedaddle on home, maybe.”] Your signing is translated by John, who, as always, has no qualms saying exactly what you're throwing down. He even makes a shitty attempt at imitating a Texan accent, though he ends up sounding like a discount bin cowboy. [“I came here under the impression that I'd at least do a trick or two, but it looks like I've been tricked into a trap that even Admiral Ackbar wouldn't see coming.”]

Karkat reacts in a way you can't figure out. His eyebrows say pissed, but the barely retrained laughter in his voice says something entirely different. “Well, fuck, everyone! We've got a good, old-timey pissing contest happening. We might even figure out what sort of fucking smoke-and-mirrors insanity is behind this alleged ‘magic’!” He stands abruptly, shoving aside the plush red armchair he was formerly sitting in. “Go ahead! Light this fuckawful warehouse of two-cent budget props on fire!”

And, with that prompting, you do (almost) just that. You summon your usual starting act, three orbs of fire, before you. Then, since you're not going to be passing these off to John in your usual two-person juggling act, you let them grow. As they reach the size of a football, you begin to juggle them. (Or, rather, you move them to create the illusion of doing so.) Performing has always been your zone; it's how you feel the most comfortable, and it's how you've always managed to draw the most praise. The heat of your own fires doesn't bother you, and it never has, but it still manages to stun the entire crew.

“Motherfucker,” Karkat mumbles.

John, meanwhile, grins. He puts his feet up, on the coffee table in front of him, and folds his hands behind his head. He's enjoying the show, and you suppose you can't blame him. The few videos of yourself that you've seen do look super sick.

After a minute or so of doing the juggling act, you merge the flames into one, which you allow to twist and turn, spiraling wildly in the air, until it forms the shape of a bird, which you direct at the camera. Then, just before it can damage it, you dissolve the flaming entity.

When the show is over, and after you've washed the stage makeup from your face, you prepare to leave. On your way out, you run into a sheepishly smiling Karkat. He's offering you another business card, but this one has something written on it in silver Sharpie. “That was pretty fucking cool, actually.” When you don't respond, he clarifies, “What you did on the set, it was cool. I liked it. The visual information relayed to my brain during this particular display of incomprehensible fuckery caused me to feel pleasant.”

As he talks, you take the card. The writing happens to be a Pesterchum username, carcinoGeneticist.

With his hands free, he then does something surprising. His hands move, forming distinct shapes, and you recognize exactly what's happening. [“You seem like a decent enough guy. If you ever want to grab a bite to eat, or discuss whatever sort of arbitrary bullshit Kanaya claims you love to ramble about, I'd be happy to listen. You're not as much of an insufferable brain-rotting mite as Kanaya's ranting made you out to be.”]

You nod, pocket the card, and offer a simple wave as a reply.

For now, you'll think about it. You have other things to do, one of which happens to be not going out with a local celebrity and increasing the chances of you being outed as a magical being.

Chapter Text

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You’re a hopeless romantic loser, a local celebrity, and you still don’t have an actual fucking job. You make just enough to cover your ass and student loans, seeing as every show you do nets you a cool $65, but your real passion is painting. Sometimes, you paint outside; sometimes, you paint some of Kanaya’s dress designs; other times, you’ll just fucking paint. It doesn’t matter what, you just have to let it out. And, on this particularly cursed day, you’re sitting in a café, waiting for a small job fair to begin, when you’re interrupted. The portrait work you’d been doing comes to an abrupt halt, and you promptly slam the book shut when he walks in.

Dave Strider. Local eccentric pretty boy extraordinaire. He’s an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a cloak made of nothing but inexplicable riddles. You’ve spent a while listening to Kanaya complain about him, but, having really met him, you have to admit that he’s oddly charming. He’s quiet, but kind. You’ve seen him every now and then in the park, feeding local birds. In fact, you’ve heard one or two tales circulating about a man feeding crows from the palm of his hand, and you’re fairly sure that’s Dave.

Today, he’s bundled up in a coat that seems a few sizes too large for him and baggy jeans. There’s a slight pinkness to his nose, that the occasional sneeze seems to suggest is a cold. You note that his sneezes are soft and short, not like loud, explosive bangs (not that you’d ever call out your friends, like Sollux, for their sneezing habits). He doesn’t order; or, rather, he seems to have paid through the app. After presenting his phone to the cashier, he shuffles aside, taking a seat at a far corner table, where no one ever really sits, before tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop.

You can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him. He’s a burning ball of unsaid words and unspoken secrets. He’s a loaded cannon, ready to blow, but the way he holds himself says everything but that. He’s relaxed, and his face is nothing short of disinterested. Yet, when a smiling waitress delivers him his coffee, he startles, practically jumping out of his seat. (To her credit, the waitress seemed to anticipate this; she had taken a step back just before Dave reacted. She’s probably served him before.) Afterwards, he brushes it off, acting like it was nothing.

Eventually, with it becoming increasingly obvious that this entire job fair has fallen apart, and that the only attendants are a singular table for a shady too-stupid-looking-to-not-be-a-pyramid-scheme company, MegaBucks, you resign yourself to quietly sitting across from Dave. You remain as silent as him, doing little more than sipping your coffee, as you watch him fill in the daily newspaper's crossword puzzle with remarkable speed.

His attention never wavers, and you're just about to leave when he looks up. A soft huff escapes him. [“I never contacted you. What do you want?”] His hands hover in the air, obviously itching to say more, but he ultimately lets them drop. You can't see his eyes behind those stupid, enigmatic shades, but you feel as if he's glaring at you.

“There was an open seat. Is it suddenly a crime, punishable by death-by-pale-fuckhead, to sit in an empty seat in the middle of the lunch rush?” Your response is a bit more hostile than you meant for it be.

He doesn't seem to mind. [“Okay.”] He follows this with a sign you don't know. You're guessing he means something like ‘touché’. [“What do you want?”]

Blunt. When he doesn't want to talk, he's straight to the point. You persist, nonetheless, “I just wanted to talk.”

[“Any reason why you're dressed like you're going to your own funeral?”] Raised brows and slightly parted lips indicate a question, but his face remains as stoic as ever.

“I was told there'd be a sort of job fair here today, but it's pretty fucking obvious to anyone with half a brain that that was a lie as big as the Trojan Horse, now, isn't it?”

[“Rude. I have half a brain.”]

You pause. There's no indication that he's being serious, but there's similarly scant evidence of him joking. You find yourself repeatedly opening and closing your mouth, dumbfounded, until he finally supplies more information.

[“I'm being sarcastic, stupid.”] After this, he shakes his head and waves his hands dismissively. [“What do you want?”] he repeats.

A shrug. You suppose, in a way, even you don't know what you want. You want to do more with yourself. You want someone to lay next to at night. You want to move out of your stupid older brother's house, and you want to stop having to drive your dad's hand-me-down station wagon, complete with fading faux wood dashboard. But, you can't say all that; so, instead, you shrug. You touch your fingertips to your forehead, as if saluting (but with the tips of your fingers actually making contact with the side of your head) before moving your hand. You twist your wrist, so that your hand ends with the palm facing towards Dave, and held roughly level with your face. [“I don't know.”]

[“I can hear you, dumbass, I just don't want to fucking talk.”] Shaking his head, he runs his fingers through his hair. He raps his knuckles against the tabletop, forming a steady beat for several seconds. Then, he stops. [“That's not weird, is it? Who cares if it is? I don't. I couldn't give less of a fuck if it's considered normal. Nothing about anything is normal. Everyone is just wading knee-deep in squealing, wild hogs.”]

You understand none of this obtuse imagery, but you nod, anyways. “Where're you from?”

To your surprise, he responds to this question aloud, “Texas.” His voice is surprisingly deep, but not overly so. There's a definite twang, a drawl to his vowels. It rumbles, perhaps indicative of a smoking habit, and it seems like, if not for its softness, it'd be perfect in the midst of a Wild West film. After saying this, he coughs. He points at you, his expression indicating that he's asking a question. [“What about you?”]

“Alternia. It's a shitty little suburb, up in the north.” You've never really had much pride in your hometown, considering it a dreary, cold place.

[“North like New York? Kentucky? Alaska? Come on, if you're going to try and talk, you've got to actually load ammo into the social interaction gun. Bang. Blow off my fucking head with those facts.”] You swear you see a smirk flash across his face, but you shake the suspicion aside; instead, you convince yourself it was a trick of the oddly dim café lighting.

“North, like Wisconsin.”

[“That sure is up north,”] Dave concedes.

“Well, from someone born on the practical bottom of the country, I'd guess you'd think so, would't you?”

A shrug, followed by silence. Without much fanfare, Dave turns back to his crossword, focusing on the last few spaces he's yet to fill.

Oh, my! Suddenly, your name is Rose Lalonde. You're in the middle of writing up another chapter of your latest wizard-themed work when your phone buzzes. You look down, and find yourself staring at a notification from Kanaya's friend.

With this unpleasant matter settled, you once again lock your cellular device. Placing it face-down on the table, you turn your attentions back to your feverish writing. You're just getting back into your element when another notification comes through. This time, it's on your laptop. You sigh.

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 11:30! --

TG: hey did you stick this loud shouty bastard on me because i sure don't appreciate being helicopter parented by my own sister
TG: like i love you too but lay off on the finding me friends

TT: I'm writing wizard smut, Dave, please leave me alone.

TG: i'll leave you alone when you get karkat shouts a lot off of my ass
TG: this dude is like a shitty rash
TG: he won't go away and he's starting to chafe these sweet little round cheeks of mine
TG: and i say little but these cheeks are dummy thicc

TT: Please never say that to me again.
TT: I'll see what I can do. Now, begone with you.

-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:38! --

Once this is done, and you have temporarily blocked your brother, you send Karkat a message, asking him to double down on the befriending efforts.

Chapter Text

Your name is Dave Strider. Your phone is currently vibrating so much that you're sure it'll be bursting, Alien-style, from your pocket within the next few minutes, and you blame all of it on your sister. Sure, Rose means well, and you're fully aware that she only does what she does because she's concerned about you, but you also have no need for such stupid, mushy things, like “love” or “human companionship”. You have plenty of friends, like John, and Jade, and...

Actually, that's not even the point. The point is that this is very, very stupid, and you hate all of it. You're not seven years old. You can handle yourself. If you wanted to make new friends, you'd just do it yourself. For instance, you'd be at a bar, like you are now. So, check one of the two list items off. You'd also be actively socializing, which you currently are not, so...

That's not the point either!

Backtracking all of these thoughts, since none of them are relevant, you're just about to maybe strike up a conversation with the black-mullet-having guy across the way, when you're once again interrupted by your phone.

It doesn't take you long to make it down the three blocks to Cornerstone. You enter the little hole-in-the-wall strip mall place with absolutely zero fanfare, and you see your target immediately.

He looks, quite frankly, like an absolute nerd. A twink. The nerdiest twink imaginable. He's in an overly starched grey button-down, with the sleeves rolled up to the mid-point of his forearms. When you arrive, his back is to you, but his short stature and wild hair make his identity obvious. He's busy tossing darts, and doing pretty badly, by the looks of it. A good handful of the plastic and metal points are actually buried in the foam around the board, and only one has managed to hit its target. (Notably, it's nowhere even close to the bullseye.)

You order yourself a nice draft, which the lanky, tan-faced young bartender promises will be delivered to your table. With your liquor secured, you continue to the empty dart board, next to Karkat's, and collect your ammunition. As a child, spending most of your time locked in your shitty room, you would pass your time by sometimes throwing darts at a photo of a random guy, which you clipped from a magazine. You later learned that this guy was actually George Bush, but you didn't know that when you clipped the picture. His face was just insanely dart-able to you, so you used it, because that's what you do with dart boards in the movies. You put someone's face on it, and you practice.

By the time he actually notices you, the area around the bullseye is getting crowded.

He approaches you, stepping a bit too far into your personal bubble for you to avoid fidgeting, before speaking. His breath smells like scotch and tobacco, but in his defense, yours smells like cheap beer and tobacco, so that's a moot point. “How're you doing that?”

You look to him and raise your brows. There are no accompanying hand movements, but your expression, alone, is enough to convey your inquiry.

“You're going full fucking Terminator on the dart board. If you keep going, the bullseye, itself, will cease to exist. It'll crumble from its place, and be sucked into the eternal vortex of fucking insanity that is this ugly hardwood floor.” Karkat shakes his head. His arms fold across his chest, and an oddly adorable pout crosses his features.

[“It's pretty fucking easy. You just have to not suck.”] You shrug. When you throw the next dart, it bounces off another, in the dense cluster of bullseyes and near-bullseyes, before falling to the floor. At around this time, your beer arrives. The foam is at the perfect height, and you eagerly slurp this up before it can dissipate. Then, setting the glass aside, you continue, [“I guess I could show you how, if you want.”]

Karkat shrugs. He looks disinterested in what you've said.

You quickly change the topic. [“I mean, I don't have to. We can...”]

“Oh, no, I kind of do want to know how you do this.” There's a sort of rushed confusion in his voice, a tone that you'd expect from someone trying to fix something they've said. He gestures in the vague direction of your dart board, continuing, “I mean, look at whatever the fuck that absolute pile of inhumanly accurate bullshit is. It's pretty cool.”

This causes you to pause. While you like to think that you're the coolest thing, since Godzilla, to grace this earth, you've never actually be told you're cool by another human being. In fact, nothing you've ever done has ever been verbally acknowledged as being anything other than “a waste of time”, “absolute shit”, “pointless”, or “nerdy as fuck”. You find yourself blinking and twirling the dart between your fingers. There's a momentary slip, during which you begin to speak, only for your persistent-probably-because-it-was-never-actually-treated stutter to rear its head. “I... Y-you... Y-you really?” As the heat rises to your cheeks, you shake your head. You revert back to sign language, all while mentally kicking yourself. [“You really think it's cool? It's just throwing pointy shit at a series of circles on the wall. Ain't anything big.”]

“Yeah, but I couldn't hit a bullseye to save my life,” Karkat laughs. It's a strong sound, in the sense that it fills your ears and makes your heart feel as if it's doing tiny somersaults in your chest.

[“Throw a few.”] You pass him the few darts you have left, then take a step back. While you watch him, you work on your beer. By now, the alcohol from before is also working its way into your system. Your usual stoicism is slipping, and your body is warming up. You find yourself humming along to the shitty, trite pop music playing on the bar's stereo system.

Karkat, meanwhile, looks absolutely clueless. He throws without aiming, and often does so in a way that actually puts a football-like spin on the dart.

After the third of the four you'd given him, you intervene. You let forth a sharp whistle, which startles him long enough for you to elaborate. You put the fingers of your right hand to your lips, then move your hand out, at the elbow; during this motion, you twist your wrist, so that your flattened hand ends with the palm facing down. [“Bad.”] That's the nicest way you can possibly address whatever he's trying to do. Sure, he's obviously buzzed, but that's no excuse. You are, too, and you're not throwing darts with the carefree attitude of a clueless toddler. [“Keep going like that, and the only eye you'll be hitting is someone else's. Then, what? Your ass'll be on the way to the nearest courtroom, getting sued so hard you end up in the next century. Step one is to fuckin’ aim, first of all.”]

“I am aiming,” he protests.

You shake your head. You grab him by the wrist, pull him to the spot you'd been standing in when you were throwing, and sigh. [“Throw facing forward or sideways, but pick a place to stand every time. Stay there for every throw. Don't fidget.”]

“Ha! You're on to talk about fidgeting. You could out-fidget anyone, dumbass.”

[“That's not the point. Just try what I'm telling you.”] You find yourself growing frustrated. If he wants your help, he should listen to you, shouldn't he? Enough people already ignore you, and they don't even directly ask for your help. You take the moment spent retrieving the handful of already thrown darts from the board to cool off. When you return, and set aside these darts, you resume the lesson. [“Hold the dart like this.”] You grip the barrel lightly, holding it between your thumb, index, and middle fingers. As always, there's something calming about the tiny bumps of the metal grip. It's a texture you're intimately familiar with, and one you've no shortage of experience with. It takes a great deal of self control for you to not roll it between your fingers, as Karkat takes a minute or so to correctly mimic your grip.

“Okay, Dart Dumbfuck, what next?” he says. You feel as if the way he speaks is odd. You're sure he should sound rude, but there's a friendliness to his voice, instead. It reminds you of how John sometimes teases you, which only serves as another point of confusion. You've known John for years; he's built up to being able to throw out jab after jab. Karkat, though? You barely know him, but he's already comfortable enough to treat you like an old friend. The realization stews in the back of your mind, like the smell that emanates from a forgotten sandwich at the back of a communal fridge.

You shrug. [“I don't fuckin’ know. Just throw a few. Keep your grip loose and don't treat it like you're tossing birdseed, stupid.”] Once you've signed this, you discretely snatch up a loose dart. You bury it in your pocket, along with your hand, which busies itself rubbing over the pleasant texturing of its grip. Your other hand picks up your beer, which you nurse as Karkat tries and fails, time and time again, to actually nail an elusive bullseye.

Obviously, he still sucks. But, his aim is improving. After a few rounds, he even manages to land within the inner few rings of the board. It's enough to draw out a small smile from you, and a congratulatory raising of your nearly empty glass.

This cycle continues for some time, and you've gone through three glasses of fine beer before Karkat suddenly turns to you. “Well, Strider, that was a nice time. Thanks.” He pats you on the shoulder as he passes, and, oddly enough, you don't find the unprompted contact as unpleasant as you usually do. He pays for your drinks, and flattens a $10 bill out on the table upon his return. “If you want to stay later, here's something for that. Thanks for a bit of fun. That fucking stupid show I work for has been shit. This beats going home, drinking alone, and going to bed feeling like someone's put a hatchet through the center of the bony casing that is my skull.” A smile creeps onto his face, and it softens his features. In his eyes, there's a glowing warmth you've never seen before in another person. “I'll catch you around some time, maybe?”

You raise your right hand, so that your fist—with the palm facing out—is roughly level with your shoulder. You bend your wrist, as if knocking on a door, twice. [“Yeah.”] You shrug, then offer the first noncommittal reply you can think of. You hold both hands in front of you, palms up and level with on another, before see-sawing them; your right hand raises up, and your left drops. Your left hand rises, while your right drops. Your expression is best described as furrowed brows, with your lips forming a straight line. [“Maybe.”]

Again, Karkat laughs. “Sure. Whatever you say, dork.” He gathers his things and, as he leaves, he offers you a nonchalant wave.

His back is to you, so you can't respond, but you really, really want to ask him, “How dare you make me feel this fuckin’ weird-ass fluttering in the pit of my inebriated stomach!?”

Chapter Text

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you're currently in the middle of trying to choose the perfect outfit for an upcoming party. It's not exactly the most formal thing, nor is it even a socially important event. Rather, it's little more than a mixer of sorts for authors and artists. It's being hosted by some eccentric but highly successful local painter, known only as WV, at his mansion. It's downtown, in the ritzy part of the historic district, so you feel as if you should dress accordingly. Right now, in the middle of your large walk-in closet, you hold up one of Kanaya's many custom ensembles, made just for you. This one is a suit, with pink accents at the edges of the lapels and the waist. It's modeled after those of the 1920's, but tailored to accent your curves.

“What do you think of this one, dear?” you ask.

Kanaya, from where she's laid herself out on a red pleather bench, peeks over her notebook. “Hm. I very much like that look. It's appealing.”

“What will you be wearing?” Turning around, you take note of the fact that these pants make your butt look nice. Not that this is what you're going for; the only person who needs to know how nice your butt is already knows. Still, it always feels nice to look nice. Or, as Dave would say, ‘When your ass looks happy, you're happy.’

Kanaya, meanwhile, digs into her side of the closet. She pulls forth a dress, also handmade, whose length makes her seem even taller than she already is. The design is based off of the dresses commonly worn by flappers, though the fringe is unique. It's sloped, with a slit near the waist, and rounded edges on either side, which forms an upside-down ‘V’ shape down her right leg. The body of the dress is a deep green, dark enough to seem black, and it's trimmed with lime green. “This!”

You let your hair down, removing your usual headband, before responding, “Oh! I love that one! I haven't seen it in forever. I was starting to think that you didn't have it any more.”

A soft snicker comes from Kanaya. “You know I'd never through this dress out.”

“That is absolutely true, and I rescind my gregarious and preposterous assumption,” you say, your voice incredibly solemn. “If you're wearing that, though, this might now be the best outfit. We should match, after all.”

Once again, you peruse your wardrobe. After changing again, you emerge from behind the curtained off changing area. Now, you're wearing a jacket and long skirt. The jacket is similar to the last, but with green accents, rather than pink. The dark brown pleated skirt, meanwhile, just barely touches the ground. When you move, it tends to gracefully sway, like water; the color matches the buttons on your jacket.

“Might I present the second option?”

Setting aside her notebook, Kanaya stands. She applauds. “Bravo! Gorgeous! You look like the most gorgeous forest nymph in the land.”

You find yourself blushing. It doesn't matter how often your wife compliments you, because every time makes your heart leap like a boundless, sugar-high toddler in a bouncy castle. (Which is, you must admit, an incredibly Dave-esque thing to say.) “I take it that you're pleased with this outfit.”

“Extremely.” Kanaya leans in, and plants a soft kiss on your cheek. “Gorgeous, as always. Why don't we change out of these formal clothes, though?”

“I agree. Let's reserve these garments for the occasion. Might I suggest we change into lighter clothing. Pajamas, perhaps?” You grin and elbow your wife's side. You've been writing all day, and, now, you're just itching for some quality time. And, by ‘quality time’, you're really just making a poorly veiled allusion to cuddles. You are in dire need of some good cuddles, and only Kanaya can provide them.

So, it stands to reason that you're absolutely elated when she responds with a nod.

Both of you change into more comfortable clothes before retiring to the bedroom. You curl up next to your wife, becoming one with your inner little spoon, as she begins to talk about her day.

“I had the most interesting customer today,” she says, as her finger gently traces the outline of your jaw. “She came in, one poorly groomed little poodle under each arm, and just outright demanded I create her dogs custom outfits. She wanted something grand. Something unique.”

“Well, grand and unique are your specialty,” you laugh. “Did you agree?”

“Of course I did! Someone must cover up the horrible grooming job on those poor puppies!” Kanaya is absolutely scandalized. Just her expression, with her brows knitted together, reflects how ugly these dogs' coats must have been. You're almost afraid to imagine what they looked like. Luckily for you, she elaborates, “They looked like ratty little lions. Big, puffy neck ruffles, with a sort of strange hat shaved on top of their heads. It was truly terrible, Rose.”

“Oh, it sounds like it!” you tut. “Perhaps we should watch a movie. It will scrub the awful memories from your mind.”

“That idea sounds lovely.” Kanaya smiles at you, a gesture that melts your heart as much as it did the first time you saw it. “You chose last time. Would it be fair for me to choose this time?”

“Absolutely!”

Kanaya leaps from the bed. Not long afterwards, she returns, clutching an unopened DVD to her chest. It's clear that she really, really wants to watch this movie, so, regardless of what it is, you'll be agreeing. You can't possibly crush such adorable enthusiasm, can you?

“I've been meaning to show this to you for quite a while,” she explains, eagerly peeling the wrinkly plastic from the case, “You friend, Jade, just showed me this movie recently! I bought the remastered edition from Barnes and Noble. Lady and the Tramp is just such a lovely film.”

You smile and nod, unwilling to admit that you've actually already seen the film. In fact, you've watched it a few times. You enjoy it, but it's not your favorite film on the planet. Of course, none of these things will be leaving your lips. You can't bear to quash the joy gushing forth from Kanaya, nor do you want to dampen the shining brilliance of her glee. Instead, you answer with equal enthusiasm, “I'm sold! We'll begin immediately!”

Kanaya pops the film into the player, then scampers back into bed.

You reclaim your spot, curled up at her side. The two of you spend a solid hour and a half watching the movie, giggling and talking like schoolgirls. Your attention isn't on the screen, though. Most of your time is spent watching Kanaya, and taking in her beauty.

As is often the case, you can't help but be enamored with her. How could you have made such a catch!? She's just so... Wow!

When the film is finished, and both of you have had your fill of vintage Disney films, you begin the daily dance of finding out what to eat for dinner. “We could order out,” you suggest. “Dave should be heading home soon, I can ask him to pick us up something.”

“I don't feel like washing many dishes today, do you?”

You shake your head. “Nope! It's take-out, then.”

Kanaya tries to hide her coy smile, but fails miserably. A look, which reminds you of the face Dave makes when he has a very, very bad joke to tell you, crosses her features. “Well, after this movie, I'm thinking about spaghetti. Maybe with meatballs?”

Now that she's mentioned it, you have to agree. The power of suggestion, you suppose. “A spot-on suggestion again, dear!” You pull out your phone and begin to message your trifling brother. For living with you for free, getting you some take-out is the least he could do. “What about Giovanni's? They're still open, and Jake highly recommends it!”

“We both know that Jake is the foremost authority on Italian food,” Kanaya responds, her voice barely concealing a snicker. (She has a point. Jake is Korean-American, so it's always been a bit odd that he considers himself the Italian food aficionado, especially when Jane's mom is actually Italian.) “Oh! If we're getting Giovanni's, could you please ask him to get those hard rolls?”

“You know it, Kanaya!” You're almost offended that she would even remind you. The bread rolls from Giovanni's are the warmest, fluffiest things on the planet; you'd be a fool to forget them. “I'll also get a side order of calamari. We both like that. No doubt Dave will order himself something stupid, like a cheeseburger.”

“From a completely different restaurant, no less,” Kanaya counters.

You laugh, and you keep laughing for a few minutes. She's absolutely right. Dave's a bit of a picky eater, so he'll obviously have to go somewhere else for his dinner. If you're a betting woman, and you are, you'd say that he'll come home with his own Big Mac. (And, on that note, it surprises you that he's as fit as he is, considering his diet. You make a note to check on that later.) “Well, now, you don't just order a cheeseburger from an Italian restaurant.”

“You're not wrong!” Kanaya smiles. She throws her arm over your shoulder and pulls you close to her.

You find yourself breathing in her scent. It's fainter than it used to be, as both your particular aroma has intermingled with hers, but it's still there. You can still smell the pressed flowers and lavender. Her shampoo is still the same unique mix of coconut and vanilla as it always has been. Her warmth is the same as it always has been, and you feel the same comfort when you lay against her as you had on the day you were married.

“Okay!” you announce, having received a text back, “Dave will drop by Giovanni's on the way home. He'll be about twenty minutes.”

“He's a good deliveryman, at least.”

With this, both of you share a laugh.

Chapter Text

 Once again, you are Dave Strider. You’re standing on the side of the road, smoking a cigarette, and listening to the sound of rain hitting the plexiglass overhang of the bus stop. You’re not really waiting for a bus, but you’re not opposed to just hopping onto one and seeing where it takes you. Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?

There’s a hydraulic hiss, which breaks the calm of the dreary day, and it beckons your attention to the bus before you. The vehicle seems to entice you to step on, despite the cluster of people inside.

Not this one, though.

You let this one pass. When the next pulls up, sporting a massive advertisement for the Sloths, your local baseball team, you hop on. As is required, you show your ID, then pay the fare. (As a magical being, your price is two dollars, which is twice the normal rate.) You pay no mind to the flickering sign at the front of the bus, which tells you where you’re going. Instead, you slip on your headphones and turn on your iPod. You let your eyes slide closed...

“Hey, buddy, the route is through. Kid.” A rough hand nudges you awake. A frazzled bus driver, outlined against the late afternoon sun, which streams through the grimy windows of the vehicle, stands before you. “You have to get off the bus.”

You groan.

“I really don’t want to have to call the cops, and I know you don’t want that, either, so get the hell outta here!”

You nod. Rubbing your eyes, you scramble from your seat, and out to the rainy side street.

You realize that you don’t know where you are. You also realize that you’d spent your last few dollars on the bus ride it here.

It’s 3:00, so you suppose you’d be able to catch another ride back home, but that’s assuming you knew where you were.

Clearly, you’ve gotten yourself into a pickle. You’ve become the pickle, actually.

Rose can’t really help at the moment. She’s got a meeting with the publishing company, and you know Kanaya won’t pick you up. Everyone else you know works a normal goddamned job, except for...

He arrives to pick you up at 4:00. He’s wearing little more than what you assume to be his around-the-house clothes: loose, light grey pants; a graphic t-shirt, with the words ‘King of the Krill’ surrounding the image of a whale emblazoned in it; mismatched socks; and a pair of thoroughly soaked slippers. As you clamber into his beaten down old four-door sedan, he berates you, “Who the fuck rides a bus to the end of its route at 3:00 PM, then gets kicked off, only to realize he wasted his last measly two dollars on a pointless trip to bumfucking nowhere!?”

You shrug and point at yourself. [“Me.”]

“Yeah, that’s a fucking obvious statement, Dave. Close the door, already. I don’t need the shitty pleather interior of this rusting, rattling junk heap to get any more disgusting than it already is. The upholstery already begs for the sweet release of death.”

Another shrug. You lean back in the chair. The weight bears down in one spot, and your ass sinks even deeper into the shitty upholstery foam. [“Thanks for picking me up. I’ll pay you back.”]

“Oh, you’re fucking right that you’ll pay me back, Strider.” Karkat pulls the car out of the parking lot you’d met him in. “I’ve never met anyone as nigh stupid as you are. Did you know that? Congratulations, Strider! You’ve won a fucking award. I present you with the Medal of Honor for being an absolute dumbfuck doorknob of a human being.”

The car slows to a stop at the end of a conga line of backed up cars.

“Oh. Oh you are absolutely shitting me right now!” The line stretches as far as you can see, and it seems Karkat decides it's safe to get out and see what's happening.

You don't really think he needs to. The billowing smoke at least a few miles away makes it obvious that you won't be moving for a while.

“I do one good deed, and my entire day is fucked up the ass with a hookshot.”

You quirk your brows. [“A hookshot? Is that a Legend of Zelda reference, or what?”]

“Why would you care?” Karkat covers his face and props his feet up on the dashboard. He adjusts the back of his chair, so that he's nearly laying down, before letting forth a prolonged, pained groan. “Fuck this shit. I'm stuck here, with you, in the middle of a shitty car from the 90's. I hate this.”

You can't help but smirk at the commentary. [“Aren't you the one who asked me out first?”]

“I did, and—” He pauses. It's obvious that he's going to say more, but he decides against it. Instead, shaking his head, he completely changes the topic. “Whatever.”

[“Not ‘whatever’. What were you saying?”]

“Nothing.” He insists. His words are dripping with venom, and you don't dare to push further. As much of an oddball as he is, you're not about to cross Karkat. There's power in him, and you're pretty sure that, out of practice as you are, he'd take you down easily. “Do you ever talk?”

You shrug. You hold your left hand out, flat, in front of you. With your index finger extended, you draw a large, narrow oval in front of you, so that you barely skim your outstretched right palm. [“Sometimes.”]

A scoff and a snort of laughter. “I've heard you say one word.”

Okay. Touché.

You slip your shades off, clip them to your collar, and repeat the sign from before. This time, you squint and shake your head, changing the meaning. [“Rarely.”]

“The truth finally crawls out of the anus of hell!”

[“Are you usually this smug?”]

“Only when it comes to busting obvious lies.”

[“You're the greatest lie buster.”] You smirk. [“Do you want a cookie? A donut? Too bad, because I've got none of that shit.”]

“You make no sense.”

[“I'm not trying to make sense.”]

“You're fucking impossible!” At this point, seeing as the traffic hasn't moved for this long, Karkat clambers from his car, the temperature of which has been slowly dropping, and sits, instead, in on the hood.

You follow suit.

“Oh, so now you're following me?”

[“I don't see anywhere else to go, do you?”] You lower your shades back into place.

Karkat sighs. “Probably not. What the fuck is even happening?”

[“I Googled it. SUV hit a tanker with some oil. Caused a big bang, obviously.”]

“Oh.” Another sigh. He looks over, to you, and seems to closely study your features. “I'm going to make a wild guess and say we'll be here for a while.”

[“Totally.”] You shrug. Folding your hands behind your head, you lean back, making yourself as comfortable as you possibly can on the hood of a shitty old car.

The conversation is clearly dead, so you occupy yourself with staring at the passing clouds. You count how many you see, and consider what they look like. It's not the most engaging activity in the world, but it keeps you satisfied long enough for the chaos ahead to be cleared up. Slowly, the traffic resumes its usual movement, and you and Karkat totter back into the car.

Chapter Text

It should go without saying that playing with fire, even if you’re a person who is technically impervious to their own flames, is dangerous. It’s something that runs the constant risk of burning others, even if you can’t burn yourself, and it’s not to be taken lightly. It’s a power based strongly within your subconscious, a sort of tedious emotional gauge, whose only true inhibition is just how far you want to push it. Which is to say that, if you really wanted to, you could easily burn the entire city down in seconds. You could unleash a tsunami of fire upon the world, and no one would see it coming until it was far, far too late. There’s a reason that magical beings are feared, and it’s a pretty logical one. When a magical being is pushed too far, into a situation they’re unsure of and a state of pure inner chaos, there can be massive, deadly consequences.

Now, that’s never happened to you.

Okay, that’s a lie. This has only happened to you once.

You were thirteen and a half years old, backed into a corner, and at the end of your rope with your not-so-great guardian. (You say “guardian” because you’re not sure if you were even related to the man you were forced to call ‘Bro’ throughout your childhood.) There was a sword against your neck and a thirty-story drop at your back. Overwhelmed and uncertain, your mind went into survival mode. A sphere of fire encapsulated you, scorching your Bro in the process. After that, you were kicked out of your childhood home. Not that that was much of a loss in the first place; in retrospect, it was more of a prison.

None of this is really relevant, anyhow. It’s just a series of jumbled thoughts, which happen to be swimming through your mind as you wake, groggy and confused, on a sofa in a place you don’t recognize.

Your first thought is that you’ve been arrested. It’s happened before. A few times, actually. You’ve been locked up for everything from existing with magical powers to stealing a case of beer. You’re not a sparkling model for well-adjusted members of society. Then again, if you had been arrested, you very much doubt there would be a sofa. In fact, it seems you’re in someone’s house. The walls are lined with abstract art, primarily monochromatic works, and an ornate blanket hangs from the wall farthest from you.

No, this isn’t prison.

You try and remember what happened before this. You remember getting stranded at the end of a bus route, and you texted Karkat for help. You’d gotten into his car, then... The backup!

The last few hours hit you like a frozen fish to the face. You remember how late it was when you’d finally gotten back into town, and how you’d agreed to sleep at his place. What you don’t recall is telling him it was fine to remove your shades.

As you begin fumbling around, looking for your eyewear, you hear a voice. “Awesome. You’re finally awake. I thought you just fucking died on my sofa, and I was about to get pretty damn pissed about that.” Karkat approaches, his attentions split clearly. Half of him is invested in you, the other half is set upon his phone. “If you're looking for your shades, they're over here, by the coffee maker. Don't put them on yet; they're still drying.”

[“From what?”]

“I washed them. Do you realize how fucking gross those things were? I could create an entire cesspool of grease and smudge just from what I scraped off these abominations of fashion.” At the end of this, he says something more, under his breath, clearly under the impression that you won't hear it. “Not that you don't look good in them...” When he moves, the shade he'd been providing dissipates. You're treated to a blindingly bright eyeful of morning light.

[“Thanks.”] Not letting your discomfort show, however, you smirk. [“Really, though, I can't see shit without them. Can I have them back?”]

“I'll bring them over when they're dry, sure.” Karkat wanders off, towards the kitchen. You can hear the soft clank of porcelain against faux granite; presumably, he's making himself some coffee. “John called, by the way. He mentioned something about—”

“FUCK!” a rare verbalization escapes you, and you tangle your fingers in your hair. Now, you remember. You were supposed to meet him to discuss your next performance and come up with some new tricks. Of course, you can't meet him, now. If your watch is right, not only are you an hour late, but you also don't have a car. And, even if you did have a car, it wouldn't be much help. Driving makes you anxious, so speeding isn't something you're prone to doing.

“If you need me to, I can—” begins Karkat.

You shake your head. You hold your hands out, at just below shoulder level, with the palms facing up. When you draw them inwards, you curl your fingers; at the same time, you rotate your wrists, so that the gestures ends with your palms facing the ground. [“I don't want that.”]

“If you're late—”

You repeat yourself. Right now, you're not exactly in the mood for explaining to John why you're late. Aside from his usual spiel, he'll probably urge you to revisit that condescending bitch of a therapist from before, some asshole named Scratch, and you are absolutely not doing that. Not in a million years.

Karkat, however, doesn't seem to be getting the picture. “No, really, it's no fucking problem. If you need to be there, I'm—”

You form a sort of mouth with your hands, flattening your fingers and parting them from your thumbs, as if it's a less than sign, before snapping it shut in front of your lips. [“Shut up.”]

“I—” he begins to protest.

Your current state of ‘being-anxious-due-to-a-common-misunderstanding-and-extraneous-unpredictable-circumstances-ness’ snaps back, before he can get very far. Instinct drives you, and your lack of an actual upbringing shines like the burning of a thousand suns. You react to your frustrations the only way you know how; you lash out. It's something that occurs in the blink of an eye, and it ends with a pained yelp.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude!” Karkat stumbles back, clutching his bloodied nose. Bright red leaks through his fingers, and his brows are furrowed in pain. “What the fuck!? I was just trying to help you, dumbass!”

Panic sets in. Guilt rises from within you, pressing down on your chest and making it hard to properly breathe. You attempt to sign, but the blood on your knuckles drives you to lower your hands, and bury them in your pockets, as if hiding the evidence will take back your actions. “I... I-I didn't... Uh...” you stammer. “I don't... I... I-I didn't...”

“When Rose said that you'd be a pain in the ass to be friends with, she wasn't fucking kidding, was she?” Karkat stumbles back, to the kitchen, and retrieves a handful of paper towels. He holds them to his still-bleeding nose, with a low grumble of pain escaping him as he applies pressure.

You, in the meantime, bite your tongue to prevent yourself from stuttering any further. The taste of iron fills your mouth. When you resume signing, you find yourself instinctively recoiling from the sight of blood. [“I don't know what happened. I'm sorry.”] You repeat the last sign several times. Your fist is clenched, with your fingers pressed against your chest. You move it in large, repeated clockwise circles.

“How do you not know when you deck someone in the fucking face, you thick shit-raker!?”

[“I don't know. You were freaking me out, I'm sorry.”]

“I have to be at work in an hour,” grumbles Karkat, rinsing off his bloodied hand in the sink. “What, did you never learn how to actually function in society, period, or are you just that fucking stupid?”

[“I'm not stupid.”] In spite of your guilt, you stand firm on your statement.

“What do you call punching me in the face, then!?”

[“A mistake.”] You find that you can't meet his gaze any longer. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him approaching you, and it brings another image to your mind. You see his broad shoulders, framed against smoke-hazed light in a shitty penthouse apartment. You recoil, pressing yourself against the nearest wall. You're not sure if you're breathing.

“Huh...” His voice is surprisingly soft. To be honest, if someone pulled this on you, you'd be the first to beat them senseless with only the vaguest hint of hesitation. (Rose, however, would happily beat them up, should it serve as a means to one of her ever-enigmatic ends, but that's not the point.) “Strider,” he says, his voice still soft, like that of what you'd imagine a mother would be like. “What the fuck has happened to you?”

You look up, into a pair of inexplicably open grey eyes, and shrug. Your muscles slowly loosen. [“Sorry.”]

“Yeah, I fucking get that much.” Karkat wanders off again, only to return with a carton of apple juice. He hands it to you, saying, “I don't want to get blood on this, so you put the fucking straw in. Stay here a little longer, if you want to.”

[“I won't be going anywhere any time soon. I can't drive.”] Admittedly, you can drive, but with such ridiculous restrictions that it's a pain in the ass to figure out when it's legal for you to do so. [“I'm sorry.”]

“Quit saying that,” Karkat snaps. “You're fine. This isn't the first time I've gotten my nose broken.”

[“I'm sorry.”] You have nothing more to say. You can't think of anything more to say. [“I'm sorry.”]

“It's...” Karkat pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. He reaches out, gently taking your hands in his free one, and lowers them for you. “You're fine. Obviously, this is all entirely my fault, as it fucking always is, because Karkat Vantas never knows how to stop, and that's the headline for today. Local man never knows when to fucking shut his flapping maw. Just... please stop apologizing.”

You prepare to respond, only to lower your hands. [“I don't know what else I can say.”]

“You don't have to say anything, shit-brain. Look, I have to start getting ready for work, but stay here. You're obviously not in the best place right now, and I'm not having you wandering off and getting nailed by a car getting smeared on my conscience.” By now, it seems the bleeding has stopped. This is only confirmed when Karkat removes the napkin, balling it up in his hand for later disposal. “You have my number. If you need me, text me. I'm...” he pauses, as if to consider what to say next, before continuing, “Honestly, Strider? I'm worried about you. You're not as cool and collected as you want people to think, are you?”

You shrug. [“Probably not.”]

Karkat counters with a snort of laughter. “‘Probably’ my ass. Whatever. That's about as moot of a point as a point can possibly fucking be. I'll be back in a few hours from my shitty part-time gig, okay?”

You nod.

And, he does, too. Then, without another word, he departs, disappearing behind a nearby door, presumably leading to his room.

Now, which is actually a few hours after the events that have just been described, your name is Karkat Vantas. Three hours ago, you left Dave Strider, alone, in your apartment. (Or, rather, in the apartment that you share with your older brother, Kankri. You know, however, that he is out of town for the week, so there's no risk of him crossing paths with Dave.) You're not sure this was the best idea, but it was the only one you had. As such, as you're on your break and halfway through your shift, you open up Pesterchum on your phone. You could send a text, but you find, for whatever reason, the Pesterchum app works more reliably than messenger in this shitty break room.

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 15:04! --

CG: Hey, I don't have much time, because I'm stuck in my stupid retail hell job, but I wanted to let you know that your brother broke my fucking nose.

TT: Oh no. Are you okay?
TT: You know, aside from the broken nose?

CG: The only other casualty was fatally wounded pride.

TT: That's good.

CG: What's your brother's deal, anyhow? Why the fuck was his first reaction to being mildly annoyed punching me in the face?

TT: Well, knowing retail breaks, I can assure you that we don't have time to review the entire story of my brother's life. What I can tell you, in short, is that his upbringing can be best described as rocky. His older brother was extremely abusive, and he was bullied often at school. He only formed friendships online, and he only met them recently, when he finally moved away from Texas, and came to live with me.
TT: You'd have to ask him for the details, but I advise against it. Said details are extremely unpleasant, especially if you have any sort of attachment to Dave.
TT: Speaking of which, where is he?

CG: He's back at my apartment. I figured he wasn't in the best state of mind to be wandering around, unsupervised.

TT: Well, you were right about that! Thank you.

CG: No problem.
CG: One last question.

TT: Yes?

CG: Does he sign because he has a stutter worse than Sollux's lisp?

TT: He denies that this is the reason he doesn't often engage in verbal communication, but you can rest assured that it's the root of his aversion to speaking. He's always had a severe stutter. I assume it came out when he got nervous?

CG: You know, it's kind of creepy how well you can psychoanalyze people.

TT: Guilty as charged.

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 15:34! --

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 18:40! --

TG: hey are you okay dude you said your shift ended at six

CG: My shift was supposed to end at six, but the dumbfuck who takes over after me is running late. Do you want something to eat? You've been stuck in my brother's stupid apartment for hours, now. I feel kind of bad about that. Probably not as bad as you're feeling about breaking my nose, but that's not the point.

TG: jesus fuck i broke it
TG: shit

CG: I'm not pressing charges or anything, so don't go bald worrying about it. What do you want to eat? Second time.

TG: oh uh
TG: i guess i don't know whatever you're picking up

CG: Well, I don't eat cow, so I'm stopping by Chic-Fil-A.

TG: you don't eat cow

CG: Is that a question or a statement, Dave ‘I'm too cool to use punctuation’ Strider?

TG: question

CG: No, I don't eat cow. It's a side effect of being raised in a Hindu household. Not that I really care, since I've distanced myself from all the nitty gritty shit, but I guess that's just what stuck.

TG: oh
TG: i guess i'll just have a sandwich

CG: Okay. I'll bring you that. I'll probably be home around 6:30.

TG: okay cool

-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 19:00! --

Chapter Text

You're Dave Strider, and you're laying on the ground, staring at a featureless white ceiling, when Karkat finally comes home. You've washed the blood off of your knuckles, but you couldn't quite rid yourself of the guilt. You'd even gotten permission to use his shower, but it didn't work. All it did was make you smell like almond and vanilla, as per the Bath and Body Works brand body wash that Karkat keeps. Not that you're going to judge a man by his nontraditional body soap, but...

“I got you a sandwich, and I figured you liked Doctor Pepper.” Karkat drops the food beside you as he passes. The greasy bag crinkles, deflating upon itself as it lands a few inches to the side of your face. “Before you ask, I called Rose. She said you like Doctor Pepper. I'm not putting it on the floor, though, because that's just begging the gods to stain my dumbass brother's stupid beige carpet.”

[“Fair.”] You push yourself into a sitting position and dig into the bag. You begin to eat, with an eagerness that's readily apparent, and listen to Karkat.

“Are you feeling better?”

[“Sure.”] You sign ‘yes’, but you also shrug. The conflicting messages get your point across: you can only assume that what you're feeling can be defined as better than what you had been feeling. You wouldn't know. You don't know. You've always wrestled with your feelings, but you've never learned how to actually understand them. [“I didn't mean to break your nose, you know.”]

“The five-fucking-thousand times you said you were sorry was evidence enough of that, dickwit.” Karkat rolls his eyes. He plops down, into a plush suede armchair, before digging into his own meal, which consists of a twelve pack of nuggets. “And my nose is fine. Like I said, it's not the first time it's been broken. I'm not the smoothest talker, if you haven't noticed.”

[“I've noticed.”] You can't help but smirk.

“Touché. So, now that you've had some time to think, why don't we talk?” As he speaks, he leans his elbows on his knees. He leans forward, towards you, as if to make himself seem more approachable. In reality, it makes you think of all the annoying therapists you've dealt with. “First of all, do you want to keep your mouth shut, or what?”

[“I don't have to talk if I don't want to,”] you respond, defensively.

“Right. But that's not what I was fucking asking, Strider.”

[“Then what were you asking?”]

A soft sigh escapes Karkat's lips. He shrugs and runs the fingers of the hand he isn't eating with through his hair. “You're going to make me say it, aren't you? I'm going to come out being the big bad guy.”

[“Yup.”] You know you're simply signing ‘yes’, but you picture in your head what it would sound like. It would be harsh and biting and every bit as scathing as it should be.

“Fine! I'll fucking say it! You're a stutterer, aren't you? And that's why you don't speak.”

Now, you shrug. [“I feel more comfortable signing. What're we talking about?”]

“We're talking about you, Strider.” Karkat's voice is at once harsh and soft. It's what you'd consider to be the tone of a disappointed parent; it's the tone teachers had with you, when they told you that you had potential, but failed to make the grade. “Just indulge me. I'm curious. Is that why you don't speak?”

[“I don't talk because I don't fuckin’ want to,”] you counter. Deep in your chest, you can feel an ember of anger warming within you. Or, maybe, it's not anger. It's... Thinking about it harder, it seems more like a sort of resentment. It's a bitterness and disdain for everything you know to be true, and a vehement denial of the words coming from Karkat's mouth. [“The quieter I am, the less likely I am to be noticed. The less I'm noticed, the less likely it is that someone will find a reason to be pissed at me.”] The words tumble from your fingers like water from a leak. You don't know why you're revealing these things, only that you are.

“Okay. Well, that's a start.” Karkat pops another chicken nugget into his mouth. After chewing on it, with a thoughtful look etched on his face, he continues, “I don't mind if you stutter. Just so everything is crystal fucking clear, it doesn't bother me.”

At this point, considering the effort he's putting into it, you speak only a few words, but enough to make your feelings apparent. After some effort, you manage to express your feelings, “Thanks, but no.” The last vowel hangs in the air longer than you'd like for it to. You clear your throat and, having finished your sandwich, you lay back down on the floor. You feel the soft beige fabric beneath you, running your fingers idly through its tufts.

Karkat, meanwhile, insists on continuing his impromptu Rose-esque psychobabble session. “You realize you stutter when you sign, too, right?”

You sit upright, brows furrowed. [“I don't.”]

“You just did.” He repeats after you, forming an ‘A’ handshape with his right hand. He put the exposed tip of his thumb beneath his chin, then moves the hand outwards, in a straight line. It's a swift, fluid motion, and he ends it with raised brows, “You went slower, like you were trying to figure out what you were saying.”

Honestly, you hadn't noticed such peculiarities, but you suppose you wouldn't have. You've never considered the way you sign to be indicative of your speech patterns, but, now that you're thinking about it, it makes enough sense. Not that it makes you any happier. [“Okay, so is this a discussion, or are you just going to keep giving me a fuckin’ un-radical beatdown?”]

“I'm not making fun of you, stupid, I'm just pointing something out. This is barely even criticism,” Karkat shoots back. “I'm just saying that you're obviously not the stoic cool kid everyone thinks you are, or that you think everyone thinks you are, and I guess I'm the one who has to point it the fuck out.”

[“Yeah, this is coming across as criticism to me.”] When you respond, you take careful note of your signs. You make every effort to keep them flowing as rapidly as you can, but you have a feeling this has only made it worse. [“I'm not walking around telling you that you shout like you're talking to your half-dead grandma, do I?”]

“The difference here is that I acknowledge that, and I accept it. You, apparently, don't know what the basic-ass definition of ‘acknowledge’ is. You're a dog, chasing its own fucking stumpy, sawed-off tail, and it's getting you absolutely nowhere.” He downs another nugget. “Whatever. Let's change the topic. You're from Texas, right? You told me that, but your accent sure as fuck gives it away. You might as well yee-haw-yeet your dumb ass straight into the desert sunset.”

The tension, which has been building in your muscles, begins to ease. For now, the discussion has wandered out of the danger zone. You allow yourself the luxury of a wry smile. [“Yeah. I'm from Texas, but not the country parts. I was a city kid. I've never even seen a horse in my life. Bro never let me outside of the apartment, unless it was for school or a visit to the emergency room.”]

There's a flash of something on Karkat's face. Distress? Anger? You're not sure, but it's not complimentary. Then again, it's not there long enough for you to even start hazarding guesses at its meaning. “Horses are huge, just so you know. You look at pictures, and you think, ‘Damn, this motherfucker isn't that big, right?’ Then,you meet one in person, and you've got fear diarrhea dripping down your leg, because they're actually pretty fucking huge.”

[“I'll keep that in mind.”]

“My uncle ran a ranch. We'd visit, sometimes, and he'd let us ride the horses. I wasn't any good at it. I fell off those fucking hoofbeasts more times than I can count, but it was fun.” You're not entirely sure what Karkat is trying to get at with all of this. He had said he'd wanted to talk, but, now, it seems like you're just having a friendly discussion. And, when he continues, it only deepens your confusion, “They like sugar, though.”

[“Do you have a point with this story?”]

Karkat shrugs. “Just that horses are huge, and should be mildly feared. I guess I'm just trying to get to know you better.”

[“Why?”]

Another shrug; it seems as if shrugging is the ‘in’ thing today. “Maybe I think you're cute.”

[“Well, that's a lie.”] You roll your eyes, though you know he can't see that, behind your shades. [“Why're you really trying to get to know me?”]

“Because I do think you're cute, dumbass,” Karkat counters, visibly exasperated. “Is it so hard to believe that someone, who is equally as much of a graceless fucking blunder-shit of a human being as you, might find you mildly attractive?” As heat rises to your cheeks and ears, coloring them a rosy pink, he smirks. “You're blushing.”

[“I know.”] You wave your hands dismissively after this. It doesn't mean anything; really, it's just a way for you to try and clear your mind. [“What do you want to know?”]

“I don't know.” Now finished with his meal, Karkat sets aside his empty nugget box. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in the chair, propping his feet atop the accompanying stool. “Why don't we just ask each other things, back and forth? I'll ask you something, and you ask me something. Deal?”

After a brief moment of consideration, you agree, nodding.

“Okay. Well, fuck, I guess I'll start this festival of endless stupidity. How old are you?”

You hold your right hand out, palm facing Karkat, with all but your thumb and index finger curled. You tap your outstretched index finger and thumb together at the tips, twice, before following it by shifting the handshape. You hold up four fingers, with the back of your hand now facing Karkat. [“Twenty-four.”] There's a momentary pause, during which you find yourself studying the way the shadows on his face play off one another. You shake your head. [“You?”]

“Twenty-two. Your turn. Ask a question.”

[“Why do you care so much about me? I mean, it's flattering, but it's kind of weird. People don't usually take much interest in me.”]

At this, Karkat offers a snort of laughter. “Man, you're clueless. Back in college, did you realize that girls were practically tripping over each other trying to date you? Terezi kept me informed. You might remember her.”

[“The name isn't familiar.”] Admittedly, remembering people's names isn't one of your strengths.

“Blind girl in my year. She tried to hang out with you, but seeing as she can't fucking see, it was kind of hard for you and her to get along. She said you had some funny text chats, though.”

Now, you nod. The colloquial light bulb comes on. [“Yeah. I remember her. I don't think girls were really that interested, though. All they ever did was yell at me.”]

A groan. Karkat buries his face in his hands, an act that manages to slightly stifle his laughter. “You really are clueless. You use sign language all the time, you stupid fuck. Everyone assumed you were Deaf. They were genuinely making efforts to be your friend and get into your pants. If you haven't noticed, you're conventionally attractive in almost every way.”

[“Almost?”] You quirk your brows. Honestly, you still doubt what Karkat is saying, but you feel like playing along. At the very least, you want to know what disqualifies you from being wholly attractive on a conventional Western scale.

“Crooked nose. I've got the same problem, probably not helped by your fists.” You feel as if he should be saying this more aggressively, but there's a smile on Karkat's face. “There was a whole fan club for you at college. Mostly girls, but some guys, too. Not that it really matters at this point. Although...”

Your brows raise ever higher. [“Yeah?”]

“How many people have you dated? You can be honest, here. I've dated three people, but I feel like you've probably bounced around the block more times than my infinitesimally minuscule brain could possibly hope to comprehend.”

[“I've never dated. I spent most of my childhood locked in my bedroom, and most of my young adulthood barely passing college while smoking weed and getting drunk.”] You say this as if it's normal; after all, for you, it is. You've known nothing else. And, as is the nature of life, you never will. [“Three is impressive, though.”]

“Only the first part of what you've just said surprises me, and it's actually more disturbing than surprising. Any chance you'd talk about it?”

[“No.”] Your reply is blunt. [“You never answered my question. Why do you care so much?”]

“You're cute. I like you. Looking at you is the polar opposite of wanting to claw my own fucking eyeballs out, Oedipus style. From what I've heard from Terezi, your voice is pretty nice, and I have to very, very grudgingly agree. Do you need me to write you an essay? Double fucking spaced, with footnotes?”

The last of these reasons causes you to freeze. Your mind boggles. You've never thought of your voice as anything more than an embarrassment. Bro could barely stand to hear you speak, and every other time you've dared to voice your thoughts, people cut you off or ignored you before you're done. [“You like my voice?”]

Now, Karkat, too, pauses. He shrugs. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a package of nicotine gum, and pops one in his mouth. “Sure.” He tilts the still-open container towards you, adding, “You want one?”

You shake your head. [“I'd rather smoke a real cigarette, thanks. You're not answering my question.”] You're growing impatient with this. It feels to familiar to how you were often treated at school. People set you up, only to knock you down. You find yourself wringing your hands together; you tap your foot, keeping it going at a steady waltz pace. [“Answer the question.”] It's not a request, nor is it a question; this is a demand.

And it seems that Karkat understands this. He hums, rubbing his chin for a few moments, before surprising you with a genuine reply. “Yeah. Do I really have to explain myself to you in depth? You sound like some sort of wild west cowboy, Strider, and I'm pretty sure I alluded to that not too long ago. In fact, I —”

[“I ain't great at remembering things, really.”]

“Apparently, you also suck at not interrupting. I've fucking noticed both of these things, but they're as obvious as a puss-spewing splinter. As I was saying, I find listening to your voice to be a pleasant experience. Again, must I expunge the entirety of my soul for you, baring it forth on a piss-stained length of toilet paper? It's... Hey, are you okay?”

You pause. You realize that tears are forming in your eyes, but you're an expert at forcing them back down. You blink them away before responding. [“I'm fine. It's just that no one has ever said they liked my voice before. I don't even like my voice. I sound awful.”]

“You sound fine, shitlord.” At this point, it seems that Karkat has realized that this is an argument he can't win. “Look, I just think you're an alright dude, okay? There isn't some sort of dark, ulterior motive. I'll fucking admit that your sister might have hooked me up with you, but that's about it.” He refuses to meet your gaze as he finishes his statement, but you aren't about to dig into this. Right now, you're a bit too busy trying to figure out how to feel. “Is that enough of an answer?”

[“Sure.”] Repulsion and overwhelming relief battle for dominance in your mind. Half of you wants to collapse into the wholly welcome arms of what you recognize as a welcome outlet for the things you've never spoken to another soul. You want to recognize this for what it seems to be, to see Karkat as true friend. (Not that John and Jade aren't your friends, but they know you through your online persona. You've never been wholly honest with John, who still has a very tenuous grasp of sign language, and you've never fully opened up to Jade.) On the other side of the proverbial coin, you know he's hiding something. You'll be the first to admit that you're not the best at gauging emotions, but you know he's not being truthful.

Still... [“Your turn.”]

Karkat shrugs. He rolls his shoulders, rises to his feet, and wanders over to the kitchen, where he begins to wash the few dishes in the sink. “It's getting late, at least for me, and I have an opening shift tomorrow. As riveting as all this heart-to-thinly-veiled heart, I have to start wrapping all this flowery prose up. Do you want to stay overnight? I can drive you back to your place, if you want.”

The compassionate side of you wins out. You also don't want to make Karkat drive across town to drop you back off at Rose's apartment. [“If you don't mind, that sounds nice.”]

“Awesome.” He pauses, gesturing towards one of the doors, against the northeastern wall as he continues, “There's a guest room, by the way. You can sleep there.”

[“I'm fine on the sofa. Thanks.”]

“No problem. I'll see you around, then.” With this said, Karkat departs, offering an offhanded wave.

And you, still stewing in an inexplicable but veritable clusterfuck of emotions, offer little more than a nod.

Chapter Text

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and your wife is currently out of town. She left this morning, as she had to attend to fashion-related business elsewhere. This ‘elsewhere’ just so happens to be New York City, which isn't exactly too far from where you live, but it's far enough away for you to not exactly want to follow her. You've been to the city enough times for now; you don't feel a need to go again now, nor do you want to return any time soon.

Right now, however, your concerns are solidly stuck on two things: the first is your brother; and the second is your current plan to have him befriend Kanaya's long-time friend, Karkat. He's only just returned from his stay at Karkat's apartment (or, rather, Karkat's brother's apartment, as you've been informed). You have a glass of still-steaming hot chocolate ready for him, and a nice cup of tea for you.

Naturally, he's suspicious. When he enters the room and removes his shades, allowing them to rest atop his head, he narrows his eyes and furrows his brows. His mouth hangs slightly open, indicating that he's asking a question. [“Why've you done all of this?”]

“Can't I just be concerned about my little brother?” you counter, doing your best to look innocent.

Dave is too in tune with your tricks to fall for this, though. This doesn't surprise you. [“No, you can't. You're Rose fuckin’ Lalonde. There's not a single bone in your body that gives a fuck about me without some sort of other motive. Or, if there is, it's super tiny, like the bones in your ears.”]

“Okay, now, no need to be presumptuously rude, David. I do care about you, it just so happens that today's concern is spurned by your recent absence from my home.” You take a sip of your tea, partially to cover the smirk threatening to appear on your face. “How did you like staying with Karkat? Is he nice?”

[“He's nice enough.”] After plopping down, into the chair across the table from you, Dave begins chugging his beverage. The heat of it doesn't bother him. [“Did you know that a lot of girls were trying to hit on me in college?”]

You can't hold your laughter in, now. A graceless snort escapes you, and you nearly choke on your tea. “Dear brother, Jade tried to hit on you, and you were entirely clueless. You were a coveted man-trophy among the attendees of our college.”

He scoffs, but there's a hint of acknowledgement beneath his otherwise skeptical glare. [“Okay. Maybe. He also said he liked my voice.”]

“Really?” You're surprised at this revelation. You're genuinely surprised, as terrible as that may seem. You certainly love your brother, seeing as he's your goddamned brother, and he's never given you reason to hate him. But even you have your limit; your patience doesn't stand a chance against his stuttering. As the saying goes, though, different strokes for different folks. “He said that?”

[“See? Even you don't believe that load of bullshit. I'd believe that a clam created a fuckin nuke all by itself before I'll believe that shit.”]

“No, it's not that I don't believe it,” you backtrack, “It's just surprising. To be fair, Dave, I think we can both acknowledge that you aren't the most eloquent person on the planet, at least not out loud.”

[“We don't need to keep rehashing this shit, you know.”]

“Sorry.” You fall silent and stare into your tea. Running out of things to say is a rarity for you, but you find yourself at a loss, right now. It takes you a few moments to regain your composure and your footing in the discussion. “So, you enjoyed his company?”

He shrugs. He holds his right hand, palm facing to the left, level with his forehead, but far to the right; the fingers are splayed. As he moves it to the left, he curls his fingers into a fist. [“I guess?”] A second shrug punctuates this. [“He seemed like a nice guy. I hated it.”]

“Why?”

[“I don't fuckin’ know, Rose. I don't understand everything in the universe and the reason for life. I just don't like how easily he gets me to talk about myself. No one needs to know the shit I've been through. Not even I want to know all the bullshit I've waded through.”] Dave groans. He shakes his head, sets aside his now-finished hot chocolate, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. At once, he waves his hands dismissively, and stumbles to his feet. [“I don't want to talk about it.”]

“Well, if you want to, remember that I'm here to listen.” You smile reassuringly.

Dave, much as you expect him to, ignores your offering. [“I don't want to talk about it,”] he repeats. [“I'm going to my room. Don't bother me.”]

“Understood,” you say, nodding. “I will allow you to bother me, then, when you're ready.”

A bitter snort of laughter introduces Dave's final words on the topic. [“I don't want to talk, and I sure as fuck won't say anything to you, Rose. Thanks for the help, but I don't want it.”] With this, he turns on his heel and marches off. When he gets to his room, he slams the door shut; shortly afterwards, you hear him shoving the dresser in front of the door.

-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering gardenGnostic [GG] at 11:21! --

TG: hey wassup you free right now
TG: i mean i get if you ain't free right now that's totally cool i guess i just wanted to talk
TG: and by talk i don't fuckin mean to rose

GG: oh! :D
GG: long time no see, dave!
GG: and we both know that you never talk to rose about your problems anyhow you usually just come to talk to me.
GG: i'd say it's weird you don't talk to john, but we both know he's not the best at that stuff. ;)

TG: haha
TG: yeah

GG: so, what's up? :o

TG: i dunno
TG: hey did you ever happen to have a crush on me or something

GG: oh! yeah! totally!
GG: but a lot of girls did, back in college. hehe! guess you finally caught on. i don't have a crush on you any more, though.
GG: not that you're not still super cool, i've just moved on. :)

TG: well at least we're all being honest in this square dance right
TG: so i guess that's confirmed
TG: hey do you know karkat

GG: vantas?

TG: bingo bongo

GG: haha. yup! we were kind of friends in college.
GG: hm. maybe not... friends. :/
GG: acquaintances?
GG: either way, i knew him. we don't talk that much anymore, but i have interacted with him. he's a pretty nice guy. why? :o

TG: no real reason guess i'm just curious
TG: sort of see the dead bird poke the dead bird with a stick kinda situation
TG: that probably wasn't the best analogy
TG: it's more like he's kinda been around me lately and i'm curious
TG: it's exactly that actually but that's too straightforward of a way for me to say it that way
TG: so let's pretend i didn't

GG: won't say a thing, davey! ;)
GG: but, yeah, like i was saying, karkat's a nice guy! he's super cool and understanding. he's just a little loud.
GG: we had sign language class together. he'd help me study sometimes. he seemed to be really interested in learning it, but i don't know why. :/
GG: i asked him once and he said he knew someone who used it a lot, and he wanted to understand them better. i don't know about you, but i think that's really sweet!
GG: he hung out with terezi a lot, too. he had a unique and diverse crowd.

TG: wait what did you say

GG: he had a diverse friend group? you can scroll up, you know. :p

TG: thanks for the fuckin news flash jade
TG: i mean he said he knew someone who used sign language a lot

GG: oh you mean you think it might've been you!? :o
GG: why's that?

TG: i mean lately he's been hanging around me like the high school kids bumming it up outside of the liquor store waiting for some morally lacking legal adult to buy them booze
TG: and i think he's been hitting on me

GG: oh! :o
GG: care to elaborate? ;D

TG: he's just been nice i guess
TG: maybe i just don't know what people being nice to me is like
TG: and he complimented my voice like what the literal fuck

GG: i mean... you do have that cool cowboy accent going on...

TG: oh sweet baby jesus on a tortilla not you too

GG: sorry! :o

TG: it's fine
TG: i guess i'm just confused is all does that make sense
TG: like i don't fuckin know what to do with this sudden flood of affection coming my way
TG: i'm up one-way-crush creek with no paddle here

GG: you do know you've shot down plenty of one way crushes before, right? haha!
GG: remember brittany? when she tried to ask her out, you told her that you “don't like froyo all that much” and that you “probably wouldn't go with her” to sweet frog.

TG: well first of all sweet frog is creepy as fuck
TG: those dead eyed amphibians all up in my business while i try to eat my sad imitation of the godly gift that is ice cream
TG: no fuckin thanks
TG: secondly i didn't *know* that she had a crush on me
TG: but i *know* karkat has a crush on me because he's fuckin said so
TG: straight from the hopeless horse's mouth

GG: hm.
GG: well i would just say to let him down gently. but, really, he might just want to be your friend.
GG: actually i'd say you should try and be his friend first. :)
GG: i've got to go soon, though. my break at the greenhouse is almost over! but we'll talk again soon, okay? <3

TG: oh okay
TG: promise

GG: double pinkie promise! :D
GG: catch you around later, coolkid!

-- gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:07! --

Chapter Text

You, Dave Strider, stand before the mirror in your room. You've cleared away the myriad of old notes and Polaroid photos hiding the image of your own face. Now, you stare at yourself, with your shades clipped to your collar, and grind your knuckles against the hard faux wood of the hall tree opposite the foot of your bed, against the eastern wall of your room.

“What are you so afraid of?” you ask yourself, not aloud, but in the safety of your own mind. “Why do you care so much about what he thinks?”

You pause. You raise your hands, signing to no one but yourself, in an attempt to understand what you're feeling. It's a trick that Rose taught you, and it's one of the few tips you utilize. (Not that you'd ever let her know.) [“I don't know.”] Another pause. You chew on your lip. [“I don't want him to know.”]

“About what?” you goad yourself, forcing your mind to try and find answers.

[“The only person I've ever loved was John, and we know where that got me.”] You've still yet to live down the beating that you got after Bro found out you had a crush on your internet friend. Even after death, he haunts you. Your memory has never been the same; your stutter worsened considerably. All the potential your elementary school teachers had gushed about dissolved. You know, deep down, that you will never be the same person you were.

Yet, your mind rejects your own reasoning; you force it to. “Bro is dead.”

[“But I'm still afraid.”] You shake your head.

You're talking to yourself. Where is this getting you? Where will this get you?

“What more is there to lose?”

You stand still, aside from your fidgeting hands, and close your eyes. A deep breath in. A long sigh. [“Betrayal. Rejection. What the fuck shouldn't I be afraid of!?”] Again, you shake your head. This is pointless. You're pacing in circles, digging yourself into a rut. [“I'm afraid of everything. I'm a fuckin’ coward. There, I said it! Why don't I just walk down the street, spouting it off to every random fucker I pass by?”] At this point, you ram your fist into small padded section of wall, placed there specifically by Rose, just for this purpose. (One broken mirror, and the endeavor of picking glass from your knuckles was enough for her.)

You look at the clock on your bedside table. It's just a bit past noon, and it's been three days since you've last so much as spoken to Karkat. He's sent you messages, practically pleading to know that you're okay, and you've ignored them. Now, you find yourself reconsidering.

“What more is there to lose?” you repeat, to yourself.

Something deep within you—a need for companionship, that you refuse to acknowledge—drives you. Throwing on a shitty old sweatshirt, still replete with all the hand-repaired sword slash marks and half-washed-out bloodstains, and some jeans, you wander out. You pass Rose, who is chatting with Kanaya, and refuse to respond to her inquiries. Instead, you slip on your headphones and turn up your music, blasting whatever shitty rock song comes up.

You walk out of the apartment building, down the street, and to the nearest bus stop.

When he opens his apartment door, he greets with a mixture of anger and relief. “What the literal fuck, Strider?” he berates. “You can't just... Seriously. You can't just show up to my apartment unannounced. This isn't even my apartment. This place belongs to my stupid, shitty brother. And he's back, now, and you bet your sweet ass that Lady Luck is absolutely head-over-heels for you, because he isn't the one opening this fucking door.”

You huff.

Karkat sighs. He steps into the hallway, carefully closing the door behind himself. When he continues, his voice is softer, as if he sees the turmoil within you, that even you don't want to recognize. “He's napping on the couch. Why don't we take a walk?”

You nod.

“Give me a minute, then.” He steps back into the apartment. After a few moments, he reemerges, now wearing the denim jacket from before. He runs his fingers through his hair, grumbling words you don't care to understand under his breath. “Why're you here, Strider? After all of the shit you've dragged me through, face-down, might I fucking add, so that I've got your douchey mud clogging my mouth, why?”

You shrug. Digging your hands out from your pockets, you respond, [“I don't know. I guess I just wanted to talk.”] You punctuate this with a growl of pain. You massage your temples, doing your best to ignore the rising headache. It's not bad, today. It's not as bad as it could be, and you have medication in your pocket, as you always do. [“I'm sorry.”]

“You've been giving me heartburn with your lack of social input. You fucking better be sorry, dumbass!” Having said this, Karkat shakes his head. He buries his own hands in his pockets. When the two of you step outside of the complex, into the cold, he shivers.

You offer him your scarf.

He turns it down, although he offers you a small smile, as if to say, ‘I'm not doing this because I'm pissed at you.’ Before he continues speaking, he pops a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth. “I'm trying to quit,” he explains, as if he knows you don't want to talk about yourself and your problems. “I've smoked for years. I started when I was eighteen, because I thought it was cool. It's not, fucking obviously. It's about as cool as rotting your own lungs out with toxic smoke can be, I guess. It's not like I'm having any health problems yet, but I want to avoid them in the future, you know? You only get one life.”

With your right hand flattened and the fingers pressed against one another, you tap your fingers to the side of your forehead. [“I know.”] And you do know. You suppose, after however many strifes with Bro, you know better than some the tenuous nature of life. [“I still smoke, but that's because I'm a fuckin’ idiot, straight from the birth canal of stupidity, itself. I won't smoke around you, though. If you're trying to quit, I'll jive with that.”]

“Thanks.” To your surprise, Karkat smiles. It's a gentle expression, and it sends a tingle down your spine. It sparks a warmth in your belly, which seems to worm its way outwards, until it settles at your fingertips. “Hey, maybe we can try and kick the habit together?”

[“That sounds nice.”] You, too, can't help but flash a smile. [“Do you mind if we sit down? I've got a headache.”]

“No fucking problem.” Karkat stops at the next bench you pass, which happens to be a few paces into a nearby dog park. Probably because of the cold, overcast weather, not many people are here. Not that it matters how many people are in the park, because, as far as your brain is concerned, the world has whittled itself down to just you and him. “You need some medicine? I have some at my place.”

You shake your head. [“I'm fine, thanks.”] You pull your trusty Advil bottle from your pocket and down one, refusing the small bottle of water that Karkat attempts to hand you. When you've put your medicine back into your pocket, you elaborate, [“It's from an old head injury.”]

“Oh. Shit.” Karkat pauses, worrying his lip for a few moments. Eventually, he musters up a more substantial reply, “Sorry. Didn't know that. If it helps, I never would've guessed.”

[“Thanks. It's not really a problem, now. Just memory issues and headaches.”] You keep its effect on your speech to yourself. [“Sorry for just showing the fuck up at your apartment. That was probably pretty rude, wasn't it?”]

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “Just a little bit.”

[“I guess I just needed to talk.”] You tap your fingers against the wood of the bench. One, two, three. Two, two, three. Three, two, three. [“You said your brother is back?”]

“Yeah.” Karkat grimaces. “I don’t really like him, but he provides me with free housing, so I have to put up with all his antics. Why?”

[“I don’t really feel like going home, honestly.”]

“Well, if you don’t fucking mind, you can stay in my room tonight. I have one of those dumb pull-out beds under my bed. You’ll technically be on the floor, but if that doesn’t bother you, then I’m okay with it.”

You consider the option. It seems there’s few downsides. You’ve slept worse places than the floor of some mid-tier apartment. [“That sounds nice, actually.”] You try to smile, but you have a feeling it comes off as a grimace. [“Why don’t you like your brother?”]

“He’s just a fucking preachy moron, really. He thinks he’s better than everyone, like he’s the enlightened goddamned monk speaking to the illiterate masses. It gets really old really fast.”

You nod. [“I didn’t like my brother, either.”]

“Guess that’s something we have in common, then. Why not?”

[“Plenty of reasons. Throwing me down the stairs was probably the worst offense.”] This is normal to you, and you describe it as such. There’s no fanfare, no emphasis.

Karkat, however, reacts with sputtering horror. “He did WHAT!? Dude, what the literal fuck? Tell me he’s in prison, now.”

[“Nah. He died a while back. Got hit by a car. Instant kill. I saw it happen out the apartment window.”] You can see the horror growing on Karkat’s face, and you put a swift end to it. [“Don’t mention it to anyone, please. And I don’t need help. At least, not now.”]

His agape mouth slowly shuts, and he nods. “Okay. Well, that’s one fucking monster of a bomb to just casually drop in conversation, but I guess I’ll wipe it from my memory...”

[“I appreciate that.”]

“Well, you’re the one who fucking requested it, so I’d assume you would.” Karkat punctuates this by rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes wander around, refusing to settle on you. “Do you have everything you need to stay overnight? I can drive back to your place and pick up clothes and that sort of necessary shit.”

[“I’m fine.”] Okay, so you don’t have extra clothes. Or a toothbrush. Or your medication. Or your phone charger, but none of these thing are really essential, are they? Of course they aren’t. [“You don’t have an iPhone, do you?”]

“Oh, fuck no! I have an Android. You think I’m shelling out that much money for a slightly prettier plastic thing? My brother also has an Android, so if you’re implying that you need a charger—”

You interrupt him, with a sheepish smile. [“I need a charger.”]

He responds with a loud sigh. “Okay. Fine. Once you’re not clawing at your head, we’ll walk ourselves up to the shitty little corner market up the street. They’ve got cheap ass chargers and all that neat crap. At least tell me you have your own money.”

[“I’ve got that much.”] You punctuate this statement with an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Karkat reciprocates.

Back at his brother's apartment, having acquired a charging cable and some shitty knock-off Bugles, you're smuggled inside like contraband. Karkat hurries you along, pushing you until you're in his room. It's a relatively small space, just a tad larger than the room you grew up in, but it's far homier. The bed is covered with a large blanket, around the edges of which are lovingly embroidered, tiny renditions of Vishnu. A lone, faded crab plush sits at the head of the bed, and the walls are plastered with old photos and posters. If you can say one thing about Karkat from it's room, it's that he's sentimental. If you could say a second, it's that he might want to take up scrapbooking.

“Welcome to my place. Don't touch the quilt, and keep your hands off of my stuff, and we should get along fine.” He speaks in a hushed tone, though that really comes across as what most would consider a normal volume. “Do you want to maybe do something?”

[“Like what?”]

“I don't fucking know.” There's a pause, during which Karkat's eyes scan the room, seeming to search for something to engage his guest with. After a few moments, he seems to settle on an option. “I have movies.”

[“What sort of movies?”]

“Fuck.” He digs into a haphazard pile of DVD cases, tossing some aside without mentioning them, but calling out what you can only assume to be his favorites. “We've got Princess Bride, Titanic, Across the Universe...”

[“All of these sound fuckin’ terrible.”] You can't help but smirk. Everything he's named so far has been a romance, and you've seen enough of those with Rose. [“Do you have any action films?”]

A short snarl of indignation precedes Karkat's response. “I guess I could steal some from Cronus. Do you have a film in mind, dumbass, or is this an allusion to the fact that you have no fucking idea what you actually want to waste a few hours watching?”

[“Baby Driver is supposed to be really good.”] This is a lie. You've only heard of the film in passing; you've never heard someone speak their opinion of it aloud. Still, it's the only movie that pops into your mind, and you figure it's best to at least look somewhat prepared.

“Yeah. Cronus has that. I'll go get it, steal some food from the fridge, and we'll watch that. No deep emotional fracking happening here. Sound fine with you, your fucking pain-in-the-ass highness?” Before rising to his feet, Karkat takes a moment to restack his films. Or, maybe, ‘restack’ isn't the right word. Rather, he sort of piles them back into a more controlled heap.

You, meanwhile, consider the offer. There's really not much to consider, seeing as it's exactly what you were hoping for. A mindless distraction from everything that's been going on sounds perfect to you. [“Sounds awesome.”]

“Great. Give me twenty minutes, okay?”

You nod and settle into a nearby, half-deflated beanbag chair.

Chapter Text

Your name is Dave Strider and, when you wake, you find that it's still dark outside. You're on the floor of Karkat's room, and you can hear what you're fairly certain is the sound of some very, very rough early morning sex in the room next door. According to Karkat, said room belongs to his brother, Kankri, and his soon-to-be-fiancé, Cronus. This fact only makes your suspicions all the more realistic; not that you really want to think about it.

You peer up, to Karkat, and find that he's still asleep. The digital clock on his bedside table flashes, illuminating his face in a soft red glow, and telling you that the time is currently 6:30.

Thinking back, the last time you were up this early, and drugs or caffeine weren't involved, was when you were in middle school.

The world is quiet and cold. There's a draft, which seems to originate from a tiny crack in the caulking around the window on the wall you just so happen to have fallen asleep leaning against. It's enough to literally make you shiver. You roll yourself tighter into your blanket burrito. At the same time, you take a moment to study the throw blanket you've wrapped yourself in. The border is decorated with intricate patterns and arabesques. The center is occupied by a character you've been informed represents “om”. It's remarkably soft; you almost feel guilty being on the floor with it. Then again, you won't exactly leap into bed with a man you're not sure you even like. Or, you suppose you do like him, it's just that the extent to which your feelings might go happens to be up in the air.

As stealthily as possible, you sit up. You look around, wrap the blanket around you, like an oversized scarf or shawl, and rise to your feet. Your attempts at being quiet are ultimately thwarted by a bit of depth confusion. As you stand, you manage to bump into a small platform, which tenuously extends the depth of the windowsill. The array of carefully posed action figures scatter.

It seems as if the sound wasn't loud enough to bother the occupants of the room next door, but it's certainly enough to wake Karkat. He sits up, with a loud yelp, and glares at you. “Jesus fucking Christ! Do you know how long it took me to get all of those tiny plastic fuckers into their poses? Center of gravity is a bitch, and she hates my ass with a burning passion.” He rubs his eyes, still crusted with the customary dusting of residue. “Why are you even awake right now? Who the fuck is awake at 6:30?”

[“I guess that would be me.”] You know you're blushing; you can feel the heat, as it stings your cheeks and creeps to the tips of your ears. [“Sorry.”] It seems as if you've been using this sign a lot lately. [“You're free to go back to sleep, you know.”]

“Of fucking course I'm free to go back to sleep. What the fuck is your head filled with, Strider? My best guess is the thickest, most disgusting, unpalatable excuse for Jell-O on the planet.” Before continuing, Karkat gestures vaguely around himself, as if to draw attention to his otherwise unassuming surroundings. “This is where I fucking live, you know. Again, I reiterate that I can do whatever I fucking please.”

With the fingers splayed, forming a five, you hold up your right hand. The palm faces to the left, and it's held level with your chest. In a single, swift moment, you touch the thumb to your chest. [“Fine.”] It might also be ‘cool’, but you're intending for it to be taken as ‘fine’, hopefully with a hint of snark. [“I get it. Dave Strider is a hopeless little idiot, we can all laugh it the fuck up about that shit. The greatest joke in the world, right?”]

There's a pause. Karkat seems to mull your statement over, but you're unsure if he gets what you're trying to throw down.

Sure, you could just come out and say, upfront, that jokes at the expense of your intelligence bother you, but that's just not in your nature. No, your nature is to dance around the bush and refuse to so much as raise a hand to actually beat it.

Whatever the case is, if he understood you or not, seems to be a moot point. Karkat ultimately shrugs, lays back down in bed, and rolls over.

And, left to your own devices, you quietly gather your things and sneak out of the apartment. You don't pass anyone on the way out, and you can only assume that the unflatteringly loud lovebirds have fallen back to sleep, just like Karkat.

The apartment building is, as you find when you exit, located on the edge of town. It's in one of those strange areas, where the land division is broken up in such a stupendously disingenuous way that you have office buildings wedged awkwardly between residential units. This is bad for city planners, but good for you; it means you only have to walk a few blocks before your phone notifies you that you've arrived at a small coffee joint.

It's not Starbucks. In fact, it's not any of the major coffee chains. (Not that you would know of any coffee chain besides Starbucks.) For one thing, the place is called Caffeine Creations. And, to hammer home its individuality, it has a more eccentric atmosphere. The interior is your usual palette of dark browns; warm, muted reds; and beige that you'd expect from a coffee shop, but the furniture is... Well... Let's just say that the finest day of the shitty plastic reproduction of The Discus Thrower was the day before it was made.

The minute you enter, you're greeted by a scowling older man. He looks about as eager to serve his clientele as any other person would be to get an ice pick in the face. As you approach the counter, he rubs large, hairy hands over the massive bald spot atop his head. Nonetheless, he seems to reluctantly indulge your need for overpriced coffee. “Welcome to Caffeine Creations,” he says, in a voice dripping with a Chicago accent and wrapped in a blanket of apathy. This, you realize, is the voice of someone who absolutely hates their job. (And you don't blame him. Who wants to be awake at this hour, serving drinks to the few passerby who happen to also be required to be awake this early?)

You've already skimmed the menu, which is already helpfully broken down into numbered items. Your best bet is number seven, which is little more than coffee with vanilla creamer, some chocolate flavoring, and a topping of whipped cream. A half-assed wave serves as your introduction, and you simply hold up seven fingers.

The dissatisfied barista nods, and returns a few minutes later with your drink. He's incredibly skimpy on the whipped cream, and, by smell alone, you can tell that he hasn't added anywhere near the “five delectable dollops of cocoa flavoring”. You don't complain.

You pay for your drink and settle into a far corner table. For a while, you sip at your coffee and play on your phone.

After maybe fifteen minutes, with half your coffee gone, and your need for nicotine reaching critical levels, you look around. Emblazoned upon a tile, affixed to the wall in your corner, is a statement that brings you great pleasure: Smoking allowed. You dig out a bent, loose cigarette from your jacket pocket. Half the tobacco has been squeezed out; when you put your hand into the pocket, you can feel it, like scraps of crushed sandpaper, rolling around. Alas, you're desperate.

In fact, you're so desperate that you stick the cigarette into your mouth and forget to use a lighter, as most people do. Instead, you snap your fingers, forming a flame.

Less than a minute later, you're being hoisted from your seat by the back of your jacket.

“We don't play with that shit in here,” snaps the barista. He drags you to the door and shoves you roughly out of the building.

As shitty as the entire affair is, you suppose you have a few bright spots. He's at least allowed you to take what was left of your coffee, and he doesn't know your name. On the flip side of the latter silver lining is the fact that few people happen to use sign language and wear shades indoors all the time.

But, you suppose what's happened has happened. An icy breeze sweeps down the street, causing you to involuntarily pull your jacket closer to your body. You close your eyes, breathe deeply, and use your powers to draw in heat. You take it from places it won't be noticed: your coffee, for instance, or the steaming puddle of contaminated water in the street. Doing this is easy to you. It's one of the first applications your had for your powers, and you used it often, especially when Bro refused to change the thermostat. With your eyes closed, you can sense nearby heat, as if it's a strong scent. You pull it in, towards yourself, and allow it to settle in your core, before naturally redistributing itself.

Then, with another deep breath, you continue down the road.

You're not exactly sure where you are, but you're also not a troglodyte. You have a smart phone, and you use it.

The GPS leads you to the nearest bus stop. As you wait to be picked up, you send a text to John, asking him for his availability, but you know it's too early for him to answer you.

So, you occupy yourself with ideas for new tricks. The ones you've been using are getting old. People have seen the juggling routine plenty of times, and it's far harder to get a rise out of the audience. You could always add more fireballs, but that would be pushing the limits of just how safe the whole act would be. It would require far more attention than you can muster, for various reasons. In fact, you're pretty sure most people would find adding to the current routine's rigor to be pushing it.

John can easily add to his repertoire. Aside from his own magic, he also happens to be a dorky master of what you call “Magic, but fake”, also known as illusions. You, however, need time. You need to be able to practice the trick, often many times, and fully learn every detail. What you do now, all the juggling and fireball trickery, is based on a set routine, that you've learned backwards and forwards.

From your pocket, you draw a small spiral notebook. You begin to jot down a few ideas, though they seem dumb. Perhaps you're a one trick pony. You can juggle fireballs, but that's about it. And, really? Honestly!? Juggling fireballs isn't a highly sought after skill, nor is it impressive on a resumé.

- fire holograms, make fire look like random shit i'm sure people will love that.
- cooking stuff with my bare fuckin' hands? actually no this this is a really stupid idea don't do this dave.
- the old burning man trick is great for parties. nothing says “i'm fun and entertaining” like lighting yourself on fire.
- give everyone in the crowd coffee then break their stupid little hearts by making all the coffee cold.
- collab with john for smoke tricks. vape stunts hard mode.

As the bus approaches, you take one last look at your little list of ideas. Honestly, only the first and last ones seem viable to you. Then again, you're not as in tune with the crowd as John. He'll know what will work better than you do, so you'll be taking these ideas to him. Aside from that, you are a two-person performance. It would be rather shitty of you to just suddenly start pulling new, dangerous tricks without even mentioning them to him.

Chapter Text

“Suppose, for a moment, the following scenario. You have someone with an Amazon Alexa device, and you have a very wide custom-printed imitation Pringles can. You wrap the Pringles can around the Alexa, and then play music through it. No one will understand where the music is coming from, and, regardless of if they figure out, they still won't know why this strange looking Pringles can is emitting music.” You, Rose Lalonde, say this as you lounge on your bed. You're laying sideways, so that your legs hang over the side, and your wife, Kanaya, is sitting in an armchair nearby, nodding slowly.

“I see,” she says. “And what, exactly, would the point of this ruse be?”

“Nothing but general tomfoolery, I suppose.” You shrug. Honestly, you believe this is a great prank. It's subtle, not like John's often heavy-handed slapstick style gags, and distinct from Dave's more ‘ironic’ sense of a joke. “Do they make ultra thin Alexa devices? Perhaps a Google assistant...?” You pull out your phone and begin to search these inquiries.

Kanaya, meanwhile, offers you a wry smile. While she is a fun and wonderful woman, she's never quite grasped the appeal of pranks. If Kanaya must be funny, she will do so in her own way, which just so happens to be her dry wit. “And who might the victim of this plan be?”

“Try and guess.”

She laughs, and you savor the moment. “Ah, what has your dumbass brother done this time?”

“Existed. Is that not enough of an excuse to take pleasure in watching him flounder around and poke at a fake Pringles can?” Again, you shrug. “If you must know, he is making my plan to get him hooked up with Karkat incredibly hard.”

“While I agree that they would be a wonderful couple, what is your interest in this pairing?” Apparently deeming the conversation more interesting than her book, Kanaya sets aside what she had been reading. She marks her spot with a spare bit of scrap fabric. “I just wish to understand your reasoning.”

“Well, if they get married, they would ultimately not fit in this apartment, with us, together. Therefore, we'd finally have the apartment to ourselves.” You rise to your feet and, creeping up to Kanaya's side, begin to run your fingers through her hair. It is at once soft and coarse, but not unpleasantly so. “Do you see the outcome, here?”

Kanaya is grinning. Clearly, she now understands why you've been investing so much of your energy into this idea. “Oh, Rose, you are an absolute genius. This is exactly why I married you.”

You can't help but seize upon the chance to offer a friendly jab. “I thought you married me because I have a gorgeous figure and incredibly kissable lips.” You can barely conceal your smirk.

And Kanaya responds with a similar air of joviality. “I said this once, after imbibing a bit too much at our reception, dear. Must you always insist upon quoting me on it?”

“You know it,” you say, laughing.

Now, you’re Dave Strider. You sit across the table from your sister, a bowl of plain lunch meat slices (specifically, smoked ham, ultra thin cut) sits before you. It is growing warmer and less appetizing with every passing second, yet you find yourself arguing instead of eating. [“I’m an adult, and that means I can eat ham slices for breakfast if I fuckin’ want to, now, don’t it?”]

“That is a perfectly reasonable objection to my good-intentioned criticism of your dietary habits, but I heartily dismiss the notion. I have slightly less healthy nut more socially acceptable cocoa cereal here for you. I spent money on it, because you asked me to, and I expect you’ll eat it.” Rose shakes her head. Between words, she checks her watch. “Dave, I know I can’t change what you do, but know that I disapprove of your actions. Now, I must continue getting ready for my meeting. Please at least consider my statements and concerns.” She huffs, turns on her heel, and wanders off.

You continue eating plain deli slices for breakfast. When you’re done, you wander out of the house, down the street, and to the nearest bus stop. Clearly, only one person on this planet can sympathize with your plight, and that person is...

Not home, as it fucking turns out. You arrive at his apartment to find no one, not even his horny, enigmatic sibling, there. You spent your last few dollars again, only to end up at an empty apartment, and you’re about to pull out your phone to text him when a voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You need to stop randomly waltzing up to my apartment like it’s a free for all, Strider.” Karkat, with his arms full of groceries, waves his keycard before the door. As it unlocks, he kicks it open. “Whatever. I guess you can come in.”

Not one to turn down what you came for, you follow him in. You watch, oddly transfixed, as he begins putting away the groceries. It’s a task he’s intent on finishing, apparently, as he never looks away, even when he speaks again, “So, what’re you here for this time?”

[“Rose is nagging me, like some sort of overconcerned parent. It’s annoying as fuck.”] A shrug punctuates this statement, as does an eye roll. [“I can take care of myself.”]

“Yeah, because hitching a fucking ride all the way to the middle of bumfuck nowhere is a totally mature thing to do. You know what else is an absolutely normal and not weird and immature thing to do? Randomly show up at the houses of vague acquaintances because you’re having some sort of personal turmoil.”

His commentary causes you to pause. You shrug. [“Fuckin fair, honestly.”] You fold your arms across your chest.

He, meanwhile, finishes his duties. He looks to you, as if expecting you to continue. When you don’t, he seems intrigued. At the very least, he inquires, urging you onward, “What? Nothing more to say?”

[“Not really.”] Another shrug from you. 

“Well, obviously you have something more to say.” He reaches into the fridge and draws forth a can of iced tea. He pops it open and takes a healthy gulp before continuing, looking a lot like a smug middle-class neighbor. “You wouldn’t have trudged your twinkish little ass all the way out here for nothing, now, would you? There must be something that puckered anus of a mouth of yours is itching to say. So, what is it?”

[“I don’t know. You’re putting me on the spot, dude. I can’t operate like that!”]

A tut. The pop of a nicotine gum container being opened, followed by the contents within. Karkat stands behind the island counter, still clearly expecting more. “That’s what older siblings do, Dave. They nag. It’s a fucking constant. In every universe and household across every goddamned moment in time, some poor fuck is being coddled by an overbearing older sibling.”

You nod. This is a totally true statement, assuming the older sibling is a good sibling. And, as much as you hate to admit it, Rose is a damned good sister. [“So, Kankri annoys you, too?”]

“You won’t fucking believe how much of a pain in the ass that bastard is. If I haven’t gotten the clothes folded and put away within five minutes of the dryer dinging, I’ve sown the seeds of this pitiful world’s destruction. Did I fail to perfectly poach my eggs? I can kiss my sanity goodbye and fling it straight into the most disgusting depths of hell, because I’m in for a nagging.” A snort of laughter punctuates this. “Well, while you’re here, why don’t you eat something?”

[“Like what?”] you ask.

Karkay digs around in the fridge. He grabs some ingredients and begins to mix them together. There’s a certainty in his movements and a confidence in his measurements. He knows this recipe; he knows how to make this. “Eggs Benedict. I’ve been craving it for weeks, so now I’m making it. I’ll make you some.”

[“Thanks.”] In spite of yourself, you offer a small smile. [“That’s some high grade shit to be handing out to random Striders visiting your house, isn’t it?”]

“I entertained being a culinary master, à la Gordon Ramsay, for a while. Cooking has always been a coping skill of mine.” He cracks open four eggs and begins to furiously stir. Some of the water splashes out, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I got it from my mom. Kankri can’t cook worth shit, though. Neither can Cronus. Nah, if I want to eat something other than shit from a bag, that they haphazardly microwaved for ten minutes, I have to make it myself.”

He continues on, rambling without rhyme or reason, and you wonder if he does it for the same reasons you do. Or, perhaps, he knows you need a distraction. Either way, you find yourself enthralled by it. You wrap yourself in his voice and let his words penetrate your mind. There’s just something so lively, so incredibly vibrant, about There’s a way he talks and gesticulated, sometimes flinging bits of Hollandaise sauce or half-poached egg across the room, that captures your imagination. And, really, you don’t mind it much.