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Chapter Text

Monday, 11 September 2017

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you are one of a handful of Alternian professional dancers on the permanent roster of Intergalactic Broadcasting Station’s Dancing With the Stars. For the past five years, you have trained up the most pathetic, grooveless worms into verifiable dancing superstars. You’ve molded malleable, weak bodies into things akin to the marble statues you see in “Ancient Greco-Roman” art galleries, and you see zero reason for this year to be any different.

After a casting mix-up a decade ago, the station started allowing “same-sex” couples. You have never seen an issue with such things, but humans have always been quite judgmental. That said, the change has opened up intriguing pairing possibilities. You find yourself dreaming of the sort of adoration you might receive from turning someone like Tiffany Haddish or Bill Skarsgård into a respectable ballroom dancer.

Last year, you were paired with Robert Pattinson, and you won. Of course you won; there simply wasn’t any other logical outcome. You’ve trained your entire life for this, working your way up from a rhythmless wriggler to the esteemed ballroom dancer you are today. So, you fully expect the station to give you a similarly promising contestant.

You think of the possibilities as you pace about your studio.

Then again, you could always get a dud. You’ve been saddled with washed-out, older celebrities before. They’re generally nice people, and you’ve never really begrudged them for dancing cautiously. Nobody wants to break a delicate mammalian hip on galactic prime time. At the very least, you might meet someone as interesting as Elton John.

When the door opens and the camera crew waddles up to you, your blood-pusher races. And it promptly plummets directly to the floor when you see your partner, Dave Strider.

You’ve heard of him. At just thirty-one years old, he’s taken Hollywood by storm. His films, the visual equivalent of putrid vomit, have earned him millions of dollars. He’s a self-styled artiste with a massive following, so you have that going for you. Unfortunately, you also know that he has a personality best described as “something that makes you want to decapitate yourself”. He’s a brash, boastful, and flamboyantly macho sort, and according to Forbes, “the known universe’s most eligible bachelor and capable filmmaker”.

He enters your space with a wide, cocky grin and an overly honeyed greeting. “Lucky me! I got one of the cool space aliens.”

His skin is paler than you’re used to, and the lack of pigment clashes with what you can only assume to be dyed blond hair. When he reaches to throw his arm over you, you dodge to the side and slap your palm against his.

You grip his hand tightly and take a moment to appreciate the mild look of discomfort on his face as you engage in a typical human greeting. At the same time, you force yourself to smile. You act like you’re happy to see him; to do otherwise will make you look like an ingrate. So, you lie.

“Oh, shit! I love your films!” you say, and you turn away from the cameras to hide your gritted teeth.

Dave counters with a wide, insincere grin of his own. “Everyone does, dude. Everyone loves my shit. That’s, like, my whole thing, KK.”

Your eye twitches as you pull him into a hug. The audience will assume it’s a friendly embrace. In reality, you’re hissing into his ear: “Call me that again, and I’ll break your fucking kneecaps.”

“Duly fucking noted, my man,” Dave mumbles in reply.

After what is probably too long shaking his hand and fake-hugging Strider, you release your grip and step back. You try to act as if you feel anything but mind-numbing contempt for the so-called “celebrity” standing before you. By your estimates, Dave Strider barely qualifies as a D-list sideshow. His presence in your studio is as much a slap to the face as it is a damning indictment of the show’s apparent lack of valuable entrants this year.

(“Then again,” you think, “is that really a fair assertion?” You don’t actually know who else is on the show this year. Maybe you pissed off the wrong studio exec last year. You did manage to get Equius on your ass, after all. For all you know, everyone else on the roster is amazing.)

You have to keep the show going — at least until the cameras leave. So, you give him a stiff pat on the back and try your best to look like you’re not about to peel out your vertebral column and use it as a jump rope. You deliver your next comment with the sing-song tone of a joke, but you keep your teeth bared to signal your ill intentions. “You know, Strider, most contestants bring a gift for their pro! It’s just good manners.”

“They do?” Dave asks, sounding genuinely confused. “Sheesh, my dude — my… troll? — nobody told me that. My bad. I’ll try to make it up to you later.” To your surprise, there’s a slight edge of legitimate guilt underpinning his words.

Unnaturally pale eyebrows rise above the upper rims of his reflective aviators, and his lips briefly twitch into a vague semblance of a frown. Then, with robotic rigidity, he resumes his role as the self-styled Cassanova. His mask returns as he continues, his voice now gratingly affectionate, “So, what’s the rub? You’ve got a sick dance planned for me, right?”

“I would hope so,” you say, consciously biting back your usual language to appease the censors. You take a glitter-coated envelope from the camera crew and open it with canned anticipation. Your smile is hollow as you announce the result, “Our first dance will be… the cha-cha!”

Dave responds with a blank stare, a raised right eyebrow, and a low hum of confusion. Then, with all the eloquence of a toddler, he blurts, “I have no fucking clue what that means.”

Your voice drops in unison with your blood-pumper, which you can only assume is now firmly lodging itself in the core of this wretched planet. “You… You don’t know what that means? What the fuck do you mean you ‘have no fucking clue what that means’, Strider? It’s a dancing competition!”

Whatever underpaid schmuck is behind the lens is slack-jawed. He utters a vague, weak apology — saying something about “needing to check on Kanaya” — before mercifully ushering the rest of his team from the room.

And you are once again left with a man you’re about ready to strangle. Now freed from the shackles of obligatory courtesy, you let loose. You pull back your already blunted claws and grab him by the shoulders as you speak through gritted teeth, “What the fuck do you mean you don’t know what a goddamned cha-cha is, Strider? Have you never before moved your locomotive appendages to do anything other than shoving your stompstalks firmly into your yapping windhole?” When he slowly shakes his head, you release him and continue your mournful monologue, “I’m fucking fucked! I’m so, so fucked. I’m about to go from being the 2016 champion to being tied to the pillory of public ridicule in the first week of 2017.”

With far more force and confidence than he deserves to have, Dave interjects, “Woah, woah, woah, my yappy friend!” A wide, disgustingly cocky smile spreads across his face as he dusts off his hands. “Don’t count me out so fast! I’ll have you know I won some dancing competitions in, like, third fucking grade. Watch this sick shit!”

He rolls up the sleeves of his wrinkled red button-down and wiggles his fingers in a botched attempt to build anticipation. Either failing or refusing to notice the dead silence in the room, he then proceeds to do the first two steps of a typical square dance. As he begins the third movement, he trips over himself and lands flat on his face.

And you, now surprisingly unable to find an eloquent way to describe the mixture of blinding rage and spiraling, anticipatory depression that surges within you, can only utter three words: “We’re so fucked.”

Thursday, 14 September 2017

When he’s not crafting films that make you want to jump off the nearest overpass, Dave Strider is often creating music. And as much as you hate to admit it, said music is surprisingly good. He knows how things should sound and has a seemingly natural grasp of rhythm and timing. Unfortunately for you, none of these qualities carry into the physical realm.

After three solid days of training, the only progress you can claim is Dave’s newfound ability to perform five consecutive dance steps without eating shit. The minute you demand he do a triple step — the basic fucking backbone of a cha-cha — is when it all goes to hell. It’s as if his brain doesn’t understand how to move his lower half unless he’s walking, kicking, or performing a pelvic thrust.

You’ve heard that humans have a saying about bad dancers having “two left feet”, and you think that Dave has somehow blown straight past this goalpost. You don’t know what the proper equivalent would be. Perhaps he has three feet, and the third appendage is his own ego. Whatever the case may be, he’s ridiculously bad.

You have just three more days to try and fix this mess.

Right now, you’re leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window on the east side of the studio and massaging the bridge of your nose. Your chest rumbles as you let forth a low, guttural growl. You’ve just watched Dave try to pitifully gyrate his way to victory for the umpteenth time today, and you’re about ready to strangle him to death. “That’s not part of the dance, Strider.”

And Dave, with his hands raised awkwardly in the air, continues to move his hips in the least attractive way possible as he boldly proclaims, “This is, like, the only thing I know how to do, though!”

You draw your hands over your face and resist the urge to slam your head against the glass behind you as you adopt the most patient tone you can currently muster. You breathe in through your nose before launching into a relatively low-key explanation of your current predicament. “Listen Strider, and listen closely,” you begin. “A ‘dance’ is like a musical genre. It has rules. You can’t just decide to drop fifteen goddamned lines of hard rock in the middle of a church hymn, can you?”

“Well” — Dave begins.

You cut him off and raise your voice, inelegantly ramming forward with your ill-conceived analogy. “You shouldn’t put fifteen fucking lines of hard rock in the middle of a church hymn, then. Well, what you’re doing is dropping a rancid rap at the center of a soulful dirge. You’re fucking the entire dance so badly that it’s not just sideways; it’s entered an entirely new dimension of bullshit. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Dave responds by staring at you with a slack-jawed look of holistic confusion.

“I see I need a different comparison,” you say.

And Dave nods.

You clap your hands together and try to smile. The effort fails, and you’re certain you look like you’re about ready to peel the flesh from Dave’s face before outright murdering him, but that is, indeed, how you feel. Instead of wasting your time attempting to rectify this minor faux pas, you talk. “Okay,” you say, drawing out the vowel to cover up the unholy dearth of ideas in your mind right now.

A thought pops into your head. You don’t have many options at this moment, so you’re forced to take what you’ve got: “Let’s try it this way. If I’m watching a movie, and some brain-rotted fuckhead rams a pointless black-and-white sequence into my otherwise colorful footage, it looks stupid, right?” Seeing a slight twitch of his lips, you quickly add, “Under normal conditions — under normal goddamned conditions. I swear on my lusus’s grave, Strider, if you add a single inane modifier to my beautiful analogy, I will choke you to death with your intestines.”

Mercifully, Dave falls silent. Whatever smartass comment he had waiting turns into an obedient nod.

“Splendid! So you can shut the fuck up when needed. That’s good to know.” You clasp your hands behind your back as you continue, “Well, whatever the fuck you’re doing with your hips is not part of a proper cha-cha. In all honesty, I cannot fathom a singular dance that movement would fit into. It’s the ‘black-and-white film’ in this comparison, yes?”

Again, Dave nods.

And another question rears its invasive head before spilling directly from Karkat’s mouth: “Have you ever danced before? Just once in your life, outside of your wriggler-level gym class, have you ever moved your body in a rhythmic fashion?”

Finally — infuriatingly — Dave regains his usual composure. A look of practiced indifference falls over his face, and a blasé shrug precedes his reply. “I do shit on FlipFlop, but I don’t think I’ve ever done a ‘real dance’ before, no.”

“FlipFlop?” you ask, unwilling to comprehend what you’re hearing. “You mean that stupid fucking dance video app? You’re shitting me, right? Please, oh fucking please, tell me that you’re just joking with me. Surely, you jest.”

To your chagrin, Dave shakes his head. “Nope,” he says, emphatically popping the final syllable. “That’s about as much dancing as I’ve ever done. Oh! But there was that one time I got abso-fuckin’-lutely shitfaced at the Sweet Bro wrap party and went wild. I’m told I was dancing on tables and everything, but I sure don’t remember it.”

You suppress a bitter laugh long enough to ask a new question, “So, then, why are you on this show?”

“That’s easy!” Dave says, folding his hands behind his head. “My agent said it was a good idea.”

“Your agent…” you mumble, and you feel your eyelid twitch. “You’re here because your agent told you to be here? Not because you want to be here? Not even because you thought it might be fun? Oh, the universe truly does hate me! I simply cannot have a single nice thing, can I? This must be revenge from the executives.”

Dave seemingly ignores your spiral. His nonchalant tone suggests that he’s intentionally overlooking your inelegant crashout. “Hey, I think you’re seriously underestimating how much of a following I have. I’m, like, the premium shit on every social media platform.” He lowers his hands and starts blithely counting his apparent success off on his fingers, “Facelook, Glimpsegram, Grumblr, Chittr, and FlipFlop. Check any of them out, and wham! I’ll be right at the top of the rankings. Well… No, I think Beyoncé beats me out. And maybe Taylor Swift on Glimpsegram? No hard feelings, though.”

You want to refute the accusations, but you’ve seen the paparazzi photos. Dave really is — as much as you hate to admit it — part of the entertainment industry’s upper crust. He’s constantly clocked at parties with the biggest and brightest. Just a few days ago, you saw a photo of him hanging out with Betty White — the Betty White. To your chagrin, you’ve even seen him rubbing elbows with Julie Andrews. He’s the sort of famous you can only dream of, and that fact keeps beating you over the head with all the subtlety and softness of a whole, frozen king salmon to the face.

“Well,” you eventually manage to say, “at least we don’t have to compete against Derek Hough…”

It’s little consolation, truly. There’s not much you can do at this point. By now, you must simply accept that you, last year’s champion, will be leaving empty-handed after your first dance. You can at least comfort yourself with the idea that you’ve done your best. You have made far more effort than you probably should have to turn Dave Strider, film director and hopelessly awful dancer, into a ballroom phenom. Alas, some people simply cannot move their bodies in time with music. It’s not actually your fault.

Yes! That’s it! It’s not your fault that Dave is a hopeless failure at this show. If anything, your premature expulsion will be a blessing. At least you won’t have to put up with him anymore.

So, with renewed vigor, you start the wireless speakers up once more. You roll your right wrist and step forward, doing your damndest to guide Dave to dance in something that vaguely resembles a straight line. “Okay. Let’s try it again, Strider. We still have to learn another dance after this, after all.”

Chapter Text

Monday, 18 September 2017

Unlike you, it seems that your long-time friend and coworker, Kanaya, got a much better partner. In fact, you’re downright jealous. You genuinely enjoy the works of romance novelist Rose Lalonde, and you would have committed literal murder to be matched with her. Alas, the powers that be decided against it.

So, here you are, all dolled up and paired with the most incompetent moron on the planet.

You do have one reprieve, though. Unlike your studio, the backstage space gives you plenty of room to get the hell away from Dave. As for your place in the show, you’re currently slotted somewhere in the middle, and you’re perfectly happy with that choice.

You casually elbow Kanaya in the side as you approach, muttering playfully under your breath, “Fuck you, Kanaya. Why do you get the coolest contestant?”

“Hmph. You act as if you were not paired with Robert Pattinson last year, Karkat,” Kanaya’s counter is accompanied by a smirk and a wink. “You know how I do adore that man’s acting. And I would say you have quite an interesting competitor this year, too! Dave seems rather…” she trails off.

You follow her gaze, and you find Dave shoveling as many cheese cubes into his mouth as he can physically fit. Your already deflating ego sinks like a stone. You’re already embarrassed to be dancing with Dave. Now, you must contend with some of the most childish behavior you’ve ever witnessed.

“Save me, Kanaya,” you plead. “I’m crashing the fuck out. He’s more than annoying. He’s the most insufferable bastard I have ever had the displeasure of partnering with in my entire career. For fuck’s sake, save me. It’s awful!”

After placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, Kanaya responds with a sympathetic nod. “Karkat, I would not trade my partner for yours in a million years. That idiot is yours and yours alone.” A polite smile punctuates her not-so-comforting consolation as a harried production crew member waddles in to take her onstage.

As your friend departs, your new enemy arrives. Dave has his hands shoved roughly in the pockets of once finely pressed black slacks. His lips are pulled into a gratingly hollow smile, but an edge of anxiety shows itself in the occasional twitch of his left eyebrow. “So,” he drawls, “I think we’re up next, right? Nobody told me my annoying twin sister was here. Sheesh. If I’d known that, I would’ve taken this seriously.”

“As if you would take a single fucking thing seriously in your miserable little life, Strider,” you quip. When you step forward, you tower above him. You may be small for a troll, but the combined effect of your bulk alongside your extra six inches of height make you look like a giant. Normally, you hate that effect. Tonight, as you look at the discomfort that flashes across Dave’s face, you wear your size with pride.

Dave says nothing more, though it’s clear he wants to do so. Every now and then, he seems ready to speak up. He’ll open his mouth and breathe in, but he always falls silent.

A few minutes after Rose’s dance is through, she strides purposefully towards Dave. Above the bustling crowd, you hear her taunt, “Chin up, Dave! I know that seeing me here has given you that essential kick in the ass, has it not?”

And Dave responds by puffing up like a frightened, flightless bird. His expression slips into something approaching stoic constipation as he storms to your side. “I’m so fucked,” he mumbles as the stagehands shove him towards the stairs.

“Oh, definitely,” you agree, willingly following your team to the main stage. You take your spot at the top of the stairs, and Dave is stuck at the bottom.

He’s as rigid as a slab of concrete, and you see your first glimpse of genuine emotion from him. The second the lights shut off, you hear a tiny, muffled groan of anxiety.

You have just enough time to register the irony of Dave Strider potentially having stage fright when the announcer’s voice booms through the overhead speakers: “Dancing the cha-cha to ‘Since U Been Gone’ with his partner, Karkat Vantas, it’s Dave Strider!”

You forgo any formalities and kick into performance mode. You may be brash and crass in public, but your stage persona is something entirely different. You’ve long since bred away the rougher edges of your true colors. What’s left behind is a machine fueled by competitive drive, rote courtesy, and just enough personality to be palatable without chafing against too many nerves.

As far as choreography is concerned, you’re on the more conservative side. You always start tame and ramp up the difficulty as the show progresses. With Dave, you’ve given him the most basic steps you can possibly muster. You walk purposefully down the stairs, shoulders firmly squared, and offer out your hand.

Timing is second nature. You barely have to listen to the music; you’ve practiced enough on your own. Everything flows forth with ease. You keep your hips loose enough to sway as your weight shifts and stiff enough to avoid looking like you’re hopelessly inebriated. When the dance begins, you manage to briefly glimpse what’s behind Dave’s shades.

His eyes are ruby red — the same color as your mutant blood — and wide with fear. You’re practically yanking him along as he mumbles to you, “I think this entire thing was a bad idea.”

“Just shut up and dance, fuckhead,” you snarl.

On the next beat, you pull his left arm up and force his right arm down. You feel more like a puppeteer than a dancer. You vaguely remember having to do something like this the last time you volunteered to teach dance classes at a retirement home. Every now and then, you hook a foot around one of Dave’s ankles to pull him into a position that vaguely approaches the standard form of a cha-cha.

You’re about halfway through the dance when the inevitable happens. He loses track of where he’s supposed to be, and you fail to notice where he’s moving. A routine triple step becomes a flailing mass of limbs, and the only thing that saves you from wiping out is a quick-thinking correction. It’s an obvious blunder, but you save face by shoving Dave hard enough for him to spin on his ass across the dance floor.

All three judges look downright horrified, and you’re in complete agreement. This is, through some fault of your own, the worst dance you’ve ever done.

The only thing that keeps you going through the last thirty seconds is professionalism. You wrap the dance up with a forced smile and dig the blunted end of your claws into his side as you growl into his ear, “If I could strangle you on intergalactic television, I fucking would.”

“Oh, I’d bet you’d like that, big boy,” Dave hits back, subtly digging his elbow into the small of your back.

Tom Bergeron, meanwhile, stares at you with a look best described as complete and irrefutable confusion. He maintains that professional smile and tone, but his question is less polished than usual. With a barely stifled laugh, he asks, “So, Vantas, that didn’t quite go as planned, did it?”

If the cameras weren’t rolling, you’d be tempted to snarl at him. Alas, you must maintain a modicum of decorum. So, nodding, you offer a precisely measured response: “That’s show business, Tom. You don’t always get what you want.”

To this, Dave offers an approving nod. When he’s not dancing, he easily slips into his usual, indifferent persona. “No, no! That was all planned. We’re trying a new style,” he reassures.

And Tom Bergeron blinks. “Which would be…?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, my dude,” Dave winks.

Thankfully, the music team seems to sense the rising tension. That old, familiar cue plays, and you know it’s time to leave. When Dave fails to follow, you’re forced to drag him backstage with you.

Oh, you really, really hope you get kicked off tonight.

And your scores seem to agree. You have never before seen a paddle with a value below four, and tonight you see three of them. You get a whopping total of six out of a possible thirty points. The entire affair is atrocious enough that you manage to score two times lower than literal military nepo baby, Eridan Ampora. It is the worst score in the entire series, and you’d be downright mortified if you had a partner other than Dave. You cheer yourself up by replaying the downright hilarious feedback you received.

Of your routine, Carrie Ann Inaba said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite… like that before.” Len Goodman, meanwhile, declared your dance to be “a mockery of every ballroom ever built.” Bruno was simply speechless, and not in a good way.

When you eventually check back in with reality, you’re treated to a sibling squabble.

Rose, who scored a tidy twenty points, is smirking as she sips at her drink. (Some sort of margarita or virgin imitation, by the looks of it.) She toys with some of her hair as Dave fumes and, in an admittedly hilarious tone, gloats, “It’s not my fault that you’re a hopeless case, Dave. That said, it’s been such fun competing with you! A pleasant surprise, might I say?”

“The show ain’t over yet, sis. It’s a two-night event, right?” Dave looks at you and lowers his shades long enough for you to see his desperation. “We have another shot at it, right?”

And who are you, the ultimate king of unnecessarily aggressive competition, to turn down a rivalry? You puff up your ego with everything you’ve got and step forward, somehow matching Dave’s freakish swagger. With all too much confidence, you poke back at your favorite author, saying, “Oh, we will kick your ass tomorrow with our foxtrot, Miss Lalonde.”

The slight upward tilt of Rose’s lips suggests that she, like you, knows this statement is a boldfaced lie.

And as soon as she departs, Dave leans in to whisper, “We’re so fucked.”

Tuesday. 19 September 2017

Apparently, asking Eridan Ampora why he’s part of the roster is a bad idea because you’re beginning tonight with one of the most obnoxious and long-winded “quick explainers” you’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

“Well, my father owns Ampora Arms, you see. He’s the head guy, actually. Our family has been proudly producing the finest weapons for the American military for the past five decades, and I have been quite busy expanding my own career. While I intend to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a five-star general, I’m currently working on my art portfolio.” At this point, he turns his phone around to display the most disgusting, eye-goungingly awful painting in the known universe. “I’ve made a lot of money with my art, and I have a nice social media following, so I think it’ll be a stiff competition, Vantas.”

You can never be completely confident that a camera isn’t aimed at you on set, so you respond with a polite smile and a nod.

For the first time in the past week, you’re glad to see Dave, glass of sparkling water in hand, as he frees you from your inadvertent prison. He squints at Eridan’s screen before raising his eyebrows high above the upper limits of his shades. “Under one mil followers on Glimpsegram? I mean… Not to be all hoity-toity bourgeoisie, but…” He sucks in air through his teeth and slurps down some of his drink. “That… ain’t much ‘round here, buckeroo.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Eridan steps forward and glowers down at Dave, using all seven feet of his height to his advantage. “I’ll have you know that my father, Dualscar, is on Al Gore’s military advisory committee. I could have your films wiped off the face of this pitiful planet, Strider.” Alas, even with his pointed teeth, a cape-wearing seadweller can only be so intimidating. Looking more like a lost wizard convention attendee, his growled threats come across as childish insults.

The wry smile on Dave’s face suggests that he, too, isn’t feeling much fear. After downing the last of his water, he gives Eridan a playful shove. Seemingly ignoring the seadweller’s dismay, he laughs as he says, “Damn, dude! Is competitiveness, like, a thing all trolls have to have? Sheesh! You’d think this is a life-or-death battle. Nah, man! This thing’s more like a five-dollar lotto scratcher, you feel?”

Now, Rose comes to your aid. “Dearest brother,” she says, and her words seem to sink straight down from the weight of their sarcasm, “I must ask… When and where did you last see a five-dollar scratcher? It’s not 1997 anymore. I know you’re better at economics than this, so do tell me where to find these mythical gambling tickets.” Her eyes, a peculiar shade of pinkish-brown, sparkle mischievously as she swirls around what is — judging by scent alone — a virgin margarita.

“This is outrageous!” Eridan dramatically tugs at his ridiculous cape as he steps back and breathes an overblown huff of annoyance. “None of you appreciate my brilliance. Not a single one of you! Well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll all crumble in the face of my glorious jazz routine!”

As if summoned by fate, the camera crew steps in to whisk Eridan onto the stage. As he leaves, his unwitting partner, Emma Slater, shoots the sort of sad, longing glance that an innocent victim about to be hanged gives to a silent crowd.

Karkat takes some comfort in the fact that he’s not the only person with a dismally talentless partner. Despite her best efforts, even Emma Slater couldn’t beat Eridan Ampora into shape. His jazz routine earns just eleven points, and the judges rip into him for his asinine ad-libbing. Despite his admiration for Eridan’s partner, Karkat has to agree. At the very least, Eridan’s pitiful excuse for “jazz hands” looked more like he was trying to swat away a massive swarm of bees. Even the normally rambunctious crowd, prompted by stagehands frantically waving around “CLAP NOW!” signs, responded with little more than some half-assed applause.

Eridan returns backstage in a tizzy of self-righteous rage. When asked about his performance, he denies any wrongdoing. “I did my best,” he snaps, shaking his head like the haughty brat he is. “The judges have no idea what they’re talking about. I’m truly the epitome of talent, and everyone else is a grub in my path. I shall crush my competition beneath my glorious dance steps!”

Next up is Nepeta, a bubbly “social media relationship guru” with more energy and quirky charisma than rhythm. Her musicality is roughly on par with the grublings Karkat has tutored in the past, but her personality more than makes up for her lack of technical talent. As she and newcomer Brandon Armstrong are rushed onstage, she gives Eridan a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She’s practically being dragged away as she calls out words of blissfully disconnected encouragement: “Don’t worry! You’ll do purr-fectly well next week!”

And as the announcer’s voice buzzes through the air — “Dancing the quickstep with her partner, Brandon Armstrong, it’s Nepeta Leijon!” — Dave approaches you. He spins the pointed tail of his bright red, sequin-covered overcoat between his fingers as he speaks: “You met Nepeta yet? She’s p chill. I mean… She’s the opposite of chill, but she’s pretty fun to hang with. And not, like, ‘hang’ in the morbid sense, y’know? But I’m still not sure why she’s here, if that makes sense? Like, what did she do — or I guess what does she do?”

“You don’t know?” you scoff. “You’re in with pretty much everyone in the entertainment world, and you’ve never heard of Kitstress of Kisses even once? I thought you were the world’s preeminent social media guru, Strider.” On set, you keep your normally virulent speech to a minimum. You really don’t want to be hounded by Equius and the editing department again. More importantly, you don’t need Intergalactic Broadcasting Station’s execs breathing down your neck more than they already are.

“Well,” Kanaya seemingly appears from thin air to back up Dave’s apparent ignorance, “I would not assume that Dave is interested in Alternian romantic quadrants, you see. I know that Rose is not. Humans do not seem to follow these guidelines, so it is a bit odd to think Nepeta’s romantic advice is so widespread on Earth.”

“And since when are you an expert on exo-Alternian, mammalian romances?” you want to ask.

But Dave, in all his inglorious ignorance, beats you to the punch. He wrinkles the fabric of his pants and pops off entire lines of sequins by shoving his hands into his pockets as he drawls out his reply, “‘Quadrants’, huh? Them’s those playing card symbols, right?” You can’t see his eyes, but his disinterest bleeds easily into his voice. He sighs, leans his upper body an inch or so closer to Kanaya, and raises a single eyebrow as he continues, “I think I know about them. Red’s for mackin’, black’s for smackin’, right?”

You dare not open your mouth. If you do, you just know that a broadcaster-unfriendly torrent of rage will burst forth.

In the background, you can hear Tom Bergeron commenting on Nepeta’s routine. “Well, that was one entertaining quickstep, wasn’t it?” And the crowd responds with uproarious applause.

Dully, through the pounding of blood against your skull, you hear snippets of commentary. Nepeta’s dance “is a technically bad but entertainingly great” routine. It’s a quickstep that “puts smiles on our faces without putting points on the panels.” Its imperfections “only make it more endearing, darling.”

Everyone backstage buzzes with energy, and you’re busy seeing wild, raging red. It’s the color of your hated blood and the hue of Dave’s stupid eyes. You’re a breath away from launching yourself across the buffet table to gouge out his ganderbulbs when the stagehands arrive. Once again, you and Dave are hauled onto stage.

The lights are dimmed, and you intentionally grab Dave’s left hand with far too much force as you force him into the appropriate starting stance. “Your understanding of quadrants is the most offensively over-simplified slop I have ever had the misfortune of hearing,” you snarl.

“Then why don’t you show me those nasty, nasty blackroms on that dance floor, Karkles?” Dave smirks. When you roughly yank his right arm into frame, he winces, and the smirk moves to your face.

The lights slowly brighten, and strategically placed fog puffs onto the dance floor.

“Dancing the foxtrot with his partner, Karkat Vantas, it’s Dave Strider!”

The first note of “Lady Marmalade” rips through the air, and you straighten your back. You keep your frame rigid and straight, moving as if a metal bar is bound to both of your shoulderblades. Your steps are smooth and gentle; you melt into each pace and try your best to maintain the style’s signature glide.

Tonight’s choreography is peculiar by necessity. You and Dave alternate as leads, and you know you’ll be dinged for the choice. But at least it looks better than having Dave try to take all the graceful dips or forceful feather steps. At the very least, putting yourself in charge of the fancier footwork — leading leg outside and turning slightly in, towards your partner — prevents another embarrassing spill.

Dave does ever so slightly better. Only a handful of his steps are in time with the music, but he manages to finish without falling. He almost botches the final move, wherein he’s supposed to end with his head turned to the audience, but you reach up and wrench his head in the right direction at the last second.

You receive predictably middling feedback, and Bruno Tonioli declares your dance to be “the most microscopic improvement in the history of the show.” Your final score is a dismal nine out of thirty.

Backstage, you meet the usual flurry of activity. Everyone rushes about, desperate to complete whatever mundane task they have. Stagehands scuttle like crustaceans, shuttling costumes and props across the theater. You may be a fan of predictability and order, but the chaos of live tapings has always given you a rush. Tonight is no different, even as your usual bliss is underpinned by a sense of creeping dread.

You’ve never been eliminated in the first week. You consider such a fate a vague condemnation of a professional’s character. By your reasoning, the pros are being paid to guide their students — however unwilling or talentless they may be. As time passes, the possibility of falling into a category you’ve always scorned weighs heavier and heavier on your mind.

Opening your phone only worsens your rising anxiety. Your faceplant from last night is plastered across every social media feed. You have, in every sense, become the intergalactic internet’s latest ass primate. Your literal fall from grace bears such migraine-inducingly vapid captions as “when you find yo girl with someone else” and “trying to pass the SAT.” You even find a massively viral edit set to “Funkytown”, wherein your face meets the ballroom floor on every other beat.

You are downright mortified.

But Dave is on the sectional sofa, sobbing with laughter, as he replays the so-called “Funkytown Faceplant Remix” on loop. Your scowl is inversely equal to his wild bemusement as he shows the clip to Rose and says, “I wish I had thought of this. Damned kids these days are too clever!” When he receives little more than a polite titter in reply, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Tch. Y’all have no sense of humor. I should faceplant more often. Maybe I’ll even win this thing with sheer incompetence!”

Unfortunately for you, it seems Rose is the only person capable of sympathetically bemoaning your newfound status as the latest public laughingstock. By the show’s halfway point, as Guy Fieri waddles backstage with Jade Harley, damned near everyone is laughing at “clever remixes” of your horrifically botched cha-cha.

By the show’s climax, you’ve changed your tune on first week eliminations.

As the drums thrum beneath your feet and the subtle brass wavers in the air, you act like you hold even the tiniest scrap of fondness for Dave. He’s grabbing your arm like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality, and you’re inches away from peeling off his face and eating it out of spite as the stage lights bear down on you.

The show continues, as it always does, with the elimination round.

Eventually, you and Dave stand alongside Eridan and Emma Slater. You supplicate to every deity you know, begging for them to spare you and more suffering.

“Based on a combination of the judges’ scores and viewer votes, the couple going home tonight is…” You watch, wide-eyed and somewhat hopeful, as Tom Bergeron pulls a card from that sparkly pink envelope. Your heart immediately sinks when he furrows his brow and clears his throat. “Eridan and Emma.”

The tense music takes a melancholy turn. The judges stare at one another in disbelief.

Dave, in all his boundless ignorance, pulls you into a hug as he lets forth a whoop of excitement.

When he lets you go, you, too shellshocked to contain it, blurt at the top of your lungs, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Ignoring the placating hushes of stagehands and the wild waving from the camera crew, you continue, “Who the actual fuck voted for this!? Are you people missing half a think-pan or something? Fuck it! Is this what you want, Intergalactic Broadcasting Station? You want a show? You want a goddamned fucking show? Well, you’re about to get it straight down your miserable, blabbering nutrient chutes!”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

You certainly know what a jive is, and you’d be incredibly concerned if you didn’t. It’s a fast-paced, energetic dance that traditionally sticks to a fairly confined area. Of course, the televised version can be flashier. You’ve used most of the floor before for this style, and you’ve never had points docked for your boldness. You have, however, had points subtracted for understandable technical errors, including flat-footed kicks from your partners.

Dave is as clueless as ever. Right now, he’s sprawled out on a padded bench at the back of the studio. He has one earbud in to listen to your assigned song, Michael Jackson’s “Rockin’ Robin”, and his lips are pulled into a surly frown. It takes all of thirty seconds for him to speak up, drawing his hands over his face as he declares, “Goddamn, I hate this song. Can’t we swap it for something else?”

Having spent most of the morning being chewed out by Equius for “wasting the live broadcasting team’s valuable time” by “forcing them to censor your on-air outburst”, you’re already in a foul mood. Dave’s whining is about as welcome as a baseball bat to the face, and you’re quick to push back against his tomfoolery as you sarcastically quip, “Of course! Let me just call Intergalactic Broadcasting Station and ask them to buy an entirely new music library to suit your tastes, Strider!”

“Oh, shit! You can do that?” Dave asks, completely missing your beautiful wit.

“No, you vapid motherfucker! I’m being facetious. I am yanking your locomotive appendage, as you humans say. The network uses whatever it has the rights to use, so the choice is final. What’s next? You’ll tell me you have some sort of asinine personal vendetta against Michael Jackson because he ate your leftovers at a party?” You breathe in through your nose, count to five, and exhale. The exercise does little to lower your blood pressure, but you’re at least vaguely more level-headed than before.

And Dave, in all his boundless stupidity, responds with an indifferent hum and an enigmatic shrug. “It ain’t that serious, no. And I only ever met MJ once at a party. Didn’t get to dap him up, though. Nah, I just think the song’s kinda’ stupid. Like, why the fuck is this bird dancing? What about all the other avian mofos out there? Do they not know how to dance? And what about singing? That’s a pretty essential function of birds.”

“Does that even matter, Strider?” you ask.

To your annoyance, Dave seems to seriously consider the question. He breathes a thoughtful hum and rubs a pale hand over a stubble-covered chin. After far too many seconds spent pondering such a useless query, he answers, “Not really. But I still think it’s a stupid song. Couldn’t we have gotten something cooler, like ‘SK8R Boi’?”

You’ve had some bad partners, but none have been this outright annoying. The only thing keeping you from beating Dave Strider to death right now is your paycheck, and you’re starting to consider demanding a raise. “Certainly,” you find yourself thinking, “this is some sort of divine punishment for an infraction I’ve long since forgotten.”

Somewhere, in a room that’s likely much nicer and less infuriating than your own, you can hear the muffled strains of Norah Jones’s “Come Away With Me”. Already, someone is practicing. You’re now several minutes behind, and you don’t even have a single idea sketched out in your notebook. In fact, you find yourself staring at the empty page with a rising sense of disdain.

You’re honestly not paying much attention to Dave, and that gives him time to sneak up behind you. When he rudely shoves his face into your space, you jump. You then restrain yourself from beating him over the head as he breathes a sharp whistle and says, “Great notes there, Kat! Can I call you that?”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“Awesome! Thanks, Kat!” You can’t tell if Dave’s smile is intentionally facetious or downright clueless. Either way, his mere presence only grates on your frayed nerves. He, meanwhile, reaches into his pocket and slowly pulls out a little packet of Goldfish crackers. He wiggles it in your face, saying, “Look at this sick shit. Totally forgot I stole these out of Rose’s lunchbox. You want some?”

“Your palate must be as vacuous as your brain casing, Strider. At best, those snacks are akin to the sort of dross a lusus feeds their young. I’d rather eat literal dung.” You emphatically fold your arms across your chest to hammer home your point, but your words are a complete lie. In addition to being a fan of Goldfish, your mandatory meeting with Equius left you starving. But you won’t admit as much to Dave. Instead, you double down and roughly shove the glossy bag aside as you reassert your position: “Try again when you have some good goddamned Alternian food.”

And somehow, Dave has the perfect response. He roughly shoves the bag into his pocket and takes out another. Peering down at him, you can see him squint as he tries to read the lime green lettering that spans a familiar, dark purple bag. “How about some Grubbos, then, you grump?”

You open your mouth, fully intending to refuse the offer, but your hunger wins out. Without a word, you snatch the bag from Dave’s hands and dig a claw into the plastic. With gluttonous glee, you rip into the packaging and dump every last bit of greasy, deep-fried, ultra-processed Alternian flavor into your eager maw. When you’re done, you crumple the bag up and shove it into your pocket. You then sync your palmhusk to the stereo system and blast your assigned song as loudly as you can stand.

You have a bad feeling that you’ll be listening to the Jackson Five belt out “tweedily-deedily-dee” far too many times in the coming days.

Friday, 22 September 2017

You’ve been practicing for at least three near-consecutive hours. The wood floor of your studio is covered in puddles of human sweat, and you’re showing signs of exertion, too. Your cheeks burn a subtle pink, a sign of your mutant blood, but you don’t have to worry about being culled on Earth. Instead, you’re more annoyed by Dave’s constant ribbing, as he asks, again and again, if you’re blushing.

Progress has been predictably slow. You’ve at least managed to get Dave to walk on the beat without tripping over himself. Now, you’re trying to teach him how to do flicks, the most basic part of the dance. You’ve demonstrated the bouncy, energetic kicking technique more times than you can count. You’ve rummaged through the depths of your mind to find any way to explain the movement in a way that he’ll understand, and none of your ideas have worked.

So, for the umpteenth time, you slow it down to a snail’s pace.

“If you can’t figure this out, we’re fucked, Strider. Just fucking watch and listen. Lift your leg, bend your knee, and point your toes. Put the foot back down, toes still pointed, and you’ve done a flick. It’s that easy.” You demonstrate the action as you speak, taking everything mind-numbingly slow.

Dave follows along. He does surprisingly well until the end, when he abruptly stomps his foot as if he’s trying to crush an annoying insect.

After witnessing this, you massage your thumbs against your temples. “For fuck’s sake, Strider, what aren’t you getting?”

“I’m just not made for dancing, I guess,” Dave shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets and idly scuffs his foot against the ground. To your chagrin, the mindless act is a perfect flick.

“That’s it, dammit!” you shout, gesturing wildly at your hapless partner’s feet. “Just do whatever the fuck you were doing there, and you’ve got one step down. One out of… oh, fuck me. This is going to be another verified nightmare, isn’t it?”

At least for now, you get a singular reprieve. Following your instructions, Dave executes a perfect, stationary flick. It’s rough and not quite as elegant as you’d like, but it’s more than you’ve ever seen the oaf do. Seemingly sensing your elation, he then does the same thing on the opposite foot. Then, with a smug grin, he adds, “Maybe you’ll turn me into a pro, Karkat.”

“That’s a huge reach,” you huff. “I think I can at least make you perform a jive that won’t make both of us want to kill ourselves in embarrassment on intergalactic prime time, though. Is that a fair deal?” You formalize your offer by extending your hand towards Dave.

After a solid minute of him staring at you like a moron, he nods. He pulls your hand into an iron grip as he reciprocates the agreement, saying, “Sounds like a halfway decent deal to me!”

For the briefest moment, you feel the tiniest ember of hope. It’s not exactly warm — no, it’s more like someone breathing down your neck — but you have to work with what you’ve got. You’ve managed to force Dave to learn one dance move, and that’s more than you’ve done in the past two weeks. Assuming you manage to make it through your routine without falling, you might even have a chance to exit the season with an ounce of your dignity intact.

Saturday, 23 September 2017

It doesn’t take long for you to realize that Dave responds well to positive reinforcement. You use every ounce of professionalism you can muster to temporarily shed your disdain for Dave Strider, and the results are remarkable. And that’s not to say he’s suddenly a professional-grade dancer; he’s still a fucking slob. But he’s a slob with the ability to move across a dance floor without falling flat on his face. As long as you’re pumping up his surprisingly fragile ego, he’s like a barkbeast with a bone. You’re no longer working against an immovable object. Now, you’re merely trying to beat an unstoppable force into an aesthetically pleasing shape.

And here is where you find a new issue.

You’re washing yourself off after a long day of practice when you see him.

Before he notices you, he’s cautious. He clutches his towel to his chest and keeps to himself. When he turns on one of the showerheads, he whistles to himself. To your bemusement, he belts out a perfectly on-key rendition of the first half of your assigned song.

His shades are off, and you finally confirm what you saw before: His eyes truly are ruby red. Twin scars span his chest, and an elaborate tattoo of a crow spreads across his back. He locks eyes with you as he reaches for the soap, and his whistling stops. His brow twitches, and that all-too-cocky half-smile spreads across his face. He slips back into his usual mask of immature bravado as he folds his arms atop the tiled half wall.

“Fancy meeting you here, dude,” he says, and there’s a tiny touch of anxiety in his voice.

You narrow your eyes and furrow your eyebrows. By now, you’ve finished your shower. You wrap one towel around your waist and use another to start drying your hair as you respond, “You act like we’re not in the same fucking building, dumbass. There’s only one showering room for both genders. Where the fuck else would you have expected to see me?”

“Hm…” Dave raps his fingers against the off-white tile and tilts his head to the side. He squints at you, and you start to wonder if he actually needs those stupid sunglasses. It takes him a few seconds, but he eventually scrapes together a more coherent answer to your question: “Like, honestly? I sorta expected they’d have a different bathroom for trolls.”

There’s nothing exactly wrong with the statement. You can even see a kernel of logic behind Dave’s bizarre assertion. Even so, it prompts you to open your mouth. You plan to say something rude, to bite back at him as you usually would, but something stops you. Instead, after a shallow sigh, you shrug and carefully towel off your nubby horns. “Of course not. That’s just an extra expense. If you can’t handle seeing some basic tentabulges, that’s on you.”

Again, Dave responds with a thoughtful hum. Then, he turns his back to you as he says, “I don’t have a problem with it. I’m just surprised to see you here. That’s all.” When he turns back around, he’s wearing those stupid shades.

Right now, your tongue is loose enough to let fly what you’re thinking: “Really? You can’t even break the act in the fucking shower?”

And Dave answers with a genuine laugh. “They’re prescription lenses, dude! My eyes are all fucked. If the lights are too bright, I get the world’s most annoying headache. I thought I put that on my sign-up form, but I guess not.”

Now that he’s said it, everything makes more sense. He’s always shied away from flashbulbs and (literal) spotlights. When he must face such things, he’s angling his face so that the lenses absorb most of the glare. It all seems so obvious, and you start kicking yourself for failing to notice it earlier.

Somehow, he picks up on your self-flagellation. His smirk softens to a genuine, reassuring smile, and he waves his free hand dismissively as he says, “Don’t worry about it, dude. I don’t exactly advertise it, and I just assumed you already knew. But, hey, you know what they say about assuming.”

Despite living on Earth for most of your life, you still lag slightly behind on common human sayings. Driven by his candor, you admit your shortcomings: “I don’t actually know ‘what they say’, no.”

“Oh, it’s just a stupid little joke,” Dave grins. “See, what happens when you assume is that you make an ass of you and me.”

You breathe a short snort of laughter before gathering your things. There’s a familiar fluttering in your stomach, and you do not need to be feeling it right now. You don’t care that you’ve barely dried yourself off; you just need to leave. So, muttering some weak excuse about “needing to check the ablution block”, you hastily pull on your clothes and rush out of the showers.

Monday, 25 September 2017

This week, your pre-show routine is interrupted by a cheerful face and an enthusiastic smile. You recognize the intruder as Nepeta Leijon, and opt to save your annoyance for the dance floor. Instead of asking her how she managed to enter your little dressing area, you offer her a patient smile and a friendly wave. You intend to ask her what she wants, but she beats you to the punch.

She bounces on the balls of her feet and toys with one of the sparkly orbs that hangs from her necklace as she speaks. “Purr-etty stiff com-paw-tition out there, isn’t it, Karkat?”

You don’t really need the reminder. You know the stakes are high, and this year’s lineup is surprisingly talented. Eridan seems to have been the only “dud” in the group. Even Guy Fieri, for all his faults, has a decent enough audience to pose a threat. If you were serious about competing this year — which you truthfully are not — you’d be somewhat worried. But you can’t betray your indifference so blatantly. So, after a moment to gather your thoughts, you nod. “It’s a packed cast this season, that’s for freaking sure.”

Nepeta seems pleased with your answer. Her smile grows, as does her energetic bounce, and she opens her mouth to say more. Whatever her thought was, it’s interrupted by the arrival of her partner, and she departs with a thumbs-up and a wave.

You’re just settling in for a few more minutes of silence when the fabric curtain “door” to your little space flaps open, and the last person you want to see steps into your space.

For tonight’s jive, Dave picked yet another eye-gouging, bright red suit. This week’s outfit is styled to look like it’s from the ‘70s, and he’s popped the collar of his white button-down in the douchiest way possible. His abject lack of social tact shines even brighter as he shoves his phone in your face, blurting, “Holy fucking shitballs, Karkat, have you seen the stuff they’re saying on FlipFlop?”

You feel your eyelid twitch as you shove the flashing, buzzing device aside. It takes all your social energy to scrape together even the vaguest attempt at a polite reply, and even that is rimmed in sharp edges and thorns. “I haven’t, Strider. I do not use FlipFlop. We’ve discussed this at least three dozen times in the past four days, have we not?”

“Yeah, well…” Dave’s eyebrows rise far above his stupid sunglasses as he taps away at his screen. “There’s, like, so much hype for us! It’s bonkers! Just look!” Again, he shoves his phone in your face.

This time, there’s no video to distract you. Instead, you see a lineup of comments from countless internet strangers. To you, they seem facetious. You cannot fathom a single competent organism seeing last week’s dances and declaring them to be anything but a clusterfuck. Yet, somehow, you’re seeing just that.

One proclaims that your suicidally embarrassing cha-cha was “a feat of true irony” and worthy of “the most ridonkulous praises.” Another, posted by user “LennyFrog”, simply declares, “STUPID MEN DANCE BADLY, BUT VERY FUN TO WATCH!” A different viewer hails Dave’s flat-footed foxtrot as “ballroom dance’s equivalent of Marcel Duchamp’s ‘Fountain’.” None of these statements seem remotely serious to you; in fact, you’re fairly certain that every one of these people is just issuing backhanded, sarcastic, and fully justified criticisms of your routines.

And you say as much. With a tight snarl, you once again push Dave’s phone aside as you say, “You do realize they’re dunking on us, don’t you? Surely, you cannot be that fucking dense. Is your brain case made of lead, or are you just intentionally this stupid?”

“Nah, man!” Dave reaches to throw his arm over your shoulder, and you dodge. He shrugs off the botched interaction with a laugh and a haughty smirk as he continues, “It’s all part of ‘the brand’, right? Being sincere’s for squares, yo. You gotta sarcasm it up to succeed in modern society. There ain’t a single genuine bone in anyone’s body these days. Gotta appeal to the Dadaist masses.” When his downright insane declaration receives no reaction, he leans in closer, raises a single eyebrow, and unnecessarily adds, “You fucking feel me?”

At this point, you realize that you will not get to enjoy your twenty minutes of pre-show solitude. You stand, straighten the lapels of your silver suit, and walk purposefully out of your dressing area. You speak as you move, doing your best — but ultimately failing — to respond in a level-headed manner.

“No, you fucking nincumpoop,” you growl. “I do not ‘feel you’ about any of the asinine, foaming bullshit that just dribbled from your gaping blatherhole. In fact, I think it’s safe to declare that not a single thing you have said makes even an ounce of sense. I’m not even sure it makes an archaic grain of sense. It’s like you’re pulling random words from a dictionary and vomiting them out your refuse chute. And I cannot stress enough that I do not care about what the kids on FlipFlop are saying.”

“But,” Dave draws out the vowel and follows you, like some sort of lost barkbeast, as he pushes his useless spiel, “that’s where most of the votes come from, Kat! If we’re dominating FlipFlop, we could win this!”

“If we actually win this, and you don’t improve at all, I will kill myself on live, intergalactic prime time. I swear to every god in every pantheon, I’ll do it,” you snap.

“Oh! Karkat!” A familiar, more welcome voice rolls in on your left. Kanaya’s floral perfume fills your nose, and there’s the tiniest ounce of panic in her voice. “They’re rearranging the lineup. It is a last minute change, I know, and it is rather inconvenient. Anyhow, you will be dancing third, after Nepeta.” To reinforce her assertion, she shoves a wrinkled piece of paper into your hands.

Sure enough, you and Dave are now stuck between Nepeta’s Charleston and television lawyer Terezi Pyrope’s jazz routine. You have now lost approximately half an hour of potential practice.

But you’re on set now. You force a hollow smile onto your face, thank Kanaya for her information, and turn to Dave. “Got that, Strider? We moved up the list. For fuck’s sake, do not wipe out this time. I know you can manage to finish this thing without eating shit.”

“Aye, aye, cap!” Dave responds with a facetious salute.

Your brow twitches again as the announcer’s voice booms through the backstage speakers: “Live from Hollywood, it’s Dancing With the Stars!”

Around the same time, Rose appears. You realize that her smug smile is almost identical to Dave’s, and your respect for her falls the tiniest bit. Her ribbing, however, restores your faith in her. At the very least, you find yourself laughing when she hands Dave a bag of fake ice and says, “Here. You’ll need this later.”

It is, as always, a whirlwind of activity. Stagehands ferry items and people about the building with practiced precision. You’re wrapped in a world of sequins, glitter, and chatter as you sink onto the “backstage” balcony. Tonight, you treat yourself to some deep fried Alternian dumplings as you wait.

When Nepeta and Brandon are pulled to dance, you track down Dave. You find him shoveling handfuls of Doritos into his mouth, and you barely restrain yourself from punching him in the face. Instead, you clear your throat and clasp your hands behind your back as you say, “We’re up next, jackass.”

“Hm?” Dave looks up from his graceless binge. He swallows, flashes a thumbs-up, and smears Dorito dust all over his suit. For the briefest moment, you see his eyes; you see a vague sense of anxiety. Then, as the stagehands approach, he slips into his usual, boisterous persona. He plasters a cocky smirk onto his face, and it remains in place as he’s led to his starting position.

Having learned your lesson last week, you’ve opted to include backup dancers and pump out more fog. Neither of these choices fit the retro avian theme, but you’d rather scrape out whatever dignity you can find than highlight Dave’s technical ineptitude. In the final seconds before the song begins, you smooth out your suit and look at your partner.

He doesn’t betray an ounce of discomfort. He does, however, look like a fucking idiot with that stuffed crow in his hands. (You vehemently opposed its inclusion, but he bullied you into letting it slide. “It fits the fog machine better than a fucking parakeet, doesn’t it?” he’d asked. And as much as you hated to admit it, he was right.)

This time, you’re too focused on how ridiculous the entire situation is to notice the announcement. You’re thrown headlong into the dance with the first beat, and your body reacts instinctually.

This time, you’re too focused on how ridiculous the entire situation is to notice the announcement. You’re thrown headlong into the dance with the first beat, and your body reacts instinctually. You’ve heard “tweedily-deedily-dee” far too many times in the past few days, and you never want to hear it again. Despite all your practice, Dave manages to trip over himself as he bops down the stairs. The only comfort you get is that he manages to disguise the blunder by rolling forward. When he pops back up, he grabs your hand.

You, meanwhile, mutter under your breath, “What the fuck did you even trip over?”

“All the little birdies on Jaybird street,” the singer belts out as you assume a two-handed hold. And at this point, Dave responds, “I have no clue, dude. Just go with it.” He’s playing it cool, but there’s a nervous downturn at the far right edge of his lips.

“Ooh-ooh, rockin’ robin!”

The additional syllable throws Dave off enough for him to forget the next step. You’re exactly one verse into your song, and he’s now performing admittedly decent — if not wildly misplaced — jazz hands instead of launching into a somersault.

You’re forced to improvise.

With some bouncy chassés, you close the distance between you and your hapless partner. You grab his hands and yank him into a tight hold. (Notably, such a thing isn’t supposed to occur in a jive.) In the few seconds that you hold this pose, you hiss into his ear, “Get back on track, Strider. Kicks and flicks, dumbass! Kicks and flicks!”

Somehow, by some miracle, he’s back to the planned routine by the time the singer is going on about “the wise old owl.” You manage to round out your routine without another fall, but you know you’ll get some righteous wrath from the judges. Still, you get a surprisingly decent applause out of the crowd.

Even Tom Bergeron is happy to pile on the criticism. There’s a punchable grin on his face as he approaches and hypes up the audience, asking, “I guess it’s safe to call that the most interesting jive we’ve ever seen in Dancing With the Stars history?”

You feel Dave’s gaze poking at your side, and you’re about to rip Bergeron’s stupid head off his weak, squishy human body when your partner jumps in, laughing, “Nobody warned me those singers are allowed to ad lib!” He then adds a playful wave to the understandably confused band director as he calls out, “No harm, no foul, Ray!”

The audience reacts with an uproarious, unified laugh. Dave may have the dancing skills of an inebriated newborn, but you must reluctantly admit that he knows how to work a crowd.

“It looks like you have your work cut out for you, Karkat!” Tom jests.

And you, with a weary sigh, nod. “Just give us our scores,” you grumble.

Mercifully, the trusty trio complies. Calling your botched jive a “charmingly energetic dance” is Carrie Ann’s attempt to pry something positive from a pile of fresh shit. Bruno, meanwhile, hems and haws about Dave’s “magnetic personality” after rightfully calling the entire affair “a bit of a disappointment.” And Len — poor fucking Len — spends at least half of his alotted feedback time staring at you in slack-jawed shock. When he finally speaks, he looks directly at you and asks, “Do you need help, Karkat? That was an outright abomination.”

Through some immaculate intervention, you eke out eleven out of thirty possible points. (Carrie Ann must be feeling particularly cheerful tonight. You can’t think of any other reason for her to have given you a six.)

Backstage, Rose greets her twin with another wry smirk and a bag of real ice. “You know,” she says, and her grin grows even wider, “I’m amazed! You only fell once this week, Dave. Congrats!”

Kanaya, standing a few feet away, giggles at her partner’s taunts.

This time, even Vriska Serket, partnered with Terezi, breaks her usual anti-fraternization rule to approach you. She polishes her cobalt blue claws against her velvet dress and breathes a nasal laugh. “Honestly, Karkat, you must be the luckiest bastard around to have lasted to the second week. Let’s see if fortune keeps favoring the stupid.”

“I sure fucking hope it doesn’t,” you mutter.

After another hour and some change, you’re once again dragged onto the stage. You stand, with Dave, beneath a blinding, hot spotlight as Tom Bergeron announces this week’s losers. That glitter-drenched envelope is your only salvation, and you’re begging every deity you know to relieve you of this heinous duty.

Your pleas go unanswered.

Upon opening the envelope, Bergeron’s face scrunches up in confusion. He clears his throat, looks directly at you, and declares the results with a pointed sense of shock. “The first couple safe from elimination is,” he begins, adding the requisite dramatic pause, “Dave and Karkat.”

You’re ready to launch yourself directly into the sun.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 26 September 2017

Social media is abuzz with the trending hashtag “RIP Flavortown” to mourn the elimination of Guy Fieri. It’s an over-the-top reaction that makes it sound like he’s been permanently killed. In fact, unlike you, he’s merely been removed from his obligation to perform on Dancing With the Stars. If you could, you’d join Mister Fieri in this mythical Flavortown, but you’re still saddled with your subpar dance partner.

Right now, there’s a camera crew crowding your studio.

Dave is due to arrive in about five minutes, and you’ve been informed by the powers that be — or more precisely, executive producer (and Vriska’s cousin) Aranea Serket — that audiences “want to see more Vantas angst.” And to guarantee that will happen, she has dispatched your favorite judge, Len Goodman, to provide some “juicy emotional tension” in your sacred studio.

The plan is for Len to surprise you and Dave, but you have two minutes or so before the crew drags the respectable East Londoner outside for his ostensibly unexpected visit. Right now, you’re still frazzled from last night’s decision. You had fully expected to be eliminated, and the revelation that you must now teach the world’s most swagless moron a goddamned tango is gnawing at your soul.

Still, this is Len Goodman you’re dealing with; you maintain a respectful tone as you mutter under your breath, “How exactly did Dave freaking Strider make it to the third week of this competition, Len?”

The old man shrugs and throws his hands in the air. “Well, your guess is as good as mine, Karkat! I haven’t a clue how he made it this far. If it were up to me, he’d have been the first to go. I suppose the audience simply adores him.”

“What could there possibly be to like about that idiot?” you hiss.

Again, Len shrugs. His eyes narrow as he scratches the back of his head and says, “He has a halfway decent stage presence.”

As much as it pains you to admit it, he’s right. Dave knows how to manipulate a crowd. In some ways, you feel as though he’s starting to manipulate you, too. Why else would the sight of that bespectacled dumbass stir up anything but a deep, intrinsic sense of repulsion?

Dave, apparently having just arrived, is shoved into your studio. His hair is unkempt, his posture is sloppier than usual, and his shades are askew as he staggers inside. He adjusts his glasses, clears his throat, and cocks his head to the side as he asks, “What’s with all the fucking stagehands? Did someone die?”

“You cannot imagine how much I wish the answer to that question was, ‘Yes, I died.’ Alas, Strider, nobody is dead. This is yet another studio ploy to artificially pump up the show’s ratings. So, put on your best ‘I really want to be here’ impression” — you point to the camera as you continue — “because you’re on tape.”

“Shit,” Dave yawns. “For real? Damn. Well, gimme a second.”

He ruffles his hair, somehow managing to make his mess look somewhat intentional, and breathes in. After a few seconds, that pesky smirk oozes onto his lips like toxic slime. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully maintained and less haggard than before as he says, “Well, then, what’s the sitch, my dude? It’s week three, right? We’ll have, like,” his shades focus on what must be a cue card held up by one of the interns, and the overly even tone with which he speaks only confirms as much, “Hollywood Night, yeah? I sure hope we get a song from Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff, don’t you?”

You have a singular comfort here, and it’s that the Intergalactic Broadcast Station execs would never subject any audience to the crunchy, discordant “songs” from any of Dave’s films. There is an absolutely zero — and perhaps even negative — percent chance of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff’s soundtrack being in the lineup. Still, you force a polite smile onto your face as you nod and snatch up that sparkling pink envelope.

“It would be apt,” you say as you slit the packet open with one of your claws. The glossy page inside slips out easily, and you stare at something that’s only a tiny step above one of Dave’s horrendous films. “Well,” you announce, barely hiding your contempt, “it looks like we’re dancing to music from The Great Gatsby this week.”

Dave counters with a surprisingly consensual hum. “You mean the Baz Luhrmann movie?”

“No, I mean we’re going to turn the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel into an interpretive track,” you deadpan. “Of course I mean the Baz Luhrmann movie, you damned idiot. Do you want to lodge another complaint with the music department, or what?”

To your surprise, there’s something that vaguely resembles intelligence in Dave’s voice as he responds, “I mean… It’s, like, vaguely ironic that we turned an entire book that critiques the downright rancid decadence of the Jazz Age into an equally depraved celebration of the very values that it condemns. But who am I to judge?” Perhaps realizing that he’s broken his usual persona, he pauses. He buries his hands in his pockets and slouches forward as he adds, “Not my problem though, is it? What species of dance’re we doing?”

“What the hell do you mean ‘species of dance’? You mean what style are we doing? It’s a tango, idiot.”

Dave smirks and whistles. “Hooh boy! A steamy mofo this week, huh?” He then lowers his shades just enough for you — and by extension, the hapless camera crew — to see him waggle his eyebrows in the least attractive way possible. He somewhat straightens his back as he continues, “Might as well get started, huh? Seems like we’ll have a hell of a lot to cover.”

Now, the crew sends in Len Goodman, and you feign surprise.

Dave, of course, is genuinely surprised. For the briefest moment, you see his eyes widen. His mask slips ever so slightly, revealing a touch of what you recognize as performance anxiety, before he regains his composure. With open arms and a relaxed grin, he greets the show’s most respected judge, “Wazzup, Len man?” He then tries and fails to dap up the Englishman.

Understandably, Len stares at Dave in slack-jawed confusion. But as a lifelong showman, he quickly regains his footing. He offers a polite, normal handshake as he says, “I was quite serious about offering to help, so here I am! Don’t worry, Dave, we shall get you doing a perfect tango in no time.”

You want to warn the old man about his impending mistake. “This is just a production trap, and you’re about to experience the most frustrating twenty minutes of your life,” you want to say, but you bite your tongue. Part of you naïvely hopes that Len can actually teach Dave something. You’ve also been explicitly informed that warning the lauded ballroom pro about Dave’s seemingly innate lack of musicality will land you in another long-winded meeting with Equius.

And you are forced in silence to watch as Dave Strider’s latest, graceless clusterfuck unfolds.

Not surprisingly, Len offers plenty of crucial and exceedingly helpful tips. “The tango is all about power and control,” he begins, passionately posing as if he’s about to dance. “You must be assertive as you glide across the floor.” With his head turned to the side and his shoulders level with his outstretched arms, he effortlessly steps around the room. His knees are slightly bent and loose, allowing him to melt seamlessly into each step. When he’s done, he offers a polite, hopeful smile and turns to Dave.

You hold your breath. Dave, meanwhile, stares at the floor for a solid minute before assuming a posture that, if you were to squint and turn upside down, could potentially resemble Len’s. His shoulders are too low, his arms are too high, and his natural slouch makes him look like a peculiar zombie. His steps are too long and rigid, and their combined effect makes him look like a pigeon as he bobs across the room. But he doesn’t fall.

You and Len exchange knowing glances, silent acknowledgements that whatever potential may be buried beneath the bullshit is impossible to pry out and polish to anything resembling even a matte finish within just six days.

But Len is more gracious than you. He has taught far more than you ever will, and he has immensely more patience. In a few long strides, he closes in on Dave and plies his body into a proper stance before patting him on the shoulders, saying, “There you go, chap! That looks better!” Using his knee, he gently loosens Dave’s legs as he continues, “Now, try this. And remember to ease into those steps.”

This time, Dave manages to maintain the rigid, square-like form. He stomps in an inelegant loop around the studio, still managing to stay upright, and returns to his former spot with a surprisingly hopeful smile. “How was that, boss-man?”

You, unable to tolerate your partner’s tomfoolery any longer, interject by hissing in his ear, “Did you just fucking call Len Goodman ‘boss-man’?”

Thankfully, Dave gets the picture and hastily corrects himself, “Mister Sir Knight Len, I mean.”

(“So close,” you think, “and yet so, so fucking far.”)

Len is more generous than you, and you’d expect nothing else from him. Again, he demonstrates the movements. This time, he goes slower and gestures to his leading foot as he explains, “You want to caress the floor, you see. The tango may be powerful, but it is also graceful. A stomp is better suited for a square dance.” When he steps forward, his right foot ever so gently scrapes the floor. It’s a careful, subtle movement that helps produce the style’s iconic gliding motion. And after performing the act with his right foot, Len does the same with his left. Once again, he turns to Dave, hands clasped firmly behind his back, and says, “Now, you try it.”

You know all of this, of course.

But Dave is staring at this entire display with a look best described as ‘an intoxicated antlered forestbeast facing the headlights of a speeding vehicle’. His shades have slipped down his nose, and you see his eyebrows knit together as he concentrates on mimicking what he’s seen. For once, he does decently enough. He’s nowhere near the level he should be at this point in the competition, but he’s doing markedly better than before. (Which, by default, only emphasizes how poor his form was at the start of this fiasco.)

Len, ever the gentleman, claps and nods. He smiles as he congratulates Dave on the world’s most laboriously slow and sub-mediocre tango step. “Yes! That’s it! Now, you simply have to do that for the entire dance.”

Dave’s brow furrows even more, and his mouth falls slightly open as he breathes a nervous laugh. “The whole fucking dance?”

And Len, seemingly unaware that Dave is — for once — being completely serious, nods once more. “Yes, that’s how a tango works, Dave!” Here, he straightens his back and raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So, try again. Speed it up a bit!”

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Dave ends up looking like a thoroughly intoxicated flightless wingbeast.

Mercifully, Len’s allotted time in your studio ends with Dave’s graceless flailing. With another polite smile, he bids you and Dave farewell, saying, “I’m sure you’ll be somewhat presentable by Monday!”

You are not convinced by this claim.

Thursday, 28 September 2017

You always arrive around 8:00 a.m., and you’ve grown accustomed to Dave barging into your studio approximately two hours later. You go about your stretching routine under the assumption that you will have those blessed two hours of peace. Unfortunately for you, the universe has never complied with your wishes.

Somewhere around 9:30 a.m., Dave barges into the studio with bombastic aplomb. He’s doing a bastardized tango walk and staring vainly into his phone as he narrates to some unknown audience, “And this is the studio, y’all! Ain’t it just adorable? We’ve got, like, these freaky little bismuth larvae we’ve got hanging up here.” He angles his phone’s stabilizing rig upwards, to the carefully strung line of metallic, rainbow-hued grubs that dangle from the drop ceiling.

“It’s not fucking ‘bismuth’, you wretched wriggler,” you snap. “It’s iridesimethius from Alternia.”

Dave blinks. He maintains that vapid, clueless expression as he dismissively corrects himself. “Okay, chat. So it’s… uh… whatever the hell Kat just said. Iridium methamphetamine or whatevs.” A blasé shrug and canned laugh send your blood pressure skyrocketing. Yet, he continues his narration as he prances around the room. Next, he focuses on your framed poster for A Romantic Entanglement Between a Man in Need of a Friend and His Hapless Paid Acquaintance and says, “And what about this poster? Goddamn, them aliens really give things long names, huh?”

Again, you interject: “That is one of the most compelling romances of the past pentasweep, you cultureless swine!” Annoyingly, your outburst results in Dave’s camera landing firmly upon your face.

“Woah-hoh there, chat! Someone’s a little grumpy this morning. Hold up, lemme fix something.” After tapping at his phone screen, Dave lowers his shades just enough to level a surprisingly candid glare in your direction. He makes a motion that would — at least on Alternia — be considered a dire threat, drawing a pointed index finger across his throat; on Earth, however, it’s merely a nonverbal plea to stop doing something.

He drops his usual bravado as he mumbles, “So, like, I don’t wanna be up this early, either. Got a call from that sweaty producer dude this morning, and he told me I had to ‘really ham it up on the Flick-Flack’ to ‘appeal to the youths of today’.” He emphasizes his point with one-sided air quotes and carefully keeps his phone camera upright. He even turns the lens away from you long enough to step forward and add, his voice strangely genuine, “Just work with me, okay? I’d much rather be snoozing in my kick-ass hotel room right now. Capisce?”

The fluttering feeling rubs at the back of your throat as you slowly nod.

And with a pleased smile, Dave raises his sunglasses. He easily slips back into his stupid persona as he resumes the video. Clearing his throat, he turns the camera back towards you as he says, “Great, y’all! We’ve got the agreement down. All perked up, like I hopped the man up on the best cocaine ever.” There’s a beat of silence as Dave processes what just left his mouth. A nervous laugh precedes a hasty correction: “Don’t do drugs, kids! That was a joke! Coke ain’t good for you.”

Before you can even notice and stop it, a snort of laughter slips from your nostrils. You then breathe in through your teeth and look away from the camera.

Fortunately, Dave says nothing about your momentary lapse in composure. Instead, he trots to the studio door and throws it open. In an unbearably chipper voice, he announces, “Well, howdy-freakin’-do! It’s, uh…” He casts a quick glance at his free palm before continuing, “television’s favorite judge, Terezi Pyrope!”

(Because of course Equius would insist on this being a needless social media collab. You can practically hear him now: “The kids these days, they adore their socialized media feeds. We must capture this demographic by deploying a ‘collaborative video’ for them.”).

Dave, meanwhile, presses a button on the side of his ridiculous phone stabilizer. A tinny, cheap applause effect plays from an equally (and surprisingly shoddy) speaker.

And to her credit, Terezi plays along perfectly. She rests her white cane against her shoulder and flashes a wide, sharp-toothed smile. A low, buzzing cackle rises from her throat. (In the days before you moved to Earth, hearing such a sound would’ve put you on edge. Now, you find her laughter vaguely charming.) “Now, now,” she croowns, “I may be legislative loyalty, but the applause is a bit much!” Like Dave, she knows how to play to the crowd. She raises her hands in the air as her smile widens, and she breathes another cackle before she continues, “I’ve been eyeballing all your posts, you naughty little bitches. And I will neither deny nor confirm the allegations that me and Vriska are doing anything more than a normal, family-friendly tango.”

A different button on the stabilizer flips Dave’s phone to the front-facing camera. You find yourself staring at your mirrored, dumbstruck likeness as your partner responds to Terezi’s claim. With a sly smile and a doubtfully quirked brow, he says, “Well, you heard it here! There ain’t a single untoward thing happening between TZ and Vriska. So, tune in later to my channel, D-Stree-vids, for more juicy gossip.”

The second the broadcast ends, every mask in the room drops.

Dave snatches his phone from the holder and stuffs it in his pocket. A dramatic huff passes through his lips as he shakes his head and tuts, “Goddamn, that was annoying as hell. Next time, I’m making that sweaty motherfucker do his own promo FlipFlop.”

You, meanwhile, pick up the discarded stabilizer and stick it atop the corner bench. “Now, this may be a controversial opinion among the broadcasting brass, I have what may be an even better suggestion! What if they find a team with a vastly more competent dancer and let us practice?”

“Hey! Back it up now, y’all,” Dave cuts in. “I think I take offense to that. You’re, like, implying that I’m not the best dancer here?”

You suppress a snicker as you reply, “Let’s be fucking real with ourselves, Strider. You have three left stompstalks and all the grace of a beached sea creature.”

And with another chortle, Terezi interjects, “Well, I think your dancing is fucking amazing, Dave!”

You, understanding her implications immediately, let forth a whoop of laughter.

Dave, however, takes more time to process the comment. His reply begins with a genuine smile as he says, “Aw, hell! Really? Well, I” — finally, it clicks. His brow furrows, and a touch of vaguely amused annoyance colors his words as he switches his tune, saying, “Oh, goddammit! Shut the fuck up, TZ!”

Friday, 29 September 2017

On a technicality, you’re not supposed to talk to the other pros about your dance. If this show was a genuine competition — and not the thinly veiled popularity contest it’s become — you’d be disqualified for meeting with Kanaya. But as things are, nobody really gives a damn. You might get some colloquial “shade” thrown your way, but that’s the most that will happen. And with your current partner’s (lack of anything that resembles a) performance, you doubt any of the other pros will care.

Thus, you find yourself sitting on the floor of your studio at 10:15 p.m., shitty grocery store ham sandwich in hand, as you stare at the nigh incomprehensible rantings you’ve scribbled across page after page of your choreography notebook. At this point, you have just two full days to create a complete tango routine, and you have what can be aptly described as “fucking nothing” planned.

Kanaya, meanwhile, pokes away at her palmhusk. She breathes a thoughtful hum, and her sleek eyebrows furrow as she studies some of her notes. As she works, she nibbles at her own sandwich. Eventually, she offers up an idea: “Have you, perhaps, considered utilizing some of Dave’s athleticism in your routine? He does plenty of stunt work, and I am sure he can do some acrobatics.”

“If I was dealing with anyone but Dave goddamned Strider, I’d tell you that’s a great idea. Truly, it’s a gobsmackingly brilliant proposal. Unfortunately for everyone, I don’t trust the bastard enough to let him take more than one stompstalk off the ground at any given time.” You tap the blunted ends of your claws against one of your ink-filled pages.

You’ve actually written plenty of choreography, although you’ve scratched through most of it. You’re never begging for inspiration; planning routines has always come easily to you. No, there’s something else at play, but it sounds ridiculous. Even as an unspoken thought in your mind, it sounds like a conspiratorial reach. Still, you can’t think of anything else you can fix, so you tentatively propose your theory to your friend: “Now, don’t take this as me claiming Dave Strider has anything that even resembles the potential to be a decent ballroom dancer. Let me make it perfectly clear that I do not believe that man has a single rhythmic bone in his entire fucking body. But I think there’s another problem contributing to his abject lack of style.”

The upward flicker at the edges of Kanaya’s lips tell you she’s intrigued before she speaks. There’s a sparkle in her jade green eyes as she jokes, “His personality?”

You allow yourself the luxury of a laugh and shove the last few bites of your meal into the plastic packaging. It’s simply too nasty to finish eating. Besides, you have more important matters to consider. Once you’re done lapping up Kanaya’s much-needed comedic relief, you shake your head. “Call me fucking crazy, Kan, but I genuinely think that moron has stage fright.”

Your prediction turns out to be correct.

Kanaya’s eyes narrow, and her brows twitch. Her lips quirk ever so slightly downward as she processes your accusation. Then, with more than a pinch of skepticism, she asks, “You are saying that Dave Strider, a man who happily broadcasts himself reviewing public bathrooms on FlipFlop, has stage fright? I do not mean to offend you, Karkat, but do you realize how insane you sound?”

You nod. You really can’t do anything but agree with her. Your theory does sound positively bonkers, even to you, but it’s the only thing you can think of that might explain the discrepancy between what you see in the studio and what happens on the stage. By no means is Dave Strider a decent dancer. He is a graceless, styleless oaf, and teaching a croakmouse to fly is easier than imparting even an ounce of dancing wisdom upon his thick brain case. But his practice sessions are at least coherent, and he generally manages to finish routines without eating shit.

That said, you anticipated this result. You whip out your palmhusk and pull up a ViewTube video of your last dance. You pause before Dave botches his entrance and zoom in on his face. “There,” you say, jabbing your finger at the way his forehead creases, “don’t you see it? You’ve got to believe me, Kan. I’m going to lose the last scraps of my tenuous sanity if you don’t.”

To her credit, Kanaya seriously considers your proposal. She gently takes your palmhusk and replays the clip a few times. You see that spark in her eyes turn to a fire, and you finally feel a bit of hope as she nods and says, “Yes, yes. I see it. You may just be right, Karkat. Unfortunately, I am not quite sure how I would be able to help.”

Now, you take the leap. You breathe in, fold your hands, and level at your friend the most piteous, wide-eyed pout you can manage as you beg, “The fucker needs competition. I need you to make sure Rose pisses him off before we dance.”

“Well,” she hums, tapping a pink painted claw against her lower lip, “I do not believe your partner will survive another elimination round. He is simply not a good enough dancer. So, I will help you.”

Monday, 2 October 2017

“Live from Hollywood, it’s Dancing With the Stars!” the announcer’s voice booms through the entire building and drags you back into a world of sequin-coated glamor.

Tonight is the third week of the show’s twenty-fifth season, and you keep reassuring yourself that you’ve done your best. You are now more certain than ever that you will be sent home. Even if Dave doesn’t completely botch this dance, he may just end up torpedoing any chances of another mediocre White man climbing this reality show’s glitter-coated ladder. You consider such an outcome a win, but your inner competitor still rebels against the possibility of losing.

What can you say? You have three Mirrorball awards to your name, and you so desperately want a fourth to round off your display.

But there are better competitors than Dave, and everyone knows it.

You take the edge off the sting of your inevitable elimination by loitering on the balcony sofa. You watch everything unfold and sip on some Alternian fruit-flavored sparkling water. “Perhaps I’ll treat myself to a nice sopor pie when I get home,” you think as the first dancers return from the stage.

This week, Nepeta goes second. She’s spent the entire night proclaiming how “fur-eeking excited” she is to be dancing to “Rainbow Connection”. The hood of her sparkling olive green ensemble is topped by a pair of beady white eyes. She is, apparently, supposed to be Kermit the Frog. Her performance receives a predictably wild reaction from the crowd, and the judges award her a solidly decent score of twenty-one out of thirty points.

Later, you side-eye Kanaya and Rose.

They’re growing remarkably close. Just moments before they’re due to dance, they’re shooting flirty glances at one another over the buffet table. They won’t be the first televised love story, but you didn’t expect the combination. (Then again, you’ve had a bit of a situation on your plate this season.)

The two women perform a classic, if not somewhat distracted, waltz to a tune from The Godfather. From your perch above the stage, you can easily spot the main issue. Unlike Dave, Rose has no shortage of talent. She carries herself with a natural grace that matches her partner’s lengthy strides. Kanaya, too, is a remarkable dancer. Unfortunately for them, they spend a bit too much time ogling each other’s anatomies and not enough time focusing on the dance. They are, nonetheless, awarded a tidy twenty-five out of thirty possible points.

When they return, Kanaya gleefully deposits Rose beside your roving ballroom partner. You strain to hear her commentary without making your rubbernecking too obvious.

“So, dearest brother,” she facetiously coos, “what shall your latest foray to the dance floor bring us?”

When there’s no physical audience staring at him, Dave easily maintains his haughty attitude. He throws back his head and lets fly a whoop of far too confident laughter before he informs his sister of his plans. “Well, while you were busy studying alien cleavage, I was learning how to do a sick-ass, kick-ass tango.” He emphasizes his point by assuming a surprisingly acceptable pose. He then bows and readjusts his shades as he goes on, saying, “Prepare to have your mind fucking blown, Rosie.”

Curiosity draws you closer. Leaving behind your comfy seat, you surreptitiously approach the buffet table. You snag a handful of shrimp tempura and nibble on them as you listen.

Rose, now armed with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, responds with a smirk of her own. “I’m sure you will have grand plans for next week from your mansion in Houston, Dave.”

You find yourself stifling a laugh a few seconds too late.

Dave, meanwhile, breathes an indignant huff. His jaw and shoulders set as he scoffs, “Don’t be so fucking sure ‘bout that!” With that said, he stomps to the sofa and sits in your former spot.

Whatever Kanaya told Rose was perfect. And the stagehands arrive to ferry you to what will most certainly be your last dance shortly thereafter.

“Dancing the tango, it’s Dave Strider and his partner, Karkat Vantas!”

That initial note hits — distorted, almost synthetic brass with a jazzy upturn. You lock eyes with Dave as he purposefully closes in on you, shoulders perfectly square. His feet fail to align with the tango’s typical diagonal axis, and his steps are still closer to stomps, but he’s doing a halfway acceptable job.

For the briefest of moments, you and Len Goodman share stunned eye contact. You’re almost naïve enough to feel hope, but a misplaced step quickly derails the dance. Your knee jams against Dave’s crotch, and a puzzled look crosses his face as he mutters in your ear, “Well, this is awkward.” He attempts to dislodge himself by stepping forward, while you attempt to pull back. The result is a movement that ultimately makes him look like he’s intentionally dry humping your thigh.

You don’t need to make it to the elimination tonight to know your fate. No, you’re depressingly certain that you’ll survive this week, and you’re assured of that fact the moment the crowd bursts into cheers and laughter. This entire fiasco is about to go infuriatingly viral, and your newest fear is that you’ll forever be known as “the troll that got dry humped on Dancing With the Stars.”

“Okay,” you growl, “we both need to step back.”

Dave nods, but there’s a knowing smirk on his face. He, too, is now assured of his unwarranted passage into the fourth week of competition. There’s a trace of laughter in his voice as he whispers to you, “What? You don’t like me riding your knee on intergalactic television?”

The beauty of a tango is its understated aggression, and you turn that element into an outright advantage as you shove Dave away from you. You over-emphasize your movements to disguise the act as a dance move, but you know it’s too late to save the routine. When you meet Dave again on the floor, he’s barely holding in laughter.

When the dance finally ends, you find that you’ve managed to stun everyone but the cackling crowd into silence. Not even Tom Bergeron has much more to say than, “You truly have a way of turning everything into something unique, Dave.”

Despite scoring just fifteen out of thirty points, your nightmare drags on as the slack-jawed public votes you and Dave into week four.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 3 October 2017

You are now fully convinced that Equius and the production team are legitimately trying to kill you. They may claim that your songs and dances are chosen at random, but you don’t believe them. Or perhaps things are chosen by a computer, and it’s simply that this specific computer system hates your existence.

You hadn’t even been added to the roster when a mambo was last used on the show. As far as you can recall, its last appearance was two whole-ass decades ago. Now, you don’t have anything against the dance. You’re a huge fan of Latin styles, and you adore anything that lets you show off the fancy footwork that nobody seems to expect from a troll of your rounded stature. Under normal circumstances, you’d be ecstatic to revive a long-forgotten style on the show, but being partnered with Dave Strider precludes your excitement.

And you’re discovering a secondary issue. Or, perhaps more appropriately, you’re seeing a side of Dave that you must begrudgingly admit you enjoy experiencing.

For reasons beyond your comprehension, Dave arrived early today — before you, even. And when you arrived, you found him sitting in the corner of your studio and playing a beaten-down acoustic guitar. You expected him to be terrible; you’ve seen his films and listened to his grating “music”, after all. But what you found was the exact opposite.

No, he was actually amazing.

He didn’t notice your entrance, and he blissfully hammered out some downright moving tunes. He played with the precision and ease of a verified virtuoso, and his timing was impeccable. And you, in that moment of weakness, found yourself stupidly wondering what it would be like to have those strangely pale fingers slide up and down your neck. The second that thought crossed your mind, you slipped back outside.

All of that happened about forty minutes ago, and you haven’t returned since.

But you can’t hide forever.

Aside from the allure of a paycheck, your competitive side is growing weary of your emotional incompetence. Like it or not (and you most certainly lean towards the latter), a good mambo requires a surplus of skill. Were you to have a competent partner, you’d be confident in your ability to tutor them enough to produce something that is, at the very least, an aesthetically pleasing routine. Dave is an entirely different story. If you want to create something even slightly coherent, you need to utilize every second of practice.

Now, you stand outside the door to your studio. You can still hear guitar music drifting through the crack beneath the entryway, and you recognize it as your assigned song. You give yourself some mental kicks as you mutter beneath your breath, “At least we’ll get voted off this week.”

This time, you announce your presence by intentionally allowing the door to slam against the wall.

You get the tiniest buzz of satisfaction when Dave jumps. A string on his guitar snaps as he jerks his head towards you. He tries to downplay his shock with an unconvincing laugh and a casual greeting: “I was starting to think you’d ditched me. So, what’s the shit this week? ‘Mambo Number 5’ or something?”

Whatever scrap of affection you may have had for the idiot fades quickly. Your jaw sets as you close the door and reply, “Your think pan must be made entirely of moobeast feces, Strider. The dance existed before that vapid song, and it’s probably about to kill both of us.”

After shoving his guitar back into its case, Dave buries his hands in his pockets. He stands, pouting, and sounds like a dejected child as he mutters, “I mean… I actually kinda’ like that song.”

And he’s so downright pitiful that you feel compelled to reassure him. A sigh of frustration passes through your lips, and you massage your thumbs against your temples as you grumble, “My disdain for that tune does not preclude your admiration for it, Strider. We can like different things.”

Dave opens his mouth to say more.

You silence him with a murderous glare.

“Anyhow,” you declare as you walk directly past your assigned dance partner, “the mambo is a very technical, difficult dance. I doubt I can teach you enough to perform a competent routine by this coming Monday, but we shall fucking see. I aim to at least bully you into performing something that I can display to my peers without being overcome by mind-melting embarrassment.”

After setting your palmhusk atop the corner shelf and plugging in the charger, you turn on your heel. You very intentionally avoid looking at Dave as you continue your introductory speech, saying, “I see that you are — to my awestruck astonishment — legitimately capable of carrying a beat. Unfortunately, it seems that this talent is limited to your idling fingers. So, let’s start there. Snap a basic beat, four-four time.”

Now, you hesitantly turn your gaze towards Dave.

Oddly enough, he actually looks serious. His shades have dropped enough for you to see the upper edges of his furrowed eyebrows, and he obeys your order without complaint.

“Good, Strider!” you add a sarcastic clap for emphasis as you step closer to Dave. “You’re a musician, yes? You understand this shit. It’s basic as fuck.” You stop when you’re about two feet away from him. Rolling your shoulders back straightens your posture and helps you really lean into your venomous downward glare at him as you count out his snaps, “One and two and three and four, right? Go up to eight,” you add four more beats to the count. “We’re turning and breaking on the second and sixth beats. Do you understand?”

Dave, still snapping and now oddly mystified by your presence, nods as he mutters, “Yes, Daddy. I mean Karkat.” His abrupt correction is accompanied by a burning blush and a look of slack-jawed embarrassment.

You blink.

Dave blinks. Then, with the sort of robotic rigidity that only comes from the most extreme shame possible, he blurts, “I SAID ABSOLUTELY NOTHING SUSPICIOUS, YOU KNOW!”

“I never claimed that you ever did such a thing, you blithering moron,” you huff, and you do your best to put Dave’s peculiar slip-up behind you. As far as you’re concerned, it’s about the same as when a wriggler accidentally calls a teacher their lusus. It’s nothing particularly concerning.

You keep pushing the lesson, showing Dave some basic steps and choreographing a halfway decent route around the stage. It’s a big, flashy dance, and you intend to use most of your allotted space. The more you move, the less time he has to trip over himself performing an eye-catching combo.

“Then again,” nags a voice at the back of your head, “do you really want a repeat of last week?” The answer is something like, “holy fucking shit, of course not!” But you have to weigh your options carefully with Dave, and you’d rather gamble on another dry-humping incident than potentially breaking your nose on intergalactic television.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

Strangely enough, you’ve managed to mold Dave’s wild flailing into something that looks like dancing if you squint. (And have horrible vision. And don’t understand what music is.) He won’t be winning any awards, but he can at least coordinate his limbs in a coherent manner. You think it’s the nature of the dance. Despite being a technically challenging affair, a mambo’s brisk speed can easily hide imperfections. The average viewer might even consider Dave’s performance almost decent.

But you’re still in the studio.

There’s no audience, and your suspicions have somehow leaked to the production team. So, with an unwelcome camera crew in tow, you drag his ass to the underused community theater a few blocks away. It’s a far cry from the glitz and glamor of the Dancing With the Stars set, but it works well enough. You’ve even enlisted some hecklers — Kanaya, Rose, Terezi, and Vriska — to ratchet up the tension.

Vriska is, unsurprisingly, the first person to speak. When that opening note hits, she cups her hands around her mouth and belts out, “YOU DANCE LIKE MY LUSUS: STIFF, COLD, AND FUCKING DEAD!”

The comment draws a snort of laughter from Terezi. Perhaps inspired by Vriska’s not-so-friendly ribbing, the television judge goes next, yelling, “YOU COULDN’T EVEN FLAT-FOOT YOUR WAY OUT OF A PARKING TICKET!”

And Rose joins in with a hearty, “Don’t worry, dearest brother! I’m sure you’ll find a way to botch this, too!” (You find yourself wondering if she ever uses that phrase seriously. “Probably not,” you reason. If the two ever have a cordial interaction, they must have another term of legitimate endearment for one another.)

Even Kanaya has a brutal insult: “Your dancing makes me feel as I felt after my first kiss in high school: nauseous, ill, and as if I had immediately contracted a terrible venereal disease!”

While her voice is muffled by the music, you still hear Vriska’s response. First, she laughs. Then, she pauses. After a beat of silence, and likely with a murderous glare in Kanaya’s direction, she snaps, “Wait! What the fuck, you plant-humping bitch? I was your first kiss!”

“I am aware, and that does not change the facts of the matter,” You’re not looking at Kanaya, but you can easily picture her blasé shrug.

In retrospect, you maybe should have been more precise about your demand for “some decent heckling”…

Regardless, it doesn’t take long for the symptoms to manifest. You recognize them well, seeing as you once had stage fright. The first sign is the sweat that gathers on his twitching brow. Then, he starts stumbling.

“Strider? More like ‘Faller’, am I right?” Vriska jeers.

Terezi must be deeply amused by the display, as she responds with a wild cackle and an enthusiastic, “Oh! Boom! Fucking gottem!” You then hear the telltale slap of a high-five.

For a few moments, you ponder the implications of this revelation. If four heckling dorks can send Dave Strider into a tailspin, how much pressure has he been under during tapings? Moreover, as someone who prides yourself in your skills as a dance instructor of the hopelessly graceless and oftentimes idiotic, how have you failed to notice his unease? You may not necessarily like Dave, but stage fright is basic shit. You should have seen this before and addressed it.

“And there he fucking goes,” Rose proclaims, clapping sarcastically.

As if compelled by his sister’s words, Dave freezes. He immediately becomes a very literal and quite immovable object.

Shaking aside the wholly illogical thought that Rose may be some sort of witch, you jam your hand into your pocket and shut off the music. At the same time, you wave your other hand in front of Dave’s face. “Hello?” you say, trying to get any sort of response out of him. “Earth to Strider! Are you in there, or has your brain finally directly fallen out your refuse chute?”

“It seems that Dave has encountered an error,” Kanaya volunteers, and you can feel the smug grin that’s on her face without needing to see it.

Terezi interjects where you expect to hear Rose. With a snort of laughter, she suggests, “Maybe you should try turning the douchebag off and then on again?”

“Oh, he needs far more help than a basic reset,” Rose hums.

Now, you realize that you probably should have recruited some saner hecklers. At the very least, you shouldn’t have included Dave’s twin sister, and you certainly shouldn’t have brought in Situational Escalation Expert Vriska Serket. You pry yourself away from your anxiety-stricken dance partner and turn to the makeshift audience long enough to shout, “Show’s over, jackasses! Go home!”

For once, you’re happy to have a camera crew present. Despite a chorus of protests, many of which come from Vriska, the four hecklers are escorted out of the theater.

When the doors click shut, it’s like someone flips a switch.

Dave’s shoulders immediately relax. Then, to your surprise, he lets his usual mask drop. He pushes his shades back up and wrings his hands together. With his gaze firmly fixed on some of the buzzing overhead lights, he mutters, “Wow! So, like, that was super uncool of me. My b.” His hands shift. One buries itself in his pants pocket, and the other rubs the back of his neck as he continues, “I guess you know my dirty little secret, huh? The great Dave Strider, cinematic artiste extraordinaire, has fucking stage fright.”

You want to let loose a victorious whoop. You want to jump up and down as you scream, “I fucking knew it!” But you’re just logical enough to know that such a reaction won’t help the situation.

So, instead, you breathe a long sigh and try to massage the situation into something workable. Seeing Dave’s vulnerability, however brief it may be, prompts you to respond in turn. You scuff the toe of your shoe against the beaten-down wooden stage as you admit, “It’s not that big of a deal, Strider. I used to have it, too. A lot of the performers here have or used to have stage fright.”

The look Dave gives you, with a twitching left eyebrow and a deep frown, tells you that he’s skeptical of your claim. His words, meanwhile, jump to an entirely different angle as he says, “Yeah, sure! That’s fine! But I can’t have stage fright, dude. I’m, like, a cinema legend! I don’t get scared or pussy out, y’know?” Here, he stops. His shades turn towards the camera crew, and a huff of annoyance flares out his nostrils. When he speaks again, he’s whispering: “Shit! They’re getting all this on tape, right? Oh, goddamn! My cool dude persona is so cooked.”

“I genuinely cannot fathom why you care so goddamned much about such a thing, but I simply must break some fucking critical news to you, Strider. You’re already on this show. Anyone who gave a damn about your so-called ‘cool guy persona’ has already written you off as a textbook sell-out or wimp.” You realize a bit too late that your words are overly harsh, but you don’t feel like pulling back.

You step forward, tower over Dave, and stare down at him as you clasp your hands behind your back. Still, you don’t exactly want to come across as a total asshole. You take a few seconds to even out your tone and sand away some of the rough edges before you push ahead and ask, “You’re constantly posting to those stupid apps, aren’t you? What’s the big damned difference between showing the most inane, unpalatable details of your life to a gaggle of prepubescent morons and dancing in front of a live audience?”

“Well,” Dave begins by drawing out the vowel of his first word to some ridiculous, borderline comical length, “I don’t see the audience online. They’re just, like, hypothetical viewers. And I cannot stress enough that I have zero dancing experience. Rose at least took ballet when we were younger.”

“ASSFLASH, NEWSHOLE! That’s the point of this fucking show. It’s not ‘Dancing With the People Who Already Know How to Dance’. That’s just a regular ballroom competition. It’s Dancing With the Stars, and that comes with the pretty fucking obvious implication that said ‘stars’ do not actually know how to dance.”

From behind you, low and somewhere in the audience area, one of the camera crew’s staffers speaks up. In a tiny voice, he mutters, “Mister Vantas, can we maybe tone down the swearing? We’ll have to edit out a lot of this stuff.”

You silence the hapless cameraman with a pointed glare.

Dave, meanwhile, sucks in a breath through his teeth. He starts pacing across the stage and talks, but most of what he says seems to be mindless rambling. “Like, I’m used to performing for a camera, right? I do it all the time. Acting’s just a thing I do, and I’d like to think I’m kinda’ okay at it. But dancing ain’t my thing. It’s never been my thing. And when I don’t know a thing, I get, like…” He stops, shoves both hands in his pockets, and chews on his lip.

“FlipFlop ain’t a competition. Or… Hm… No, it kinda’ is a competition for viewers. But it ain’t really a competition for me, right? I’ve already got those eyes staring at me, so I don’t feel any legitimate pressure to perform. I’m just vibing with a bunch of randos who, for reasons I don’t understand, choose to spend their time watching me fuck around and do shit.” Dave’s left eyebrow quirks upwards, poking above the rims of his shades, as he continues, “But I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I generally prefer to fuck around by myself. Like, do you want tens of millions of eyeballs staring at you while you’re learning to do something?”

Part of you is annoyed by Dave’s hesitancy, but there’s a large enough scrap of sympathy to push your answer into softer, gentler pastures. You step back, breathe in, and track Dave’s back-and-forth movements as you speak. “Again, that’s the point of the show. Yeah, everyone goes fucking shit-wild for an unexpectedly good dancer. It’s fun and quirky when, say, the guy known for driving fast cars can burn up the dance floor. But that’s not the point. It’s a show about learning how to dance.”

Dave stops his ceaseless movement long enough to turn and direct his veiled gaze at you as he annoyingly points out, “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Well fucking obviously I don’t want everyone to see me eat shit on the stage, Strider. That’s just a stupid goddamned question. But you can move around without turning everything into the world’s grandest circus, so focus on yourself and stop giving a shit about everything else.” You feel your eyelids twitching as you reply. Your patience for this is wearing thin. In a moment of lapsed judgement, you blurt, “Fine! If it fucking helps you, just focus on me while we dance. It’s not like anyone can see your eyes behind those douchebag shades, anyhow.”

To your ire, the comment seems to be the confidence boost Dave needs. He slides back into his usual persona and smirks as he coos, “Well, if you insist, I’ll stare into those soulful, extraterrestrial peepers.”

When a surge of infuriating affection churns at the bottom of your stomach, you realize that you’ve made another horrific mistake.

Sunday, 8 October 2017

Trying to find the best way to work with Dave is a process akin to your Alternian grade school’s “Human Cultural Norms” lessons. It’s a tedious, annoying process that seems to only now unfold itself fully. And part of you is ready to declaw yourself over it all. You’ve never had a partner so unwilling and closed-off that they take five fucking weeks to open up to you.

But another part of you — a portion that you’ve generally kept buried — finds a twisted, affectionate joy in all of this. You can’t help but feel a surge of strangely warm excitement whenever you drive a concept through Dave’s thick brain case. You get a rush of joy whenever he seems pleased with his progress. Granted, the definition of “progress” is getting stretched to its absolute limits. Dave is by no means a competent dancer, and this mambo will be as aesthetically pleasant as a pile of moobeast dung.

But when he’s not actively positioning himself as the world’s most ostentatious, unbearable douchebag, Dave is a surprisingly fun person. More and more, you find yourself laughing at his stupid asides. You’re starting to see where his once baffling cult of personality started. Beneath the machismo, he’s a unexpectedly intelligent and occasionally hilarious person. He’s not “cool” — not in any traditional sense — but he has a unique appeal that you’re finally starting to dig your claws into.

Today is your last full day of practice, and you can at least say that you’ve hit most of the “essential” points on your to-do list. You’ve hammered the beat into his head, forced him to instinctually move on the correct beats, and managed to consistently lead him through the world’s most childishly basic mambo in just five days.

Is it a good dance? Absolutely not! You should be leagues above this level by now, and you’re going to get your collective asses handed to you by the judges.

But, crucially, it is a consistent dance. As long as Dave is staring at you, he’s getting through the routine — stiff hips, stomping steps, slouching back, and all.

Monday, 9 October 2017

You have never seen a contestant look as downright ridiculous and out of place as Dave does in his current outfit. And that’s not a knock against the costuming team; they have, as always, designed and crafted a perfectly fitted ensemble in less than a week.

Unfortunately, the rumba-styled look is downright comical on your dance partner. The puffy, multicolored sleeves hang off his arms like bastardized cluckbird wings, and the matching pants are doing him no favors. The black torso that forms the outfit’s base only serves to emphasize its peculiarities. Seconds after seeing him, your efforts to contain your laughter fail. Your amusement bursts from you with the force of a raging tsunami, and it seems you’re not alone.

As that familiar announcement rumbles through the theater — “Live from Hollywood, it’s Dancing With the Stars!” — you hear a familiar cackle. Shortly thereafter, Terezi steps forward to sniff at the frilly sleeves as she proudly announces, “You smell like a spoiled Cramp-Free Sun juice pouch, Coolkid.”

Not surprisingly, Rose also has something to say. From her spot on the balcony sofa, she laughs and smirks as she inquires, “Did someone eviscerate a piñata for your outfit, dearest brother?”

Even Dave seems to realize how stupid he looks. He dramatically presses the back of his right hand to his forehead as he bemoans, “They’ve fucking slaughtered by vibes, y’all. It’s tragic.”

“I might go so far as to say that they have slaughtered your dignity, too,” Kanaya snorts.

Dave, to your surprise, laughs at this brutal dig. You may not know him well, but you feel as if you’ve made progress. If such a comment was hurled his way last week, you’re certain he would have responded with an indignant huff. Now, he’s more relaxed, and you’ll count that as a generally positive development.

In her usual way, Nepeta has something more positive to say. Clad in the dictionary definition of a classic ballroom dress, she bounds over with seemingly limitless energy, proclaiming, “It’s an interesting costume, at least!”

“I’m consistently amazed by your ability to twist even this abomination of a wardrobe choice into something positive,” you smirk.

You’re feeling confident. At the very least, you’ll go out on a high note. If Dave can handle himself and avoid fucking this over, you might even net yourself a decent score. You doubt you’ll break twenty points, but you’re feeling confident that you might eke out sixteen or seventeen points.

Alas, that confidence deflates the second the first dance begins. Rose and Kanaya’s pasodoble is a captivating, jaw-dropping routine. It’s complex enough to keep the audience entertained, but it retains the powerful formality that defines the style. Kanaya’s confidence in her partner is on full display; simple, traditional choreography is any star’s badge of honor.

And of course they get the season’s first perfect score.

You find yourself getting even angrier as you realize you can’t even disagree with the judges. The dance truly was “a perfect, classic pasodoble”, as Len aptly noted. And Bruno’s claim that Kanaya’s choreography was “an absolutely stunning display of trust” is perfectly defensible. You even found yourself nodding in agreement when Carrie Ann spent her entire feedback slot slapping the table and cheering.

In keeping with your agreement, Kanaya dispatches Rose to your position when they’re freed from their post-dance interview.

And Rose approaches you and Dave with a wide, knowing smirk and a raised left eyebrow. She folds her arms across her chest and presses a coy, taunting hand against her cheek as she says, “Ah-ha! The season’s first perfect score! Well, what do you know? It seems I really am the best dancer in the StriLonde family, dearest brother!”

“Oh, bite my ass and call me a fried pickle,” Dave counters.

Notably, you have no idea what this reply means. You’ve never heard such a phrase before, but it’s delivered with such conviction that you can only nod in agreement. You puff up your ego and reassure yourself of your progress as you shoot back: “Prepare to eat your fucking words, Lalonde!”

“Are you insinuating that you’ve actually turned my brother into a skilled mambo dancer?” Rose’s reply is understandably skeptical. Her eyebrows rise, and the far edges of her lips pull into a disbelieving smile.

“Absolutely not!” you scoff. “No, we’re going to fucking suck. But we’ll suck much less than last week, and that’s pants-shittingly amazing.”

To your surprise, your comment draws a pleased hum from Dave. “Aw, really?” he asks, and his voice is surprisingly genuine. “That’s actually really nice of you to say, dude.”

Already feeling as if you’re getting a little too close to this idiot, you snap, “Don’t fucking push it.” And you smile when he falls silent.

When it’s finally your turn to dance, you meet Dave on the stage. You start this number facing each other, and you have just enough time before the song starts for him to mutter to you, “Did you actually mean what you said back there? You actually think we could do sorta okay this week?”

Knowing that Dave responds positively to praise, you nod. “Of course, dickhead. I wouldn’t say as much otherwise. Now, shut the fuck up and look at me.”

The music starts.

Looking down, you can see that Dave is dutifully following your instructions. His eyes are locked on you, and he’s managing to follow the routine well. That’s not to say he’s dancing well, though. He still looks like an awkward, lanky puppet — more specifically, a puppet controlled by the least coordinated puppeteer on the planet. His steps look and function more like stomps, and he remains incapable of doing anything more than jerky pelvic thrusts.

But he does more than he’s ever done before, and you count that as a massive win. Somehow, you manage to make it to that final step without incident, and you’re judged accordingly.

You’re almost tempted to call your feedback high praise, at least by Strider standards. Bruno hesitantly compliments you on your ability to “turn a wobbly kitten into a star.” Len, meanwhile, calmly applauds Dave for “focusing on the basics.” And Carrie Ann, who must be feeling rather cheerful tonight, enthusiastically (and not at all incorrectly) declares the routine to be your “best dance yet.”

To your delight, you manage to pull seventeen out of thirty points. It’s an absolutely dismal score for the fourth week of competition, but it’s better than you’ve ever done with Dave.

Still, everyone knows this is your last dance. Backstage, you mingle with the pros. They all pat you on the back for managing to beat Dave’s wild flailing into something worth showing off by the end of your tenure on this season’s roster. Even Vriska pumps you up, telling you she’s “amazed that Dave can actually move to a beat.”

When it’s time for elimination, you feel genuinely good about what you’ve done. You do, however, feel a strange pang of annoyance that you’ll be parting ways with Dave now. It seems as if you’re just getting to know him. So, when that envelope opens and Tom Bergeron looks at you with a furrowed brow, you can’t help but feel a tiny scrap of relief. You may not deserve to continue your stint on the show, but you’re no longer vehemently opposed to spending time with Dave.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 10 October 2017

You’ve honestly never been a huge fan of “Intergalactic Broadcasting Station Night”. Formerly branded “Disney Night”, the event changed course after the 2012 acquisition of the Walt Disney brand by one of the Condesce’s many subsidiaries. In form and function, it’s still a celebration of this planet’s most prolific and invasive entertainment company. But on paper, it’s yet another cash funnel for Alternia.

It is through this cascade of behind-the-scenes corporate bullshit that you end up in the so-called “Happiest Place on Earth”, Disneyland. (Technically rebranded “The Condesce Presents: Disneyland”, but nobody ever bothers with the unnecessary tag-on.) And not to be a so-called “Debbie Downer” — but to be a Debbie downer — you absolutely loathe this place. To you, it is the most crowded, overpriced, and sweltering location on this miserable planet.

It may be October, but the proliferation of park guests — of both the mammalian and Alternian varieties — turns an already warm day into an uncomfortable experience. Trolls may not sweat like humans, but they — and by extension, you — still produce a thin, sleek, layer of biological coolant. Being a mutant, yours runs slightly pink. You find yourself toweling off your face every few seconds as you trudge behind your assigned dance partner.

Unlike you, Dave seems genuinely excited to be here, and you can grudgingly understand why. He, like most people, hasn’t seen the slimy underbelly of the International Broadcasting Station. He doesn’t know the sort of ruthless cronyism and “business-standard” backstabbing that goes on behind the closed doors of the Condesce’s many economic ventures.

As for why you’re here: You’ve been assigned a quickstep to John Williams’ “Cantina Band”, and you’re not entirely sure if you should be offended. You know plenty of Alternian Star Wars fans, but you’ve always found the entire thing distasteful. It may be decades old, but it still perpetuates antiquated myths about extraterrestrial life. You even petitioned Equius to change your assignment, passionately pleading with him to give you “something less offensive than that load of Pre-Arrival bullshit”, but he (somewhat predictably) refused.

According to your schedule, you’re supposed to have a bronze blood camera jockey by the name of Qingwa Hopper. You’ve seen her wandering around the set before, but you’ve never actually interacted with her. And it seems today won’t be the day to do so, as she called you this morning to apologetically inform you that she had “come down with xenonotic flu.”

Thus, you’re forced to improvise. After getting the plan approved by an on-call production team member, you’ve decided to use the hefty camera that Dave brought to “record videos to send to Rose”. (His plan was to ostensibly use it to capture footage that would “make her so fucking jealous about how much fun we’re having”.) It dangles awkwardly from your neck as you’re escorted to Tomorrowland’s Star Tours ride. After all, every couple simply must display their delight upon experiencing whatever sort of media slop inspired their given song. (Fucking gag.)

Being celebrities on a limited schedule, your arrival forces an abrupt stop for everyone already in line. With strained smiles plastered across their faces, “cast members” pop up to inform anyone currently in line that they’ll be experiencing a “slight delay” while you and Dave ride whatever sort of monstrosity this is.

Having participated in multiple seasons of the show, you’ve already been forced to “enjoy” a handful of this overpriced hell’s offerings. Your least favorite is It’s a Small World; its insipid, grating song still haunts your dreams. Conversely, you must admit that The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh is your favorite ride, as you’ve always had a soft spot for the cuddly hibernobeast. However, you’ve never been on Star Tours. You have no idea what to expect as you’re shoved into a surprisingly cramped forty-person “vehicle”. Before you sit, you hand the camera to the one security escort allowed on the ride with you.

Dave, meanwhile, has buckled himself into place. His hands are folded behind his head, and his left eyebrow is raised above his shades as he mutters to you, “Yo, can I be real honest with you, boss? I think Star Wars is dummy overrated.”

For once, you agree with him. But you can’t say as much aloud; you’ll get beheaded by your employers if they even hear so much as an ounce of doubt in any of their countless media franchises. (Metaphorically, of course. Bankrolled beheadings were officially outlawed a few years after the Condesce began doing business with humanity.) So, instead, you silently buckle yourself into a wildly uncomfortable, retro-futuristic seat.

When the ride begins, the C-3PO animatronic moves. The screen at the front bursts to life, displaying dazzling, if not predictable, sequences that would likely fill fans of the series with nostalgic glee. You, however, feel little more than a nagging annoyance. You sink deeper and deeper into your chair as the so-called “adventure” continues.

And when you chance a glance at Dave, he seems to be having a similar reaction. At one point, as a cacophony of blaster effects guarantees his voice will be masked from the camera’s microphone, he grumbles, “This is almost worse than watching this shit with John.”

As the ride ends, you exchange a knowing glance with Dave. Even without saying a word, you can tell that he’s as underwhelmed as you. But when the bored security officer shoves the camera in your face, you have to ham it up. And the good news on that front is that your years on the show have taught you well.

You force yourself to smile as you nudge Dave towards a similarly chipper reaction. “Well, that was an out-of-this-world adventure, wasn’t it, Strider?” you say through gritted teeth. In all honesty, you found the entire thing to be little more than CGI eye candy. But, again, you can’t say as much.

Dave, too, feigns enthusiasm. With an all-too-vigorous nod, he agrees, “My favorite part was the… uh… that little gold robot twink, y’know?” After saying this, he leans towards you and whispers, “What the fuck is that thing’s name?”

You should keep your mouth shut; you should play it off. Alas, you’re too baffled by Dave’s renaming of a character even you, a chronic Star Wars hater, know that you immediately blurt out, “Did you just call fucking C-3PO ‘that gold robot twink’, Strider? You don’t know fucking C-3PO’s name? For fuck’s sake, you idiot! I loathe those stupid films, and even I know that thing’s name.”

“Well, in my defense, the last time I saw those movies was…” Here, Dave stops. His lips quirk into a diagonal line of deep thought, and he counts some unknowable quantity off on his fingers. After a few seconds, he continues, “maybe nine years ago. And I was drunk as a skunk and in a devil’s lettuce hotbox with my best bro. So forgive me for not remembering all the nitty-gritty details about C-3P-hoe.”

You look at the security guard, and her eyebrows form a near-solid line of confusion. Even she can tell you’ll probably have to trash the majority of this interview. Still, she offers a vaguely gracious smile as she shuts off the camera and shoves it into your hands, saying, “Have a mouse-tastic Disney day!”

The second she walks away, you shove the device into Dave’s chest. He instinctually grabs it as you hiss in his ear, “I don’t know how to do it, but you have to get our bad-mouthing off of that promo footage.”

“I do?” Dave responds with understandable confusion. “It’s a free country, y’know. We can talk shit about Star Whores all fucking day!”

You pause when a wary staffer walks past you, and you wait until they’re solidly out of earshot before you continue, “You can, but I cannot. Lest you fucking forget, Strider: I’m employed by Intergalactic Broadcasting Station. And they’re owned by the Condesce. Maybe you don’t give a flying fuck about your employment prospects, but insulting any of this insane company’s media properties is tantamount to treason.”

Dave’s lips form a small “O” of understanding. With a subtle nod, he powers on the camera and flips through its various screens. In a matter of minutes, he delivers exactly what you need: a clean, criticism-free cut of your discussion.

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

The entire promo shot fiasco costs you a full day of practice. With a normal competitor, you wouldn’t be worried. You’ve reached the fifth week, after all, and your protégé should be more than capable of compensating for a few lost hours. Unfortunately, Dave Strider is no normal student. Despite your annoyingly growing affections for him, he remains an uncoordinated idiot.

But you’re noticing that he’s more interested in what’s happening. Today, he enters your studio with a pocket-sized spiral notebook, and he pulls a pencil from behind his ear as he sits on the floor. He lowers his shades long enough to level an inquisitive stare at you as he speaks: “So, what’s the rub? We’re doing some sort of fast dance?”

Even you, a verified hard-ass, can’t deny the allure of an invitation to showcase your expertise. You do your best to bury your pride, though; you don’t want to come across as too cocky. With a carefully measured cadence — a tone that balances informative formality with casual relatability — you answer his question, “You’re actually not too far off, Strider! Congrats to you! It’s a quickstep.

“And here’s some fucking good news for a change: You’ve already learned some of the elements of this dance.” You’re pleasantly surprised to see him lean ever so slightly forward as you continue, using air quotes for emphasis, “It’s an older routine, hailing from the 1920s — on your planet, of course. Trolls don’t really ‘dance’ so much as we do choreographed fights.”

“The fuck do you mean by ‘trolls don’t dance’? How the hell did you end up here, then?”< Dave interjects.

Driven by the flattery you’re feeling from Dave’s genuine interest in your lesson, you decide to answer honestly. “I learned about the human concept of ‘dancing’ in my Human Studies courses. I found it fascinating, so I opted to pursue it. I’m sure it’s no different from how you decided to become a filmmaker.”

“Implying that movies didn’t exist on Earth before I started moving them?” The way Dave’s voice lifts at the end of his inquiry suggests that your analogy hasn’t quite hit the mark.

But that doesn’t really matter right now. You brush aside the issue, saying, “Whatever. Let’s get back to the dance. The quickstep” — here, your statement is cut off.

“Nah, man! That didn’t answer the question. You just, like, saw some ugly mammal dancing and thought to yourself, ‘Wow! That looks kinda fun! I’m going to move my ass to a completely different galaxy and make it my goddamn career.’ Is that how it worked?” Dave interrupts. He’s still leaning towards you; he’s still interested.

And you get the feeling that you’ll have to satisfy his curiosity to proceed. So, cursing your need to info-dump everything you know, you reluctantly respond, “Yes, you sniveling moron. That is exactly how it worked, and I am being 100% fucking serious. I saw a video, enjoyed what I saw, and moved to Earth. It certainly helped that your planet has no mutant culling, but my interest in human dance rituals was the main motivator. So, does that answer make you happy? Can we continue the fucking lesson, Mister Strider?”

“Oh,” Dave blinks.

“That’s all you have to say? ‘Oh?’ After I bare my fetid, rotten soul at you, that’s it?” With an indignant huff, you fold your arms across your chest.

Strangely enough, Dave responds by shaking his head. He sounds almost apologetic and borderline nervous as he stammers out his reply, “No, nah, hell! I didn’t mean to sound so rude there. I just meant, like, ‘Oh. That’s cool and relatable.’ It kinda is like how I ended up doing movies. I picked up a camera, liked what it did, and that was that.”

Now, it’s your turn to look like a slack-jawed twit. “Oh,” you say as you fold your hands behind your back, “Well, then, I guess we have something in common?”

It’s hard to ignore how awkward this entire exchange has become. The air around you is thick with social confusion, and Dave seems unwilling to dispel it. Once again, it’s your job to rectify the situation. You clear your throat, take a step back, and try to find your former groove. You feel like a bouncing needle in one of those old musical disks humans seem to love collecting. You see where your conversation should be, but you can’t quite compose yourself enough to slide into that slot.

You silently hem and haw. Your gaze idly traces the shape of Dave’s jaw, and you give yourself a firm mental slap for such an infraction. Finally, after what feels like forever, you manage to force yourself into the right mindset to continue, “Anyhow, the quickstep evolved from the foxtrot. I cannot in good conscience say that your foxtrot was any good, but you certainly learned some of the dance’s most basic elements. As the name implies, this dance is fast and energetic. So, considering your track record, Strider,” you sigh, “this will either be surprisingly decent or exceedingly terrible.”

If the speed with which Dave answers your spiel is worth anything, he’s just as eager as you are to put whatever just happened behind you. He, too, clears his throat, as if to dispel the stale air, before he speaks, asking, “So, what? We’re speedrunning a foxtrot?”

You’re halfway tempted to laugh at his juvenile phrasing, but you somehow manage to chop the head off that particular beast before it takes shape. Instead, you merely click your tongue as you straighten your back and loosely square your shoulders. Your left hand extends outward, at an ever so slightly downward angle. Your right arm bends at the elbow and rises so that the hand rests about a foot above the horizontal axis formed by its counterpart. “The lead, which would be me, should assume a fairly standard frame as such.”

Dave nods. From your vantage point, you can see him sketch out a rather competent outline of your current form. When you try to move, he breathes a sharp whistle. “Gimme’ a minute, dude! Let me” — his pencil scrapes against the page a few more times before he, with a surprising amount of force, declares — “done!”

You want to ask him about his art, but you bite your tongue. You’ve already revealed more than you’d like today, and you still have many hours to go until you’re “done” with rehearsals.

“Why do I care, anyhow?” you scold yourself. “It’s not like I give a fuck about the smug bastard.”

Saturday, 14 October 2017

You don’t generally attend parties with your coworkers, and that’s not an indictment of their collective character. Sure, there are some people you don’t necessarily get along with; your abrasive nature puts you at odds with many of your bubblier and “warmer” peers. Still, you can’t honestly say that you genuinely hate anyone. Even Vriska is (mostly) enjoyable to be around, especially at parties.

No, you simply don’t care all that much about the true purpose of these gatherings. Beneath the flowing booze and cheerful conversations, these soirées are little more than elbow-rubbing contests. Everyone drops names and tries to find a new “in” with the behind-the-scenes faces that control the show.

You attended many of these get-togethers in your earlier years. And you’ll freely admit that these gatherings helped you rise up the understated “ladder” of the show’s roster. You managed to hop a few rungs up the hierarchy, but that’s as far as you care to go. You know your personality precludes any possibility of you becoming the next superstar, so you hang back; you let others have their fun.

But Dave has informed you that he will be attending tonight’s meeting at a local dive bar — with or without you. In all honesty, you don’t want to go. You’d much rather throw on some pajamas and enjoy a delightful night in with Olivia Benson and the team of Law & Order: SVU. Alas, failing to attend the party with your partner is a major faux pas, so you must forgo your usual routine.

Thus, around 8:30 p.m., you find yourself crammed into a suit that’s about a half a size too small. You’ve been inadvertently shoved to the corner of a surprisingly uncomfortable booth. You wonder how this place managed to become everyone’s favorite spot. Considering the clientele, you’d expect Bolton’s to be slightly less dingy. At the very least, you’d expect the seats to be more than bare oak slabs with stapled-on fabric.

But none of that is really relevant.

No, what’s relevant is the fact that you’ve had a bit too much Stellaris Sopor to drink, and you’re staring at Dave like he’s the sun. Even as your visual acuity fades in and out like a video filter, you see the physical potential. You see how the man has a veritable cult of men and women thirsting after him.

You don’t necessarily want to feel this way. He is, after all, your professional partner. You’re not supposed to feel this way about him. You’ve already filed him away as a pitch relationship. He may not be aware of his role as your sworn rival, but that’s how you categorized him.

Him and his stupid dimple that only shows up when he smirks. And his laugh that reminds you of rolling river stones in your hand. And his…

To your right, Bruno Tonioli seems to catch onto what’s happening. He laughs, leans towards you, and says, “Oh, darling, you’re a bit fucked, aren’t you?”

Unfortunately, you can’t disagree.

Sunday, 15 October 2017

For the briefest of moments, your name is DAVE STRIDER. You are a self-professed “cool guy” with a very strict image to maintain. While you’re generally more excitable away from cameras, you can’t risk such a downright nerdy trait getting leaked to the press. No, you’re the dictionary definition of being too cool to care.

But reality has rarely cared about things like “keeping up appearances” and “making sure Dave Strider stays as fresh and chilled as a genetically modified grocery store cucumber”.

As much as you hate to admit it, you may have developed a crush on your corporate-assigned dance teacher. It’s just a tiny thing, though — no biggie. There’s nothing particularly gay about ogling his ass when he’s doing a chassé or constantly calling him “Daddy” in your head. No, these are very normal, non-sexual, and entirely platonic feelings. Certainly, this is how everyone feels about the guy who seems to love to hate them, right?

“No, no,” you reassure yourself, and your eyes linger a bit too long on his crotch. “It’s a passing thing, for sure.”

The only problem with your logic is that this feeling is most certainly not passing. No, it’s been squiggling around in your brain since the second week of competition. “But,” you reason, “what can I do about it?”

You know the logical answer is to open your mouth and use your goddamned words. You know you should really just talk it out and act like a functional adult. But there’s the rub: Neither of those options is an even remotely viable choice for your carefully cultivated persona. With the release of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff 2.5: The Ultra Prequel-Sequel, you can’t risk such a thing being leaked.

So, when Karkat glares at you and demands to know “what the fuck you’re dreaming about over there”, you respond with a stupid grin and a nonchalant shrug.

Monday, 16 October 2017

Anyhow, you’re KARKAT VANTAS again, and the only thing standing between you and a handful of delicious, wriggling grub bites is Rose Lalonde.

She’s as smug as always. Her lilac lips are curled into a wicked, knowing grin, and she speaks with a finely honed sense of awareness as she presses down on your latest weak point. “You’ve been staring at my brother’s ass for the last ten minutes, you know. I’m sure you’re unaware of this peculiar fact, but I simply must ask if you’re having trouble seeing. Dave really has no ass to speak of, after all.”

And as she is wont to do, especially when there’s blood in the water, Kanaya swoops in, volunteering, “Would you like for me to take you to the backstage doctor? Meulin can get you fixed up in time for your dance!”

You know this entire routine is a joke, but you’re still feeling sore about the whole “crushing on the world’s biggest douchebag” problem. When you respond, you bite back with more force than is really necessary: “Fucking bite me, you two. You’re lucky the camera crew hasn’t caught your sexual escapades yet.”

“Oh, but that is part of the thrill!” Kanaya smiles. “It would not be so interesting without the element of risk. Is that not right, Rose?”

Nodding eagerly, Rose accedes, “Of course, of course! It’s a bit of a romantic stratagem, you see.”

You find that you’re unable to tolerate the increasingly smug smile that spreads across Rose’s face. After breathing a disapproving huff, you plod back to the balcony sofa, sadly sans grub bites. Folding your arms across your chest, you drop into the last remaining spot. It’s directly beside Dave, but you’ll take some mild discomfort over whatever the hell is happening between your dance partner’s twin and your long-time friend.

Your ass hits the leather as Nepeta bounces up the stairs. Her arms swing about happily as she steps up to Erin Andrews. When asked about how she felt her performance went, she buzzes cheerfully and says, “We really cut a fe-line through the dance floor tonight!” The statement is punctuated by a stereotypical “catgirl pose”.

Around the same time, Dave elbows you in the ribs. He takes a massive bite out of his ham sandwich and speaks as he chews: “Nepeta’s really got the crowd rooting for her, huh?” His lips smack inelegantly together until he finally swallows his meal. (You try to hold it against him, but there’s a strange part of you that finds it funny.) Then, as if he hasn’t just spotlighted his deplorable lack of courtesy, he continues, “Did you know there’s a betting pool for us? And it’s not, like, if we’ll survive this week.”

His gold and ruby ring catches the overhead lights and reflects them as starbursts as he pokes at his phone. After a few seconds of scrolling, he shows you a Chittr poll that asks, “Are Vantas and Strider dating?” The options are, to your chagrin, “yes”, “probably”, and “maybe”.

You breathe a bristling sigh of annoyance as you stare at the poll. Somehow, over 25,000 dim-witted slobs have already voted in this pseudo-democratic festival of bullshit. Your eyelid twitches as you scroll deeper, and you find that people are drawing fanart of you and Dave. There’s even a crude cartoon of you and him sucking each other’s faces. Rather than being flattered by such a thing, you feel downright humiliated. You suck in a breath through your teeth and prepare to let loose a tirade of terror.

Dave interrupts you with a good-natured smile and a nonplussed shrug. “Hey, man!” he coos as he punches your shoulder. “I just think it’s funny. Don’t worry about it much. It’ll blow over when the season’s through, yo.”

You steeple your fingers in front of your face, narrow your eyes, and frown. “Dave, I know you’re trying to be helpful,” you say, “but there are ‘ships’ from fans that are still going strong twelve fucking years later. This shit is not blowing over.”

The lights below the balcony dim, while the speaker above your head booms out the next intro: “Dancing the tango with her partner, Vriska Serket, it’s Terezi Pyrope!”

“Don’t panic just yet,” Dave hums, and you’re not sure you particularly like the sly edge that’s crept into his voice. You’re fairly certain you know what’s coming. Still, you stay silent. As the opening steel pan beat of “Under the Sea” plops away beneath your feet, Dave leans closer to say, “We can use this.”

You want to refuse the offer. First and foremost, you see exactly zero outcomes in which you’d legitimately deserve the Mirrorball Trophy. Dave’s dancing may be improving, but the boosts are microscopically incremental. You must also consider the fact that you harbor some peculiar feelings around your current dance partner, and you aren’t exactly keen on seeing where they lead. And off the top of your head, you can think of many more reasons to refuse the offer. So, you open your mouth, confident that you’ll do the right thing.

Instead, your competitive streak wins out, and you hiss, “Fine. I’ll fake date your miserable ass.”

Dave is just as surprised by the answer as you are. He opens his mouth to respond, but all hopes of dispelling the steaming pile of crap you’ve just landed yourself in are bulldozed by the production team.

You’re dragged back onto the stage and plopped beneath the deep blue lights. Fog laps at your ankles, and the ridiculously dressed “band” dancers prepare their oversized clarinets. It is at this point that you remember you are, in fact, dressed to vaguely resemble Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Dave is clad in a Han Solo outfit. Your instincts kick in as the backup dancers begin to stupidly “play” the familiar tune.

Dave, however, has no such defense. He’s half-heartedly trying to do the routine as he grumbles to you, “I was joking, dude! It was a joke, y’know?” He stumbles as you yank him into a more appropriate position, but he keeps talking: “Ha ha, ho ho, he he and all that? I wasn’t being serious!”

“Shut up and dance, you wriggling goddamned moron!” you hiss, roughly dragging Dave across the floor as you chassé to your next position. When he fails to heed your command, you quickly knee him in the stomach — hard enough to get his attention, but soft enough to be harmless — as you add, “We’ll figure this out later.”

By some miracle, your anti-pep talk gets through his thick brain case. Dave manages to pick up the slack as you add some Lindy Hop flair to the routine. You can practically taste the confusion oozing from him, but you blatantly ignore it until you’re finished.

As you drop him into a low dip, you finally breathe a sigh of relief.

You’re not surprised to see some abysmally low scores. There’s no way to overlook Dave’s refusal to do much more than some dazed kicks in the first half, and even the most remarkable ending couldn’t cut such a sour taste. You walk away with a mere twelve points and a bruise-like sense of annoyance.

This week, you find yourself focusing less on Tom Bergeron and more on Dave during the elimination round. You’re almost tempted to feel sorry for him as he mumbles to you, “Okay, so it’s my fault we’re leaving. My bad. Stupid joke, I know.” And he keeps apologizing as that familiar, brassy beat loops.

After a while, you shut him up by subtly slapping the back of his head. “Thank the gods I won’t have to dance with you again. Let’s just call it even there, hm?” you huff.

By now, you’ve predictably landed in the bottom two. The brass exits the scene, and a heavy bass drum beat takes over. From his spot at the bottom of the stairs, Tom Bergeron peers at the glitter-drenched envelope that will decide your fate. This week, he shows no emotion, and you feel a surge of relief. You’re currently against the current third-place contestant, celebrity chef Diemen Xicali. You see no way you could possible survive.

You’re just about to reassure yourself of your victory through failure when someone waddles onto the stage and provides a new envelope.

Your heart sinks.

Tom Bergeron stares at the notecard and clears his throat. “Well, it seems there was a misprint. Sorry about that, everyone. The couple who is safe from elimination this week is… Dave and Karkat.”

Dave looks like he’s about ready to pass out as he blurts, “Yo, what the fuck!?”

And you sink to your knees and bury your face in your hands. Clearly, the audience wants you dead.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 17 October 2017

Few styles make you as nervous as the peculiar “contemporary” category. Its name cannot be found in any dance textbook, for it simply doesn’t exist. Instead, it’s mostly a mish-mash of ballet, jazz, and whatever the choreographer wants. At the same time, it’s not a proper freestyle; it’s more elegant than that. You loathe such a category under normal circumstances, and you’re downright dreading it with Dave, a man who somehow possesses negative amounts of grace and poise in his entire being.

Simply doing a contemporary dance is bad enough, but there’s yet another kicker. Of course there’s another kicker. The universe can’t let you go, can it? Whenever there’s a chance to kick Karkat Vantas in the head, reality always seizes it with giddy abandon.

This week leads into “dedication night”, a time typically devoted to letting each dancer highlight the most important person in their lives. You’ve seen some downright touching nominees. Some people pick parents, others pick spouses. Dave, in his usual way, has taken the prompt as an opportunity to one-up his own sister. He scrawled out Rose’s name on that form, and he did so with a shit-eating grin. And it seems he’s not alone.

Right now, you’re sitting outside of the studio’s interview room and staring blankly at Kanaya.

Her hands are folded in her lap, and there’s a polite smile on her face as she sounds out her thoughts, saying, “It seems that both of our partners had the same idea for dedication week, does it not?” She cocks her head to the side, and there’s the faintest tickle of laughter in her voice.

You, however, are less amused. The furrow of your brow deepens, and you sink further into your seat as you grumble, “That’s one way to put it.”

“To put what, Karkat?” Kanaya feigns ignorance. You know that she knows what’s happening; it’s written on her face. You can see her awareness of the situation in the slight upturn of her lips.

And while she may be amused, you are not.

You press your lips together, bow your head, and pinch the bridge of your nose. Your deep inhale is meant to calm you, but it only serves to push your volume higher when you reply, “Oh, come on! We both know this is part of their idiotic pseudo-mating dance. My wriggling bastard is going to play up his so-called ‘affection’ for his hatchmate, and your obstinate bitch will coo back with her own faux flattery. It’s just an elaborate clown show. Bring out the fucking car because the circus is, fucking apparently, in town this week.”

Kanaya’s expression pulls itself into a slight smile, and her right eyebrow twitches with poorly hidden bemusement. She’s stifling laughter as she counters your rant with a statement that can be plausibly considered shoosh-pap-worthy, saying, “I believe you once said that you ‘absolutely loathe’ dedication night, anyhow. If I recall correctly, you claimed that the entire affair is but ‘a manipulative display of mammalian emotional weakness’.” She leans closer to you and waggles her eyebrows as she continues, “Besides, this will certainly lead to some stiff competition.”

“Tch,” you click your tongue and shake your head. A dismissive wave of your hand emphasizes your unspoken statement: You’re done with this conversation. Kanaya may have joined these hatchmates’s game, but you refuse to stoop so low. Instead, you scoot to the recording booth’s door and carefully press your aural receptacle to its surface. You unconsciously bite your tongue as you strain to hear what’s being said.

“We are simply the closest of siblings, aren’t we, dearest brother?” Rose’s voice isn’t dripping in sarcasm; it’s an entire ocean of tongue-in-cheek affection.

And Dave’s is no different as he facetiously coos, “We have always been the best of friends!”

You can only assume that he’s moved in for one of his pointless so-called “side hugs”, as Rose quickly interjects, “Ah-ha ha! But not that close, you see. We’re quite proper with our affections. Conservative, you might even say.” You can clearly picture the look on her face. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s wearing a tight smile. It’s the sort of expression you pull when you’re trying to act as if you’re not about to beat the person speaking to you to death.

Despite knowing Dave better, you can’t quite place his reaction. His voice immediately falls in line with Rose’s, and he sounds uncharacteristically formal as he replies, “Of course, yes. We aren’t like them ‘touchy-feely’ types, y’know? We’re, like, upright and proper.”

“Do you have any choreography planned, Karkat?” Kanaya’s voice pulls you away from the door, and you inject the tiniest ounce of annoyance into the look you shoot in her general direction.

You roll your ganderbulbs and shake your head. “Obviously not,” you snap. “It’s been, what? Maybe three hours since we got our dances? Do you have anything planned?” Here, you pause. Then, abruptly, you add, “Don’t tell me if you do, by the way. I don’t need my disgustingly fragile ego to be shattered any further than it already is.”

Before Kanaya can respond, Dave’s volume rises enough to be heard, only vaguely muffled, through the recording booth’s door as he announces, “In fact, I got you a gift, my beloved sister!”

(You’re starting to wonder what the hell is happening in that recording studio. Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until Monday, when you’ll see the promo reel with everyone else.)

Dave clearly intends for this to be a “gotcha”, but Rose is — not at all surprisingly — prepared for such a thing. With equally loud and supercilious aplomb, she proclaims, “Well, dearest brother, I also procured for you an offering of my own!”

You can only assume that both hatchmates are opening their so-called “gifts”. There’s a beat of silence. Then, the door to the recording booth slams open. The interview supervisor sprints from the room, while Dave and Rose burst into laughter. On the floor, amid scraps of red and pink wrapping paper, you see a strangely realistic slitherbeast and a now-broken bust of a giant wasp.

Kanaya steps up behind you, and she quickly joins in on the laughter.

You, meanwhile, drag your hands over your face and groan.

It’s going to be a long, long week.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

It’s been exactly one hour since Dave arrived, and you’re still working on the basics. You’ve somehow managed to pry him into a stationary fourth position — right foot approximately twelve inches ahead of the left, heels aligned, and toes pointed out. His arms still dangle at his sides like wet noodles, but you’ll fix that later. For now, you scrutinize his stance.

You stick out your index finger and use it to lift his chin as you say, “Head up, back straight, you fucking slob.”

“Not my fault I have some wicked scoliosis,” Dave shrugs.

“Yes, well,” your eyes narrow, “I’m not your physician. I’m your dance instructor, so…!” You breathe in and suppress a blush as you shove his ass forward. “Straighten up, moron.”

“But I’m bisexual,” Dave counters, likely as a joke. As the words leave his lips, he freezes. His shades slide down his nose just enough for you to see his wide-eyed shock.

You stare at him and bite your tongue. There’s a part of you that, for reasons you can’t quite explain, wants to see this as an opportunity. But your professionalism wins out. You breathe in, count to three, and exhale. Then, with carefully measured calmness, you say, “That’s completely irrelevant to this dance, Strider.”

Dave nods slowly.

And you bury yourself in your work. You assume the same pose as your dance partner, albeit with far more technical aptitude, and hold yourself in a starting position. Your shoulders and elbows are loose, and your palms face inward. The final effect is that, should someone draw a line around your arms, both limbs form a loose oval that ends near your hips. “Bras bas, the most fucking basic arm position in ballet.”

After studying you for a solid minute, Dave attempts to follow your lead. His locked elbows and squared shoulders make his pose too stiff. He looks less like a graceful dancer and more like a zombie with a genital itch.

“No!” you bark. “Fuck, not like that!” You comb your claws through your hair, sigh, and drop out of your pose. Your eyes narrow as you step forward and knock your knuckles against his elbows. After burying your rising frustration, you say, “Loosen up, Strider. It’s ballet, not disco.”

And Dave, his shades still too far down his nose, looks at you with nothing less than skepticism. “You want me to do ballet?” he asks, voice wavering with laughter. Then, as his bemusement bursts forth, he repeats, “You want me to do ballet? You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me, man.”

You’ve heard this before.

This time, you don’t hold back. You let fly a harsh, bitter laugh and step forward. You easily tower over Dave, and you level a venomous downward glare at him as you growl, “Let me guess, Strider. ‘Ballet is for girls. It’s girly and feminine.’ Am I right? You think you’re better than ballet, that you’re ‘not a female wriggler’?” When you receive little more than a few anxiously blubbered syllables in reply, you push harder, “Do you want to look me in the ganderbulbs and tell me how ‘prissy’ ballet is, or do you want to grow some goddamned balls and do the fucking dance?”

“No, nah, sorry!” Dave blinks. With a shaking hand, he pushes his shades into their proper place. A bead of sweat trails down the side of his face as he squeezes out the rest of his reply, saying, “Yeah, kinda stupid of me, right? My b. I’ll do the dance.” He tries to placate you with a nervous, overly toothy smile. Slowly, he raises his hands in a traditional gesture of human surrender.

But you’re not quite finished with him.

You’ve spent your entire life getting your ass kicked for doing ballet. Humans see you as the token oddball, the “weird guy” who wants to “play a woman’s game”. Trolls, meanwhile, see your entire career as little more than a peculiar fixation. You’ll be damned if you let this dumbass knock you down another peg.

You jab a blunted claw into his chest — hard enough to let it poke a hole in his stupid Cuttlefish Cuties shirt — and glower at him as you continue, “I have spent twenty fucking years, just under ten sweeps, honing my craft. You can cling to your antiquated, asinine mammalian ideas of ‘gender’ all you want, but you will not invalidate my career.” Your voice drops to a low, guttural growl as you lean closer to Dave and demand, “Do you fucking understand that, Strider?”

Dave’s shades have already slid back down. His eyebrows are knit together, and he takes a small step back from you, performing an infuriatingly perfect chassé, as he squeaks, “Of course, daddy.”

You freeze.

And hefreezes.

There’s something about his embarrassment that makes him seem incredibly small. It’s like watching one of those little, rounded insects — pill bugs, you believe they’re called — that often toddle about your garden. Just like the bug, Dave pulls inward. His usual slouch worsens, and he buries his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. When he bows his head, you can see his eyes; they’re wide and glossy.

You want to feel indifferent about all of this. You want to brush aside his reaction and ram your way ahead, heedless of the emotional toll. But you can’t. You’ve always had a pesky softness about you, and it’s begging to be noticed. You breathe a low sigh, tuck a loose strand of your wiry hair behind your ear, and shake your head. “I’m sorry, Strider. I suppose that’s just a sore spot for me. I’ve spent most of my life being mocked for my career choice, and I guess it gave me yet another cringe-worthy complex.”

Dave’s muscles relax, but there’s a paradoxical tightness in his voice as he mutters, “Sorry. It’s a holdover from my childhood. My pa beat a whole lot of masculinity into me, y’know? Well… heh… you wouldn’t know. I don’t really talk about it much. It’s not, like, something I like talking about. It’s really just a load of unpleasant shit, and I guess it bleeds into my brain sometimes.

“And I’m working on it, right? It might not seem like it, considering my stupid public persona, but I am working on it. Rose even says I’m doing pretty good at it, too! Says I’m not ‘quite as much of a douche as I could be’. And that’s kind of like an improvement, ain’t it?” Here, Dave pauses.

He wrings his hands together and stares at the floor. He licks his lips, breathes in, and keeps talking. His vocal speed picks up even more as he continues, “Look, I know I’ve been a huge ass through this whole thing. This — all this dancing shit — it ain’t my element. I’m here ‘cause my agent said it’s what the kids are watching these days. I wouldn’t fucking know.” He scuffs his right foot against the ground and turns away from you. “I’m a fucking fish out of water over here, flopping around all uncool and stupid. And I know you’re trying your best to whip me into shape. So, uh… How ‘bout we start all this over, huh?”

You want to bite back. You want to wrench Dave’s stupid head from his flimsy torso. You’ve never been a particularly violent troll, but there’s a scrap of you that craves blood. For the past seven weeks, you’ve seen this man as your virtual rival. Teaching him has been an experience comparable to the human myth of a man constantly pushing a stone uphill. You’ve worked like hell for every scrap of recognition and progress. Now, you’re being thrown for a loop.

In all honesty, you eschewed Alternian norms the second you left the planet. You’ve never seen a use for them on Earth, and most long-term Alternian residents have taken a similar path. Only extremely insulated pockets of extraterrestrials abide by the traditional quadrant system, and you like to see yourself as being above it all.

Of course, you’re not — not really.

You’ve always had more than a slight preference for the setup. You still use its framework.

Then again, until now, you’ve never seriously considered any sort of relationship. You’ve maintained friendships, of course, but you’re too busy to enter any sort of romance. Between your touring schedule and tenure on the show, you have just a handful of weeks to yourself. And you’ve never really found “the one”, so to speak.

Now…

You retract your claws and rub the bridge of your nose. When you open your mouth, you let your emotions lead your words as you say, “I’ve been a raging bastard, too. I’m sorry. I’m not proud to say that I entered this competition with a chip on my shoulder. I’ve never liked your films, and I always assumed your jackass persona was your true personality. So, that’s on me.” You inadvertently mimic his stance — hands in your pockets, gaze locked on anything but your conversational partner. “I loathe to admit it, but you can be almost approachable, perhaps even fun to be around, when you let that mask drop, Strider. Thus, I owe you — of all people — an apology. Being seven fucking weeks into the competition, I don’t think we can necessarily ‘start over’, but we can reboot.”

Mentioning his movies seems to be the “spark” that you needed. The tension melts away, and confidence returns to his voice as he says, “That’s the secret, actually. You’re not supposed to like those movies. Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff is about assholes, right? They’re like Beavis and Butthead.”

You should really return to the dance, but you find yourself drawn in by his enthusiasm. Your eyes widen, and you tap your claws together as you ask, “So, you intentionally made films for people to hate?”

Dave clicks his tongue and points a pair of finger guns at you, declaring, “Bingo, bud!” A freakishly alluring swagger, the sort of inimitable confidence that comes from admiring one’s own creation, oozes into his voice. He reassumes his cool mask, but his passion still shines through as he continues, “It’s a little bit like postmodernism or Dadaism, right? It’s the fun of the absurd. You watch those movies and think to yourself, ‘Goddamn! That was dogshit!’ And that’s the fucking point. If people laugh at them, so be it. I want people to watch them and think about artistic value, y’know? It’s, like, a metacommentary sitch.”

You nod. Now, you have another question: “Then why do you keep making that slop? This is, what? You’ve made almost half a dozen of these horrendous turds, haven’t you? Doesn’t that contradict the whole ‘value of art’ deal? They’re just cash grabs at this point.”

“Meh,” Dave shrugs. His expression falters. He waves one dismissive hand in the air, and the other combs through his hair as he says, “So, here’s the thing about that. If you look real close at the byline for those, you’ll notice they all say, ‘Inspired by the characters created by David E. Strider’. It’s a bit of wiggly wording, but I don’t actually, like, make those movies anymore. It’s all just ghostwritten sludge or a reworked spec script.” A borderline frustrated sigh passes through his lips, and he finally turns to look at you as he concludes, “I wish I had more control over it, but I don’t. That’s all studio shit now. Ain’t my baby anymore.”

It makes sense, actually.

You can’t say you necessarily agree with the artist’s statement, but you can at least see where he’s coming from. Barring the voice of the bitter cynic that lives in the back of your head, you’re even tempted to say he’s more intelligent than he lets on. And even Cynic Karkat has to admit that Dave has more of a moral compass than anticipated.

You can even, with some reluctance, relate to his plight. Heaving a sigh of your own, you sit on the floor. You rub a hand over your chin as you offer some candid content of your own: “It’s about the same for the show, honestly. Long before I showed up, when this thing first started, it was all based on the judges’ scores.”

“Ha!” Dave smirks, “I’d be fucked, then!”

You can’t help but smile and nod as you continue, “Now, it’s a borderline popularity competition. Look at you, getting to the halfway point. We both know we shouldn’t be here. Gordon Ramsay was doing much better than us. But here we are, and it’s all because some fuckers on FlipFlop are spamming votes for your insufferable ass. But it’s not entirely awful, I guess. At least we’re not trying to kill each other anymore.”

“Yeah, well…” Dave looks away again, and his cheeks burn pink as he says, “You’re not too bad to be around, either.”

Pushing down a surge of affection, you hop to your feet. You roll your eyes and give Dave a playful shove. “You’re going soft, asshole. Let’s focus on the dance.”

Friday, 20 October 2017

With your hands clasped firmly behind your back, you study Dave’s movements. Ever since your strange “breakthrough”, he’s been more attentive. He’s taking and applying feedback. He’s expressing himself ever so slightly more. He’s become the model student, even if his natural clumsiness adds a seemingly immovable cap on his skill level. Right now, he’s awkwardly bouncing back and forth in a waltz-like motion. His heavy-footed stomping bobs his body up and down in the right sequence, but he’s nowhere near competent.

As he moves to start another cycle, you stop him. “Balancé,” you say, demonstrating the move yourself. “One, two, three,” you count out the steps; then, you narrate the movements, “Down, up, down.” You repeat the motion a few times, easily and smoothly shifting your weight between your feet. You should probably keep your arms at your side to minimize how much Dave tries to mimic, but they move on their own.

When you’re done, you drop back onto two flat feet and fold your arms across your chest. Nodding to Dave’s feet, you explain his error, “You’re doing a waltz. Down, up, up. Balancé is down, up, down. Got it?” You raise your right eyebrow.

He nods, and you now know that he means it.

You’re about to tell him to try again when the door slams open, and a two-person camera crew waddles into your studio. You bite back a growl of annoyance as Rose follows them, with that stupid smirk still on her face. (It must be a genetic trait. How else could two humans have such similarly infuriating grins?)

“I can tell from your face,” she begins, poking you in the center of your chest, “that Dave forgot to inform you about a brief promo shoot.”

Dave blinks. His momentary surprise fades, shifting quickly into something that vaguely resembles sly smugness. “Yeah! Fuck! We’ve gotta act like we can tolerate each other, right? Here, dap me up, sis.”

You have no idea what “dap me up” means, but Rose seems to comply with the suggestion. She shakes Dave’s hand before running through a somewhat elaborate series of movements. Forward clap, backward clap, elbow bumps. At the end, her smirk grows wider.

“It truly is such an honor to be dancing alongside my beloved brother,” she coos, her voice entirely unserious.

And Dave responds similarly. With an overdone air of affection, he says, “Of course, I adore spending any amount of time with my lovely twin.”

Now, they’re on a roll.

“Oh, shit! This is good,” mutters the jade blood holding the camera. She rushes to zoom in on the bickering twins, seemingly unaware of how facetious the entire display truly is.

Dave, meanwhile, throws his arm over Rose’s shoulder. His faux sniffle is surprisingly convincing, giving him a “choking up” effect that really adds to the punch of his statement: “I just… I can’t believe we get to do this together, Rosie. It’s like a crazy dream! We’re living our dream together. Just you and I.” Upon making brief eye contact with you, Dave quickly adds, “And our lovely partners, of course!”

After forcing out some seemingly genuine tears, Rose nods. She pats Dave on the shoulders as she says, in a voice thick with sarcastic warmth, “It’s just amazing. And I am so touched that we’re dedicating dances to each other.”

Immediately after finishing this statement, she laughs and shakes her head. “Oh, cut, damnit! That should be enough! Must I really act as though I can tolerate this moron for a second longer?” She continues giggling as she separates herself from Dave.

While he doesn’t show it as much, Dave’s grin is the rough equivalent of laughter. He maintains his usual stoicism as he folds his arms across his chest and declares, “Show’s over, y’all! Don’t make me do another cut of that. I don’t think I could do it and keep my damn sanity.”

Seeing the camera crew’s confusion is enough to convince you of this peculiar ruse’s comedic value. Until now, you’ve seen the rivalry as little more than a tool. Now, you’re starting to recognize it as a genuine show of affection. Beneath the ribbing, you see the faintest corona of affection. And there’s a strange comedy to it all — mostly in the way people seem to assume it’s a genuine act. You try to stifle it, but a snort of laughter manages to slip through your defenses.

Monday, 23 October 2017

You are now twenty minutes into the usual two-hour taping session. You have no idea where Rose is, and Kanaya’s whereabouts are no less mysterious. Two dancers are set to go before you, meaning you have approximately ten minutes to fix the fresh tear that has rudely appeared on the back of Dave’s red silk jacket. The costuming team is busy fixing Nepeta’s elaborate headpiece, so it seems this problem is yours to solve.

Fortunately, you taught yourself to sew at a young age. It’s a handy skill to have as a mutant wriggler. The last place you’d want to be culled is the local CondesceMart clothing aisle, after all.

You steal a needle and some thread from the costuming department’s “emergency cart” and scuttle back to Dave. He’s blissfully unaware of his predicament until you grab him by the shoulder and command him to stay still. You don’t have time to explain things. It’s a long rip, and you’ll need every second you can get.

Thankfully, Dave doesn’t question your demand. Instead, he continues his seemingly one-sided discussion with one of the camera grips about the company’s current equipment.

He’s blabbing on and on about stabilizers and rigging, and you have no idea what anything he says means. From what you gather, he’s dunking on Intergalactic Broadcasting Station’s current spread of filming supplies.

Not that it really matters.

You focus on your ladder stitch, carefully weaving the needle from one vertical stitch to the next — back and forth, back and forth. You’re about to tie it all off when you hear a cacophony of gasps and laughter from the audience. Somehow, you manage to push down your curiosity long enough to finish the job. You give Dave another pat on the shoulder before joining the understandably sizable crowd at the edge of the balcony.

Displayed on the massive screen at the back of the stage is a carefully framed livestream from the dressing room area. Rose and Kanaya are, unsurprisingly, making out — practically eating each other’s faces — and straddling the line between softcore and hardcore exhibitionism.

While you wonder if Intergalactic Broadcasting Station’s executives have decided to forgo its usual “family-friendly” branding, Tom Bergeron is regaining his footing. After staring, mouth agape, at the screen for a solid minute, he clears his throat. Then, with an impressively small hint of hesitancy, he jests, “It seems we have a bit of a romantic entanglement backstage! You really do see everything on Dancing With the Stars!”

“This is gonna add a whole lot of awkward vibes to that dedication promo reel, huh?” Dave mumbles, and you can only nod in agreement.

To your left, Vriska is wheezing with laughter. She slaps her left hand against the railing and lets forth a victorious whoop as she says, “I knew it! Those two have been disappearing to the dressing rooms for the past two weeks! I love being right!”

Nepeta, with a team of costuming staffers following her, joins the fray. After seeing the screen, she giggles. “That seems purr-etty spicy for this show, doesn’t it?” she asks, and the question is directed towards you.

“Yeah, this is pretty fucking abnormal,” you admit.

This entire season has been one catastrophe after the other, and this week won’t break the chain. You’ve never been superstitious, but this seems like an omen. You’re suddenly struck by the strange feeling that you’ll make it to next week. Then again, you’re not entirely opposed to such a thing…

Suddenly, a stagehand pushes you towards the stairs. “Change in schedule,” he huffs, “you and Dave are up. Better for ratings.”

You don’t have time to protest, and nobody would listen if you did. You follow instructions and stumble onto the stage. It’s easy for you to put yourself together; compartmentalization is one of your most carefully cultivated skills. No, you’re more concerned about Dave. As you lock into frame, holding his left hand higher than his right, you whisper in his ear, “Don’t think about it. Just do what we practiced.”

“Dancing contemporary with his partner, Karkat Vantas, it’s Dave Strider!”

Before that first beat hits, Dave manages to slide in his reply: “Sure, I’ll just forget about seeing my sister Frenching your best friend! Perfectly normal thing to see every day.”

“Think about it later,” you hiss.

Amazingly, Dave complies. He assumes a loose approximation of the proper form and stays in step as you trot across the stage. His chassés are by no means correct, but they’re competent. He’s genuinely trying this week, and it shows.

You dismiss the surge of warmth in your stomach as pride. Of course, you know it isn’t; you’ve felt and ignored such a feeling before. But you’re not about to admit that you’re starting to crush on Dave fucking Strider, the world’s most eligible loser. And you manage to cling to that idea until you start the Miyoko lift. (Admittedly, this single move has occupied over half of your practice, but it’s well worth the wow factor.) It’s as you heft him onto your shoulder, with his flattened upper body pressing against your back, that your heart thumps wetly into your throat. You manage to power through the rest of the lift, but everything after that is a haze.

You finish the routine on pure muscle memory, and you stagger back to the balcony without speaking to the interviewer. Dave ends up filling in for you, giving what you’re sure is an embarrassing play-by-play of your many failed lift attempts.

The fog persists as you’re dragged out for the elimination round, and you fail to even register the results. You’re not even sure if you’re still in the competition when Dave shakes you by the shoulders, saying, “Dude. Earth to alien! We’re still on the fucking show. C’mon, man, don’t make me bitch slap you on intergalactic prime time.”

Not only are you saddled with the world’s worst dancer for another week. Now, you’re in love with the world’s worst dancer.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 24 October 2017

Halloween has always been one of your favorite holidays. As a troll with a flair for the dramatic, you practically worship at the altar of sugar-coated, costumed excess. You’re a fanatic for all things peculiar, and you’ll never turn down an opportunity to wear an over-the-top costume. Kanaya has even jokingly dubbed you the “Alternian Halloween ambassador”, noting that your passion for the festivities may as well “stretch beyond the confines of this galaxy”.

This year, the occasion falls just a day before the sixth week’s live taping. And for once, you’re not dreading it. In fact, you find yourself feeling almost confident. You may not be getting good scores, but you’re finally starting to have fun. Moreover, you’ve been informed that there will be a group freestyle, and you’re eager to see how you can twist such a thing to fit your needs.

You’re standing in your studio — notebook in hand, pencil tucked behind your aural node — and listening to Dave ramble. He’s said nothing of particular interest thus far, but you perk up when he starts discussing music.

“It’s not so much finding the beat that’s the issue, it’s that I’m better at less formal shit. Does that make sense? I mean,” he rubs a pale hand over a stubble-dusted chin and narrows his eyes. “I did breaking for a while. Or, like, most people call it ‘break dancing’, actually. I’m not as flexible as I was fifteen years ago, but I’d like to think I’ve still got some street-worthy style.” He ends his statement by miming the act of popping an invisible collar, as if doing such a thing will somehow emphasize his point.

And you feel like a hunter who’s just caught sight of the perfect target. You prime your crosshairs and fire, bearing down on this scrap of information like the lifeline that it is. “And you never thought to fucking mention that before now, Strider? For fuck’s sake! Show me what you’ve got.” You fold your arms and step back, halfway expecting to watch your ballroom partner smash his stupid face into the hardwood floor. (No, honestly, it’s more than half.)

And he certainly seems ready to prove you right. He breathes in, cracks his knuckles, and smirks. But instead of gracelessly flopping to the ground, he spins. Lanky limbs become streaks of movement as he easily shifts his weight around in ways that seem to defy gravity. He’s rusty; that much is obvious. Your trained eye easily catches more than a few last-minute saves. But it’s far more than he’s ever done in a formal setting. More importantly, it’s much better than any of his ballroom dances.

Your jaw drops as he stands, and you meet his gaze with what you’re sure is a wide-eyed look of dumbstruck awe. “What the fuck?” you sputter. “You can legitimately dance? You know how to dance?” You step back, drag your hands over your face, and shake your head. “You’re shitting me, Strider. I’ve been busting my goddamned ass off over here, assuming you know just about nothing about dancing. And you can do THAT? And you didn’t even think to fucking mention it at all? Not even a, ‘Hey, you shouty dumbfuck, I know how to move my stupid mammalian body to a beat. You don’t need to rehash all this shit for me, thanks!’”

“Like, I honestly didn’t think it was that important,” Dave shrugs. He scratches the side of his nose and looks at nothing in particular as he continues, “It ain’t, like, formal ballroom dancing, y’know? That’s a whole different skill set. I don’t know just ‘bout half the shit you do in this place, and I’ve needed the refreshers, anyhow.”

You want to let every ounce of frustration pour out like a waterfall. You want to cut your soul open and let the past few weeks of stress burst out as frothing, molten rage. But you can’t; if nothing else, that’s wildly unprofessional. Instead, you turn around, grab a stress ball from the box by your sound system, and dig your claws into the soft, foamy material. A swift downward push easily rends the material apart, and a light tug rips the entire thing in half. You cast aside the refuse and repeat the process with a few more stress balls before you feel calm enough to return to Dave.

And at this point, he’s staring at you like he’s just seen a ghost. His shades have slid to the tip of his nose, and his voice wavers a bit as he mutters, “You’re supposed to squeeze those.” He mimes the act of squeezing something in his right fist; his left hand, meanwhile, awkwardly tugs at the collar of his loose-fitting baseball shirt. “I guess you could use it like you are, but it ain’t… ah… meant to be used like that. You should, like, squish it around and stuff. You, like, knead it and… shit…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows, and his hand shakes as he pushes his shades back into place.

You, in your tired frustration, step forward until you can glare down at Dave. You level your most venomous stare at him as you say, slowly and intentionally, “I do not care what the ‘intended purpose’ of these little fuckers is.” You’re still holding half of one of the curios, and you wag it in Dave’s face for emphasis. “My job is to turn you into a halfway decent dancer in the next month or so — god forbid we last that long. So, why don’t we figure out how we can use this in the freestyle team routine, hm?”

Slowly, Dave nods.

Wednesday, 25 October 2017

“Did you know that a pasodoble is one of a handful of ballroom dances to highlight the male dancer?” Dave muses as he loudly slurps up what must be the final drops of his Cramp-Free Sun juice from its silver pouch. He peers at you over the upper rims of his shades.

You’ve been practicing for at least three solid hours. You’re covered in slimy perspiration, and Dave has dropped puddles of human sweat all over the floor.

You’re starting to wonder if you’ve put too much into this dance. Content is everything, especially in something as tight and quick as a pasodoble. You’ve learned what the judges want to see, and you know how to push those scores higher — even in a situation as hopeless as Dave’s. Even if the entire routine is a total flop, you’ve crammed enough meat into this dance to make it worth everyone’s while.

“But,” protests the voice in your head, “is this too much?”

Dave clears his throat, forcibly yanking you out of your head.

You realize that you should answer him, and it takes you a few seconds to remember what he said. You pull the best scowl you can muster and breathe a disapproving “tch” to hammer home your feigned indifference. “Of course I knew that, Strider. You act as if my entire career revolves around something other than ballroom dance.”

Your annoyance is an act; truthfully, you’re downright flattered that Dave has finally taken an interest in the artistry of your craft. You love sharing your knowledge with others, and you love seeing others want to expand their horizons. If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you’d even say that Dave’s newfound zest has added to your problematic crush on him.

And Dave easily sees through the façade. He smirks, shrugs, and rolls his eyes as he says, “‘Course you knew that. I was just testing you. Can’t let you get too rusty.”

“I appreciate your interest in my professional development, Strider,” you sigh. Continuing your feigned disinterest, you rub the bridge of your nose and shake your head. You suppress a bemused grin as you plod over to Dave and snap your fingers in his face, saying, “Okay! Break time’s over, dumbass. Let’s try this whole thing again.”

Despite a whine of protest, Dave sets aside his phone and stumbles to his feet. He trudges to the center of the studio with you, and his casual posture handily covers his genuine interest as you demonstrate the next move.

You square your shoulders and straighten your back, elongating your body into a vaguely bow-like shape. Your right arm bends loosely by your side, while your similarly arched right rises until it’s level with your chest. Your right palm faces outward, and you hold it as if you’re pushing something away as you take a few lithe steps forward, saying, “The appel is the turning point of a pasodoble. It’s the moment the stompbeast acknowledges the matador, so we want this to blow everyone’s mammalian nipples clean off.”

Dave’s eyebrows form a pensive line, and he speaks carefully as he asks, “And in this situation, I’m the bull?

To this inquiry, you blink and rub a hand over your mouth. You repeat your movement again as you reply, “How many stompbeasts have you seen move like this, Strider?”

“None, but I haven’t actually seen that many bulls in person, y’know. The whole ‘cowboy’ thing’s an act. I crew up in Houston. I didn’t even see a real, live horse until I was, like, thirteen,” Dave emphasizes his point with air quotes and leans slightly closer to you as he speaks. His right eyebrow arches high above his shades. There is no explicit question, but his implicit inquiry is clear: “Did you genuinely think the persona was real?”

And you refuse to dignify such a nonsensical, irrelevant question with a response. More truthfully, you don’t want to admit aloud that you’d so easily fallen for Dave’s mask. You’ve always prided yourself in your ability to pick people apart like slow-cooked meat. You’re usually able to mentally tear a person into their most basic parts in days, and less complex personalities take even less time to analyze. But Dave remains an enigma, and you’re finding yourself being drawn ever deeper into his web.

You won’t admit as much, of course.

No, instead, you fold your arms across your chest, level the most heated glare possible at Dave, and snap, “They don’t, you nitwit. You’re the fucking matador. I’m the stompbeast. Got it?”

A wicked smirk tugs at Dave’s lips, and you know what he’s about to say before it leaves his mouth: “I’m the fucking matador? Supposing that’s true, this dance needs a little more hip action, don’t it? I mean, we’re looking stiff as a board over here. Looking like the most chaste, boring sex I’ve ever laid my damned eyes on!”

“You know what I mean,” you hiss, doing your best to pummel down the laughter that rises up your throat like vomit.

Dave smiles and winks, and you kick yourself when you start to wonder what his lips would feel like against yours.

Thursday, 26 October 2017

One of the greatest challenges of a team dance is the limited practice time. Everyone must work together, and that necessitates a verifiable migraine of scheduling conflicts. This year, you have just two days — a mere eight hours total — to practice and perfect a fully choreographed, two-minute dance to the main theme from Phantom of the Opera.

Everyone plans “their” section accordingly. Each pair gets a few seconds of solo work during the routine, and you fully intend to let Dave show off his unexpected breaking skills. Unfortunately, you must still fill the rest of the dance with content, and neither Vriska nor Kanaya have provided particularly easy choreography.

You’re currently working on lifts, and Dave’s stubborn streak is coming to a head. This is the third time he’s botched the lift, and he’s not even the one doing the work. You’re doing the lifting; he simply refuses to let his feet leave the ground. The second you apply any pressure to his torso, he steps back.

And after the sixth attempt, as everyone else moves ahead with the routine, you glare at him. “What the fuck, Strider? We’ve done this before. You did this during your first fucking week on the show. What gives?”

“Well, for starters, you keep getting dangerously close to my crotch,” Dave mutters.

You raise a single eyebrow. You won’t say it aloud, but you’re sure that Dave doesn’t possess any external anatomy. There’s nothing for you to physically crush, so there’s a different issue at play. You have a nagging suspicion, but you don’t want to go there — not yet.

Dave, however, has no qualms about the idea. He leans in, glances around, and whispers, “Fucking fine. It’s getting me hot and bothered. I’m horny. Fucking sue me.”

The answer isn’t exactly surprising. In all honesty, it’s exactly what you expected. The problem is that it’s not what you wanted to hear. You were hoping he’d admit to having an upset stomach or a fear of heights. Confirmation of what is rapidly becoming a childish two-way crush is the last thing you need on your mind.

So, you push back. You force your vocal volume as low as it can go — which isn’t much — as you respond, “That’s not my problem, Strider. We’re down to six hours to figure out this dance, so shove your spiritual dick wherever it needs to be and swallow your feelings until we’re done.” The second you notice a wry smile flickering onto his face, you add, “Do not make a sex joke.”

After shoving his hands in his pockets, Dave sighs. “Ugh. Fine. Whatever you want, Sergeant Killjoy.”

In an attempt to redirect his energy, you pat him on the shoulder. “Good boy, Strider,” you say, tossing the words out as a needling aside. They’re the verbal equivalent of rubbish — an acknowledgment that you’ve heard what he said.

But he seems to take them differently. A pleased smirk flashes across his face, and you swear you see him shiver ever so slightly. He says nothing more about the issue; instead, he clumsily rejoins the rest of the group. With all of his usual grace — that is, next to none — he follows along with Vriska as she chassés across the studio. When he makes eye contact with Rose, an enigmatic smile spreads across his face.

You find yourself wondering what sort of bullshit you’re about to bite into.

And Rose seems more than happy to illustrate just a taste of it all as she facetiously coos, “Very graceful, Dave! You’ll be the prima donna soon enough!”

Dave counters by sticking out his tongue.

Terezi, meanwhile, giddily joins the dogpile. “You’ll be against two of the loveliest ballerinas on the show, you know!” The claim is certainly supported by evidence. Despite her overbearing personality and wicked bite, she moves across the floor like she’s walking on a cloud. She has exceptionally fine control of herself; each movement melts seamlessly into the next.

Rose is about the same, albeit somewhat more aggressive. If Terezi dances like air, Rose dances like thunder. Her movements are far from “wrong” — they’re technically sound. But they’re sharper and more abrupt, seeming almost jazz-like at times.

“Can we stop playing ‘Bully Karkat’s Idiotic Ballroom Partner’ and focus on the fucking dance?” you call, raising your voice so that you’ll be heard above the music.

In an uncannily perfect imitation of her brother, Rose rolls her eyes and huffs, “Doesn’t it hurt to have that stick rammed so far up your ass, Karkat?” Unlike Dave, she can maintain her poise and rhythm while talking. There’s a playful edge to her voice, but it’s buried beneath a sting akin to lemon juice in an open wound.

And Dave, as if to reassert his abject lack of grace, stumbles as he says, “For once, I’m gonna agree with the jackass.”

You feel as though you should be insulted by the comment, but you’re too tired and annoyed to care. No, your mind is solidly focused on making sure Dave does his best. You’d feel terrible if you cost Kanaya or Vriska their fair shot at the Mirrorball, after all. So, you push him harder. When his arm drops too low for a pose, you step into the middle of the floor and push it into the right place.

That singular touch feels like static at your fingertips. There’s a strange, thrumming energy that passes between you and him, and you withdraw quickly as you huff, “Watch your posture, Strider.”

Now, Rose breaks formation. She pats Dave’s butt and smirks when he jumps. “Your poor posture is finally coming to haunt you, isn’t it? I did warn you about that. When we were children, I distinctly recall that I often reminded you to straighten your back.” Despite the devilish look in her eyes, her tone is genuine. She’s trying to help, even if she’s going about it in the strangest way possible.

And it seems to work. Dave accepts the feedback and does his best, though he grumbles about her interference. If you can somehow force him to push out a halfway decent pasodoble, you might just make it to next week

Saturday, 29 October 2017

You shouldn’t be showing Kanaya footage of your practice sessions, but you can’t help yourself. You’re downright giddy over Dave’s progress. You’d never call what he’s pulling off a halfway passable pasodoble for this late in the competition, but you’re seeing definite improvements. You’re scrubbing back and forth over a particular section and tapping at your palmhusk’s screen as you gush, “See? The impossible, incorrigible bastard’s even staying in frame! It’s like he’s a completely different person, Kanaya.”

And Kanaya, ever the diplomat, nods serenely. She taps a jade-tinged claw against her lips and smiles as she hums, “Yes, yes. It is quite impressive progress, Karkat! I do not know how you managed to make such a graceless man perform a technically sound pasodoble, but this is certainly compelling evidence of such a claim.” She then picks up her wine flute, sniffs at the candied sopor within, and takes a sip. After a satisfied buzz of approval, she continues, “It seems that you and Dave have also found a bit of chemistry. You two have finally discovered that — oh, what does Bruno call it? ‘The spark’?”

You react to the comment with a wary glare.

Kanaya, as she often does, calms you by patting you on the face. “Now, now,” she tuts, “a bit of cross-species affection is nothing to rage about, Karkat! After all, Rose and I are quite enjoying our romantic endeavors.” A strange energy — something that vaguely reminds you of lust — flashes behind her eyes, and her smile grows until you can see most of her pointed fangs. With a bit too much vigor, she adds, “Mammalian anatomy is incredibly fascinating, you know!”

You nearly choke on your next forkful of Alternian grains and sea dredge. It takes you a few seconds to recover your composure, and you’re still sputtering when you finally hiss, “What the fuck, Kanaya? I don’t need to know that shit! Besides, Dave is…” You feel your brow twitch as you try to remember human physiology. “He’s a guy — a male! They have different anatomy!”

Where you expect some form of agreement, Kanaya provides an indifferent shrug. She downs another delicate sip of her drink and carefully licks away a few stray drops on her left fang before providing the most infuriatingly vague “clarifying” statement you’ve ever heard: “That would make sense, would it not? And it is what the Alternian textbooks led us to believe. But Rose has informed me that it is not necessarily true! Some humans possess different anatomy, and there are many reasons for such an occurrence.”

“And are you going to fucking tell me how that could be even remotely relevant to my situation?”

Kanaya shakes her head. “No, no. I am sorry, Karkat. I do not think it is my place to tell you that.”

“Of course it’s not! I’m never informed of anything that happens around me. I’m merely a pawn in everyone’s frivolous diversion. I may as well change my job to ‘Karkat Vantas: Professional Dope’. For fuck’s sake!” You bury your face in your hands and let loose a chesty growl. Humans often mistake such a gesture as a purr, but a proper chest-growl has a different, faster modulation than a pleasure-hum.

Perhaps you’ve grown too accustomed to human interaction; you’re genuinely shocked when Kanaya gives you another pat on the face and a calming “shhh”. Then, she smiles. In a low voice, a tone quiet enough to slide under the background chatter of the bustling café, she reassures you, “Audiences love a good public romance. I am surprised that you, of all people, have not recognized the potential in this situation.”

Now, in theory, you shouldn’t abuse the public voting “loophole”.

You’ve always been a vocal proponent of returning the show to its talent-based roots. You consider yourself one of the staunchest supporters of throwing out the shitty dancers first, and you’ve never hesitated to call out the public for their callous, banal, and generally fickle “scores”. The show’s newfound status as a popularity contest has always irked you, and you’ll be the first to admit that Dave has been on air a solid six weeks longer than he deserves.

But your competitive side is tough to beat.

If you can find a way to win, even if it’s not necessarily fair…

Well…

Monday, 30 October 2017

Should you have cornered your dance partner in the (thankfully empty) balcony bathroom to discuss your idea? Probably not.

No, scratch that.

You definitely needed a better strategy. The outright awkward nature of the exchange is its own problem. You could have at least alleviated the issue by approaching him in the dressing area before the show began. But you’re more concerned about the way your blood-pusher is racing like it’s about to explode. Your gustatory muscle has run uncomfortably dry, and the stench of his musky cologne is assaulting your olfactory protrusion. (It takes you a few seconds to remember that “tongue” and “nose”, respectively, are the words most commonly used for these body parts on this planet.) When you look down, you see bright red irises, and your blood-pusher feels as if it will burst from your chest at any second.

Dully, you hear Tom Bergeron rambling on about tonight’s performances. Even as his voice booms through the speakers just a few feet above your head, he sounds miles away. “We have some scary good dances up our sleeves tonight, ladies and gentlemen — and Alternians, of course. We extend our creepiest greetings to our extraterrestrial corporate partners and viewers.” Being a family show, Dancing With the Stars is also viewed by wrigglers. Knowing this, the producers have since added some extra time to pad out intros, especially for “event” shows. After his corny intro, Bergeron begins a brief explanation of Halloween: “‘Why the costumes?’ you may be asking. Well, I’ll tell you! Tonight is—”

You block out the rest of the canned speech. It’s not your problem, after all. And for once, you genuinely appreciate the extra patter. Normally, you’d be getting your ass hauled onto stage for a glittery intro shot right now. Thanks to Alternia’s stubborn refusal to learn just about anything regarding Earth’s many cultural customs, you’re getting an extra five minutes to talk to Dave.

And you’re determined to use it.

“Listen to me, Strider, and listen carefully,” you say, giving Dave zero potential openings to interject. “You said you’d be willing to pretend as if we aren’t actively trying to murder each other at any given moment, didn’t you?”

Not surprisingly, Dave’s response to your inquiry is a blank, befuddled stare.

You’re trying to be subtle, but you may have overshot your mark. So, with a deep sigh, you clarify, “You said you’d be willing to — and I won’t get this quote entirely correct — ‘fake date me’, if the need happened to arise, did you fucking not?”

“Well, heh, not in those exact words, I didn’t, but—”

Again, you give him no time to reply; you don’t have a minute to waste. Bergeron has already started discussing the “Western religious influence” on the creation of Halloween. With more speed than before, you mutter, “I’ll be perfectly transparent with you, Strider: I want to win. I cannot fucking stand losing, especially not after I just took home another Mirrorball. So, I want you to—”

This time, Dave cuts you off. “You want me to fake date you?”

“Yes, you shit-huffing dumbass. Why else would I be asking such a humiliating question?”

The bathroom door opens, and both you and Dave freeze.

You realize how suspicious this looks. The gap beneath the stall doors is more than ample enough for even a casual glance to reveal that you’ve crammed yourself into the same stall as Dave. If this is anyone you give a damn about — or god forbid a judge — you’re not sure how you can ever interact with another living thing again. For an entirely different reason than before, your blood-pusher races. You hold your breath.

You release it when you hear Nepeta humming. Her costume’s glittery black cape scrapes the floor as she walks past your stall. She pauses for a second longer than necessary in front of your stall, but she says nothing.

“Let me get this straight,” Dave whispers, his voice sounding more like a hoarse wheeze. “You followed me into the fucking shitter to ask me to fake date you on intergalactic television? Is that what’s actually happening right now? That’s the shit — pun intended — that you’re throwing down right now?” He zips the fly of his solid black trousers and adjusts the waistband. Then, after lowering his shades, he levels a decidedly confused stare at you.

“Well, what does it fucking look like? Use your goddamned ganderbulbs, you blithering moron!”

“This ain’t, like, a normal way to break news or ask a question, y’know!”

The toilet flushes with a surprisingly mighty roar in the stall to the right.

You, meanwhile, narrow your eyes and glare at Dave. “We have to be ready to go in two motherfucking minutes. Answer the question.”

“Sure, whatever!” Dave blurts. He inhales, clearly intending to continue his statement, only to fall silent when another voice joins this absolute mind-fuck of a situation.

Light footsteps approach the increasingly cramped stall.

“Oh! Karkitty and Dave!” Nepeta announces, her voice drenched in her usual brand of cheer. “I didn’t realize you were both in here. Well, you’d better put a paws on whatever it is you’re doing” — you can feel the finger wag, and you cringe inward on yourself — “because the show’s about to start!”

Dave shoots you an understandably venomous look as he clears his throat. Somehow, he pulls himself together enough to respond with his standard, nonchalant intonation: “Thanks for that heads-up, darling. We’ll be right out.”

You groan, and part of you realizes that such a sound can easily be mistaken for a sexual moan.

“But,” you reassure yourself, “at least that’s settled…”

The second the bathroom door clicks closed, you force open the stall door. A chunk of black plastic, formerly the stall’s lock, easily snaps away. You push the flimsy barrier open, then shove Dave out ahead of you as you hiss, “Go. We should’ve been on stage by now.” As if summoned by your voice, some harried production staff members scurry into the bathroom. You raise your hands in the air, as if to surrender to the police, and sigh, “Don’t get yourselves worked up. We’re heading down now.”

Minutes later, you find yourself beneath the familiar heat of spotlights. You’ve forced the expected, shit-eating smile onto your face, and you wave as the camera pans past you. At the same time, your attention is drawn to Dave.

He’s poking your ass as he mutters in your ear, voice wavering with poorly contained laughter, “I’m kinda surprised she didn’t ask if we were feline each other up.”

And of course Rose is standing within earshot.

A loud, inelegant whoop of laughter escapes her throat as she hears her brother’s comment. She covers her mouth, but the camera still briefly settles upon her as she counters, “Would you also like to develop a public exhibitionism kink, dear brother?”

“Can’t count anything out yet, sis,” Dave smirks.

By the time the announcement drops — “Live from Hollywood, it’s Dancing With the Stars!” — you’re starting to seriously consider the benefits of having your skull abruptly crushed by a falling spotlight. Or, perhaps, you might be able to electrocute yourself to death on an improperly grounded wire…

The moment you’re free to do so, you rush backstage.

You spend the next forty minutes or so brooding. You’re starting to reconsider your profoundly decreased hatred of Dave Strider when he, in all his stupidity, blunders his way into the changing area.

With his hands shoved firmly in his pockets, he sits next to you and says, “So, like, I don’t know if we’ve still got that whole ‘mortal enemies’ thing going on or what. I know that trolls do that shit, don’t they? It’s a whole type of relationship. I know that. But it’s really harshing my vibe, so can we, like, tone it down a little?” He cocks his head to the side, briefly revealing an inquisitively raised eyebrow. “I mean… I don’t hate you. I don’t even dislike you. I might even say you’re a pretty cool dude, even if you’re shouting and screaming half the time. I was just a little jumpy ‘bout the bathroom is all. And what I’m trying to ask is if you uh… wanna agree to a truce, maybe?”

Now, it’s your turn to respond with a dumbfounded stare. You can practically feel the wrinkles forming as you furrow your brow, and it takes you a solid minute to scrape together enough guts to answer, “I sort of fucking have to if this fake dating plan is a thing, dumbass.”

This, it seems, is the perfect answer. A wide, genuine smile flashes across Dave’s face. One hand offers a thumbs-up; the other pats you on the back. “Great! Because they want us on stage in a few minutes.”

Reluctantly, you rise to your feet and trudge back to the main balcony. You obediently follow the staff as they lead you into place. Now, beneath the milky blue spotlights and swirling fake fog, you find yourself biting your tongue. You should not have caved to Dave’s demands. His bedazzled vampire outfit makes him look more ridiculous than usual.

But when that first drumbeat hits, the switch in your brain flips. You grab Dave’s hands, straighten your back, and breeze through your routine.

You notice a few missteps, but Dave corrects them quickly. He’s even starting to grasp the fact that he must sync his head movement to the rest of his body. At this point in the competition, his performance is downright abysmal, but it’s more than he’s ever down. You’re even tempted to say you’re proud of it.

At the end, as he drops you into a classic sweep, he plants a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips. Your mind spins, and a single thought rams its way to the forefront: “Goddammit, I’m in love with Dave Strider.”

You barely register the feedback, and the glee of squeezing out a twenty-three-point total is dulled by the sound of your blood-pusher pumping away in your ears. You find yourself in a warm haze as the night continues. Everything becomes a blur of motion, color, and light. You catch snippets of conversation, and you force yourself to respond to a few asides. But you’re mostly consumed by your thoughts.

As the first half of the show comes to an end, you find solace in the fact that Dave’s next costume is the least attractive thing possible. Sticking to the theme, you’ve all collectively agreed that having — as Terezi called it — “a street-smart and boppin’ Masque of Red Death” is as appropriate as it is hilarious. Dave’s face will be completely covered by a slate gray skeleton mask, and his gaudy crimson attire may as well be poison to you. You’ve made sure of it. You selected fabric that perfectly matches the color of your mutant blood, and you fully expect to be viscerally repulsed when your ballroom partner struts out of the changing room.

He has his arms spread, and you’re sure there’s a cocky smile beneath his mask.

But, to your chagrin, you can’t take your eyes off him. Your gaze keeps wandering to the eye sockets. Though somewhat cushioned by a thick coat of black makeup, his eyes constantly flick away from bright lights. He squints as he steps onto the balcony, and his voice is strained as he mutters to you, “Dude, I can’t fucking see shit right now. Oh, fuck, I’m about to have the worst migraine of my life after this.” The way he trips over Vriska’s dress only reaffirms his statement.

There’s a pang of something in your stomach. You try to dismiss it as pity or indigestion, but you know it’s a blossom of fondness.

You shake your head with as much force as you can stand, but it fails to dislodge the warmth. When you respond to Dave, your words are too soft. Your voice is too gentle. But you can’t help it; even as you actively try to add some bite, the words come out like silk as you say, “Just watch me and stay in the middle of the floor. We practiced this.”

You’re desperate enough — disgusted by yourself enough — to hope that your statement ratchets up Dave’s anxiety. Instead, it placates him. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and he fumbles around until he finds your shoulder. After a few sturdy pats, he wanders off.

Somehow, the other team manages to get a surprisingly low twenty-four points, and your blood-pusher sinks to your stomach as you realize you may very well survive the week. Your competitive nature is overpowered by a frantic need to rid yourself of your feelings for Dave, and you start to hope that the dance flops.

Unfortunately for you, it goes perfectly.

Sure, Dave stumbles through the ballroom portion with all the heavy-footed grace of a drunken dromedary. That’s a given; you fully expect it. But he blows the “free” part of the freestyle out of the water, even if breaking isn’t the most appropriate match for “Phantom of the Opera”.

You vaguely register receiving a collective perfect score. When the elimination round comes, the last thing you hear is Tom Bergeron announcing that “International Broadcasting Station is giving everyone a reprieve! Nobody will go home tonight!” And at that point, your brain decides it’s had enough bullshit for the day.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

Your name is Dave Strider, and joining an intergalactic dancing competition may have been the goddamn dumbest idea you’ve ever let yourself get roped into in your entire life. Even overlooking your chronic, lifelong lack of anything that can so much as resemble an ounce of grace, you’re too cool for this. You really have no reason to be here. And when all of this is over, you will be firing your manager. To hell with Barry! He’s a fucking idiot.

Sure, you get a nice little prize pot if you win. (You can’t remember how much the prize is. Really, it doesn’t matter much to you; money’s no object.) Your partner is pretty cool, too. Even when he’s screaming his head off like a toddler having a temper tantrum, Karkat Vantas is a surprisingly funny guy. Or maybe “funny” isn’t the right word. He’s entertaining, yes; he has to be to hold down a job like this. But he’s also passionate and smart.

Not that you’d ever say as much to his face!

That’d inflate his ego way too much. You fear his head would simply swell until it popped if you told him as much. It could go a different way, too. He might just get so angry at your comment that he launches himself into an apoplexy loud enough to create a seismic shockwave. Neither outcome is particularly enjoyable.

And you’d rather be friends with him, of course; you totally just want to be friends with him. There is not a single bone in your body that would ever dream of doing anything more romantic than fake kissing Karkat Vantas for sweet, sweet internet votes. There ain’t even a single molecule of the sort on you. And you reckon nothing smaller than a molecule exists that can talk about anything but your completely platonic feelings towards Karkat Vantas, either.

…Okay, fine!

You’re lying out of your ass. You’re crushing on your professionally assigned dance partner like you’re a pneumatic press and he’s a gumball. But you figure that phrase should go in reverse. Sure, you like him; but you’re the one feeling like you’re being crunched into dust for the enjoyment of countless ViewTube viewers. You’re out here making a fool of yourself on the Intergalactic Broadcasting Station, and you’re about ready to eat some sexy alien face.

So, what? It’s not like you’ll get kicked off the show if you do. No, you’ll just get your ass kicked even flatter than it already is.

And maybe —

“Are you listening to me, Strider, or is the little bastard inside your think pan engaged in yet another masturbatory celebration of your own stupidity?” Karkat stares at you with a furrowed brow and a toothy snarl. His arms — thick and muscular and far too sculpted are folded across his chest. You hate that he’s taller than you, but you’d be lying if you said his brick shithouse physique isn’t making you go fucking wild. Hell, his body’s been making you lose your goddamn shit for the past nine weeks. And that’s, like, over two whole-ass months of painfully cringe pining.

Shit, you have to answer him.

He’s staring at you. His eyes are narrowing; golden sclera expand as bright red pupils contract. Devastatingly, his left eyebrow slowly rises. He raps a beefy index finger against an equally meaty bicep. And when you, in all your stupidity, fail to come up with a worthwhile reply, he eventually says, “Okay! Well, it seems you are once again indisposed by your disgusting self-adoration.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and plods to the front of the studio. Unbothered by your inattention, he continues, “This week’s dances — yes, plural — will be jazz and salsa.”

Finally, you scrape together enough common sense to open your mouth and form words. “Salsa’s, like, a Latin style, ain’t it?” you ask.

It’s not like you’ve ever danced a salsa, of course. You didn’t even know what it was before you joined the show. But you’ve heard tidbits about it from Rose. She’s mentioned its roots, and you think you remember her saying that it “possesses a multitude of subsets and styles, all of which are delightfully unique in execution and origin.” Then again, you could just be fabricating some wild ideas off the top of your head. You’ve done that before, too.

But giving Karkat something to show your interest seems like a better option than looking like a complete dope, so you go with it and say, “There’s, like, a few styles, too. Don’t remember how many, but you can salsa a few different ways. Like edible salsa, I guess.”

A hint of a smile tugs at Karkat’s lips, and a surge of pride rubs nicely against your chest. The sensation is warm and vivid, almost as if an author is having far too much fun cramming unnecessary lines of colorful text into your thoughts. Or maybe it’s like something more relatable, like a purring cat sitting on you. It feels good, in fewer words.

And as you ponder this feeling, Karkat leans his right shoulder against the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that line the wall to the left of the studio’s door. He starts that idly tapping his biceps again, and you imagine what it would feel like to have those fingers run through your hair as he continues his explanation, saying, “Amazing! You’ve checked back into reality. Fucking fantastic. While there are a few styles of salsa, we’ll mostly be focusing on the Los Angeles style. That means we’re dancing on one and slotting our steps. Got it?”

Despite the fact that you very much did not “get it”, you nod.

You probably should have spoken up because Karkat takes your affirmation as a free pass to ram straight into what you’ve started to call “dance theory class”. His posture loosens, looking less like the straight-backed “frames” you’ve been seeing. “You want to go with the flow,” he explains. “Salsa is about spins and turns. But you don’t want to go out there and twirl your stupid ass around like a ballerina. We’ve already finished off the contemporary dance — ‘hallelujah,’ as they say. Being the eighth week of competition and a double elimination night, I’ll be working your piteous ass to the bone.”

“Only on the salsa, though, right?” you hopefully quip.

The comment earns you a chesty growl and a sneer. “Of course not, Strider!” Karkat snaps. “I will be packing both routines with as much content as I think you can handle. With your track record of proven mediocrity, I may as well be pushing in more content than that.”

You can see the logic. Everyone in the room — all two of you — wants to win. Hell, you reckon your proposed fake dating scheme won’t be enough to save you from elimination. When you mentioned it to Terezi a few days ago, she seemed to come to the same conclusion, noting that she didn’t think “two dumbasses kissing” would spare you from the axe’s keen blade.

At the same time, you’re anxious enough as is.

And maybe Karkat senses that. After a few seconds, his posture softens. He looks away, rubs the back of his neck, and lowers his usually booming voice. “I’m not as concerned about the jazz number. I won’t say that I think you’ll do amazingly, but you seem to fare better with quicker dances.”

You nod. Then, after mentally beating yourself into shape, you drawl, “So…”

“So?” Karkat parrots.

With great effort, you pry your eyes away from his lips. They’re thicker and softer than you’re used to seeing on trolls. Alas, your gaze quickly settles on his wiry hair, and your mind wanders to thoughts of running your fingers through it.

Get it together, Strider.

You shake your head and feign interest in anything other than how uncomfortably horny you’re getting. If you can get the shouty alien talking, you’ll at least be able to lock in on whatever he’s blabbing about. You encourage his usual monologues by saying, “What’s the rub on a Hollywood salsa? What’s the slip on the chip dip dance?”

Hook, line, sinker.

Karkat takes the bait like the world’s most gullible fish. He scoffs; his nostrils flare as he folds his arms firmly across that broad, broad chest of his. When he speaks, his voice is rough — crushed gravel, asphalt, and bits of glass beneath your feet. “The Los Angeles style is flashy, as I’m sure one would expect from anything that comes from this city of cloying decadence. It’s not ‘pure’ salsa,” here, he unfolds his arms long enough to add air quotes. “In keeping with the style, we’ll be adding bits of swing to the routine. It makes it more lively. Adds that ‘pop factor’, as some might say. Now, you haven’t actually done a swing number. But the quickstep is vaguely comparable, so you should theoretically possess some of the skills you’ll need for this number.”

“‘Theoretically’?” you ask, imitating Karkat’s air quotes.

“Yes, theoretically. Have you seen your dancing, Strider? You’re two steps shy of what the professionals would call ‘a fucking disaster’.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth as you mutter, “Whoa. Yeesh. That’s harsh, but not wrong. I’m not a great dancer.”

“Great to see we’re on the same fucking page, you bulge-chafing idiot.” Now, Karkat switches into instruction mode. His posture loosens again, and he holds his arms out like he’s leading a dance. (And he will be doing just that pretty soon.) He then nods to his feet as he says, “Now, watch my steps closely.”

He steps back with his right foot before bringing his left in line. The process repeats a few times, and his upper body flows like water with his movements. You’re positively transfixed by it all. Before now, you’d never give shit like this a single thought. Now, you’re downright damned enamored with it all. And you’re watching so intently that you’re taken by surprise when he roughly grabs your hands and drags you into place with him.

He slows to a crawl and takes one step back on his right foot. “Slotting is salsa standard, at least for this style. So, where my right foot was, you want to put your left.”

You can feel heat rushing to your face as you nod.

Oh, you’re so, so boned.

Thursday, 2 November 2017

“Ballroom jazz is essentially the same thing as the solo style, it just has two people going at the same time.” Karkat’s voice is as loud as usual. You’ve grown used to it. In fact, you might even say you like it — but that would require you to be honest with yourself. Instead, you keep poking at the fabric samples stapled to a large board in the costuming department office as he continues, “It includes swing, but our dance is not swing.”

Mental record scratch.

You turn around, eyebrows pinched together, and say, “Wait, what? That’s confusing as fuck, man! So we’re doing jazz, and jazz is swing, but we are not doing swing? Am I getting that right?” You’ll be the first to admit that you’re not well acquainted with this art form’s terminology, and this new linguistic conundrum ain’t doing you many favors.

But Karkat seems to have a simple solution. He shoves his hands in his pockets, leans his shoulder against an unused board of swatches, and sighs, “All rectangles are squares, but not all squares are rectangles. Does that put it into terms simple enough for your weak mammalian brain to understand?”

“Huh, yeah. That’s a perfect explanation, actually.” To keep your eyes off your extraterrestrial dance partner, you stare at a scrap of glossy black fabric. It’s soft beneath your fingers — some sort of cotton blend — and the flecks of reflective weave will really pop under the stage lights. You’ve worn something like this before; Rose used it (albeit in red) to make your suit for the premiere of Sweet Bro & Hella Jeff 2: The Longest, Hardest Journey. It looked stunning, but it also tended to stretch a little too much for you.

You move to another swatch. This one is matte crimson — a bit rough, a bit bumpy, but very vivid. You don’t know what this particular fabric is called, but you’ve seen it before. It works wonders for suits and outerwear, but you’d never use it for anything that directly touches your skin. That’s just begging for a chafing.

The silence in the room is starting to annoy you, so you let the first thought that pops into your head push out of your lips: “You ain’t giving much input on your ‘fit, dude. Do you just not give a shit?”

“I’ve never given so much as an iota of attention to my wardrobe, Strider. Did you only notice that fact right now? Sheesh.” His hands are in his pockets, but Karkat’s gaze meanders just a smidgen more than usual today. It doesn’t take a fucking detective to notice that he’s pointedly avoiding you. And when he does accidentally let his eyes land on you, he quickly looks away.

Don’t mention it.

You poke at another sample. The smooth texture is familiar; you can’t remember the name, but you hear Rose’s voice in your head. She’s talked about whatever this is, calling it one of her “preferred sewing mediums” — whatever that means.

Eventually, Karkat’s voice pulls you from your brain. He’s still got that frown on his face, but his voice is softer than usual. (You’re damn near tempted to call it gentle, but that seems like a bad idea.) “For a self-proclaimed ‘macho cool guy’, you sure do care a lot about how you look. Now, human culture may have changed since I last checked, but I’m pretty fucking sure that tough guys like you aren’t supposed to care about fashion.”

“Oh, nah, you’re right,” you nod. “But let’s be fair, dude. Someone like me has to look his best at all times. Can’t let myself be seen in anything less than the best. That’s just lowering my sex appeal, and we cannot have that.”

You’re not surprised when Karkat bites back — you might even say you’re amused. You’re coming to love his wild rants. And this one sure as hell doesn’t disappoint as he blurts, “OF FUCKING COURSE! Yes, yes, we can’t meddle with Dave goddamn Strider’s so-called SEX APPEAL. Let’s completely ignore the fact that such a thing is as ‘real’ as Sunny D is to ‘actual fucking orange juice’.” His face scrunches up, into something akin to disgust, as he breathes in; with his exhale, he continues, “Why do I even try communicating with you? I’ve never gotten anything more than a sarcastic aside or what must surely be a load of hoofbeast shit out of you.” By now, you’re laughing. Karkat’s scowl deepens, and he fixes on you a hilariously disproportionate glare as he snaps, “And what the ever-loving fuck are you chortling about?”

(Now, you think it’s worth mentioning that there is another person in the room. There’s a tan, bespectacled older woman — Demi, you think her name is. But she seems to be accustomed to Karkat’s ranting. She doesn’t react at all.)

“You’re so fucking ridiculous, dude!” you admit, still caught in a fit of poorly timed laughter. You drop your voice and add a bit of a growl, vaguely approximating Karkat’s voice, “Look at me! I’m Karkat motherfucking Vantas, and I am the LOUDEST TROLL IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE! Everything pisses me the fuck off. Fuck that cute little bunny. And I don’t give a shit-flying fuck about your puppies. Every morning, I spend sixty-nine hours dreaming up new and novel curses, like ‘fuckass’ and ‘bulge-chafer’!”

(You notice, with a wry smile, that Demi is obviously trying to suppress laughter.)

Karkat, of course, is not nearly as amused. Or maybe he is; you’ve never been great at judging trolls’ emotions. Either way, his reply is sharp: “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to ham it the fuck up all the time, but someone is constantly pitch-flirting with me like a wriggler. If you want a kismessistude, just open your gibbering windhole and fucking say it, dumbass.”

“Whoa, hey! I’m no space racist, but them quadrants are not my thing.” You add to your message by raising your hands in the air.

And Karkat’s brow twitches. His lips curl into a brief snarl before he, seemingly on impulse, grabs your shirt and pulls you into him. Those same lips slam inelegantly into yours; blunt, solid teeth smash against yours.

This is now how you thought the weekly costume planning sesh would go…

After a few seconds, when Karkat lets you go, your head spins.

He looks downright mortified. His face has acquired a pinkish tinge, and he avoids your gaze as he mumbles, “I’m sorry. That was wildly unprofessional of me.”

“Actually,” you admit, “I sorta enjoyed that. Wanna try it again, asshole?”

Karkat blinks. You’re just about to reckon that you were a smidgen too forward when he grabs your shirt again. This time, it’s a softer action. Maybe even romantic — not that you care, of course.

This totally isn’t turning you on in strange and exciting new ways. Not at all.

Vaguely, you notice a camera flash in the corner of your vision.

Friday, 3 November 2017

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re about two seconds away from shitting yourself. You might even hop onto your audio equipment shelf, flap your arms, and squawk like a terrified cluckbeast. Or maybe you’ll do what you usually do in these situations: freeze.

It’s currently 7:30 a.m., a time at which you would assume most pulpy journalists would be fast asleep. You had been enjoying your usual morning routine — a sizable mug of coffee, some calm music, and mindless scrolling. Now, you’re staring at a photo of you unwisely making out with Dave in the costuming office. You’re reading the attached article, and you’re starting to realize that the whole “fake dating” scheme might not be as inauthentic as you thought.

Monday, 6 November 2017

You are once again Dave Strider, and you’ve been cornered by your twin sister. You can, in theory, sprint out of her metaphorical grasp, but doing so would force you to drop your two handfuls of pigs in a blanket. You can get more, but wasting any seems like a crying shame. So you tolerate her wide grin and listen to whatever she has to say.

And that “something” is, unsurprisingly, more of a smug statement about your current situationship. Her black lipstick only highlights her smug expression, and she’s having far too much fun when she says, “I saw the news this morning, dearest brother. What a fascinating development! Do you mind elaborating on your official statement, or are things still being kept hush-hush?” One blonde eyebrow is raised. She’s having way too much fun.

For now, you figure you’ll take a passably civil stance. You scoff. You fold your arms across your chest. And before you speak, you literally turn your nose up as you chide, “Tch. I didn’t make a big deal when you were caught eating face on whatever this place calls its equivalent of a jumbotron. Maybe I should’ve. I ain’t too sure of what’s happening. Like I told the TMZ woman, I’m just as baffled as you.”

“But how did such a thing transpire? That information may be my most ardent yearning.”

As if on demand, Kanaya pushes into your space. You hadn’t seen her before now, and you’re starting to wonder if Nepeta’s joke that she’s a vampire — or, rather, a “rainbow drinker” — isn’t too out of line. She’s definitely sucking the energy out of you as she, wearing a grin akin to Rose’s, coos, “I believe I am able to guess how your romantic entanglement began! You see, Dave, you are quite adept at cultivating what trolls call a ‘kismessistude’, which is—”

“I know what your freaky quadrants are, Kanaya,” you interject. “I do not need a review course before my dance, thank you muchly.”

And as if the universe is actively trying to kill you dead, Vriska arrives. Unlike the two lovebirds, she’s sporting a more mischievous grin. You take the teeniest bit of relief in knowing that she’s not actively lording this thing over your head, even as she piles on the questions: “You and Karkat are marketing geniuses. The voters are going to eat this shit up. Count your ass stupidly safe again, Strider!”

You respond with a polite nod and a nervous smile.

When you see Nepeta bounding towards you, eyes sparkling with conspiratorial glee, you decide it’s time to run. You shovel as many pigs in a blanket as you can into your mouth before jamming the rest into the pockets of your gold satin suit jacket. Then, you make a run for it. You duck beneath Rose’s outstretched arms and flee to the safety of the changing area.

And you hide there until Karkat comes to drag you out for your jazz number.

“Dancing jazz to ‘Hollaback Girl’, it’s Dave Strider and his partner, Karkat Vantas!”

You somehow manage to survive the dance physically unscathed, but you spend the entire number thirsting for a frame. You’re grossly obsessed with being against Karkat and having his hands in yours. You feel like a romance-obsessed teen. Even his scent — that peculiar, musky, and almost smoky aroma — drives you fucking wild.

You are so, so boned.

-----

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and it’s probably time to drop the “fake” descriptor from your absolutely batshit plan to stay on the show. You’re halfway through the salsa. The beat of “Tu Sonrisa” is thrumming through your body, and you cannot rip your eyes away from Dave. Part of you is disgusted by your affections; the other half wants to pin your dance partner to a wall in the most sensual way possible.

He smells like apples, cinnamon, and tobacco. His hair is soft — unbearably, unfairly soft. Cradling the back of his head churns your stomach with a cloying, burning passion. Your blood-pusher races whenever you catch a glimpse of his eyes. And when the dance ends, as you strike a dramatic pose, your libido leads your lips to his.

It’s an inelegant, impulsive thing — all teeth bumping and wet and sloppy. You’d expect such a performance in high school. Being well past your adult molt, you’re vaguely embarrassed. Well, you would be if this didn’t feel so goddamned good.

You dully hear the crowd going wild.

And you feel as though you can predict what Kanaya might say. She’s probably snickering as she says something like, “They are truly a perfect fit for one another. I cannot believe it took them this long to notice as much. Idiots.”

And to that, you’d probably quip something like, “Bite me, bitch. You’re the one who takes entire fucking perigees to even hook up with someone.”

The judges are predictably floored by the recent turn of events. Carrie Ann goes first, and her comments about your dance — that she dubs a “pretty decent salsa” — quickly devolve into the sort of dredge you’d expect from a gossip rag. She’s trying to restrain her grin as she leans over the table and says, “Well, I think the lack of heat in that salsa is because all that fire went somewhere else.”

Bruno, meanwhile, commends your effort as “probably one of the most average dances you’ve ever done”, which you assume to be a compliment. He, too, has something to say about the kiss: “Might I suggest, darling, that you pull back on the slobber?”

Only Len focuses solely on the dance. “I can tell you put a lot of effort into it, Dave,” he says, “and it shows. This is your best performance yet!”

You somehow squeeze out a paltry twenty-six points. And when you’re once again passed to the next round, into the semifinals, you’re not surprised. More concerningly, you’re not exactly upset, either.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 7 November 2017

The assignments this week are as clear as they can be. The first is fairly standard. During the semifinals, pros generally pick one song for their dance. Then, every couple receives some sort of “special” routine. This time, the gimmick is — per the promo package you received — “reinterpreting a classic dance from the past.” For this, you and Dave have been assigned an Argentine tango, and it could by worse. At least you’re not doing a Charleston.

Nonetheless, you have work to do — a metric fuck-ton of work.

Of the two dances, you’re most concerned about the “pro pick” song, which is to be accompanied by a Viennese waltz. It’s a slow, elegant, and emotional dance. Notably, none of these qualities are in the “strengths” column for your partner. In fact, you’ve long since noticed that Dave’s inelegant bumbling grows more apparent as the tempo winds down. You’re also pondering the unpleasant implications of the dance’s inherent chemistry.

You’re fidgeting awkwardly as you describe this dance, saying, “A proper Viennese waltz is danced in a ‘closed’ position. Ideally, the dancers should rarely separate.” You straighten your back, square your shoulders, and hold your left hand to your side at a slight upward angle. “I shall lead the dance, so my right hand will generally be on your back. That, uh, shouldn’t be a fucking problem.”

Dave’s reply is less than comforting. He shoves his hands in his pockets and slouches forward. He scuffs the toe of his sneakers against the floor and pointedly looks away from you. “Yeah, no problemo, boss,” he says, but his voice is oddly strained. His slight smirk is less convincing than usual.

Fortunately, you don’t have much time to think about the raging warmth in your pelvic region as you thumb through your notebook. You shouldn’t be this far in the competition, especially not when Dave is so mediocre, but you won’t turn down an opportunity. You want to win, and you’re pretty confident Dave has the same attitude. You’ll need every second to perfect and polish this routine — starting now.

After earmarking a few pages of notes — sleep-deprived ramblings you scrawled out at some ungodly hour last night — you set aside the book and step towards Dave. He lets forth a squeak of surprise when you pull him into the proper form. Your chests are just a breath away from touching. A wet thud slams against your chest when you look down and see his bright red eyes. Still, you force yourself to continue the lesson, saying, “Most of the dance will be like this. The key to a shit-inducingly good Viennese waltz is a mix of smooth movement, impeccable timing, and effortless turns.” You demonstrate by roughly pulling Dave along as you chassé across the floor, counting aloud, “One, two, three. Down, up, up. Understood?”

Dave swallows and nods.

It’s not enough of an answer for you. With the fiercest glare you can muster, you demand, “REPEAT AFTER ME, ASSHOLE!”

“One, two, three. Down, up, up,” Dave mutters. He’s at least a half a beat behind; his movements don’t match his words.

But for now, you’re satisfied. You release him and step back. While he breathes a sigh of relief, you focus on your job. “Another common stance is the ‘promenade position’. Same fucking idea, different contact points. Instead of contacting at the chest, we’re touching at the hip.” You hold your hands up and form a ‘V’ by pressing your wrists together. The opening faces Dave, and he seems to study the “image” intently as you continue, “Like this. Any movement goes in the same direction as the open side. To move the other way, we’d switch to a ‘counter-promenade position’. I trust that even you are competent enough to extrapolate what that means.”

Dave holds his flattened hands up and presses the tips of his fingers together, forming an inverted ‘V’. “Something like this, I reckon,” he says. One eyebrow rises above the rims of his shades. And as he lowers his hands, he clears his throat. Finally, he asks the question nobody has yet breached: “So, are we fake dating or real dating?”

You were banking on him being too emotionally constipated to even consider posing the inquiry. Now, caught off guard, you can only stare at him, mouth inelegantly agape, as you grasp wildly for an answer. You know you need a response; you just don’t have one ready.

In all honesty, you can’t say you necessarily hate him. At this stage, you don’t even harbor much anger against him. Were you to be honest with yourself, you would say you’re at least fond of him. And you feel more than that. You’re intrigued by him, and you’ve grown to enjoy his rambling asides and peculiar comparisons. He fits into a slot in your mind you didn’t know about until now.

And he, in his usual way, is fumbling for something more to say. He whips out his phone, taps the screen, and awkwardly says, “I mean… the whole ‘dating’ gimmick is doing pretty fucking well. People are going verified blue check apeshit for it, even. Like, we’re consistently ranking in the top tags for the show. Now, I ain’t too keen on the ‘Sweet Bro and Angry Kat’ ship name, but I guess we can hammer that out later. I’d prefer something catchier, y’know? ‘DaveKat’, maybe?”

He takes a pause just long enough to breathe in before dragging his thoughts in a completely different direction: “And I’m not trying to, like, pressure you into anything you don’t want. I don’t care either way.” (Notably, the way he wrings his hands together here suggests that he very much does care about the outcome.) “We can, like, go slow or whatever. But I was talking to some of the camera guys, and they said the network would love to tag along with if we go on a date of any kind. Good for the ratings and all.”

“Oh, TRUST ME,” you counter, “I know all about those ratings.” Even mentioning the word forces you to shake your head. Otherwise, Equius’s voice will be echoing in your mind all day. You’ve already gotten a verbal lashing from him for “not pushing that promising romance angle enough” this morning. You don’t want another, but you’re also feeling like you’re about to choose between decapitation and being boiled alive.

(Okay, fine! That’s a pretty fucking extreme analogy. He’s not nearly that bad.)

“Cool, but that still leaves the main issue, dude,” Dave mumbles.

At this point, you decide to let your emotions decide. Whatever bursts from your lips is your answer, and the final verdict ends up being more decisive than even you anticipated. “Fine! Twist my fucking grasping appendage, why don’t you? See how I care. Yes, Strider, we’re ‘real dating’, I guess. Call those nosy pseudo-paparazzi fuckers and tell them to get their lenses polished.”

“Oh?” A tilted head and a slight flicker of a smile accompany Dave’s subdued reply.

“THAT’S IT? I give you an honest answer, and all you can say is ‘oh’? I may as well be talking to a fucking rock.” You bury your face in your hands to hide your rising blush. You try to act like you don’t care — as if you’re more annoyed at this than anything — but there’s a pleasant, blissful feeling settling just beneath your blood-pusher. Try as you might, you can’t honestly claim to be indifferent.

Thursday, 9 November 2017

Friday, 10 November 2017

Your name is ROSE LALONDE, and your twin brother’s latest romance has you in a chokehold. You should leave the two alone. It’s not as though their peculiar relationship has any bearing on your life. He may be your twin, but you’ve generally tried to maintain a “hands-off” approach to his life. The two of you are codependent enough; you needn’t add “leering over his courtship” to your list of crimes. That said…

You stand outside of Karkat’s studio. It’s in the same building as Kanaya’s so Dave can’t exactly complain that you have “infiltrated his goddamn workplace” this time. You can hear “Viva la Vida” pumping through the door; the beat makes the wooden portal buzz like a swarm of bees.

Kanaya is standing next to you. She, too, is intrigued by the most recent development. She’s pulled a low, decorative table from the reception area to use as a stool. She may be tall, but even she cannot easily peer through the transom window above the studio door unassisted. She watches the going-ons intently and relays them to you with that precise, warm diction you’ve come to worship: “They appear to be practicing their Argentine tango. Yes, that must be it. I cannot imagine that “Viva la Vida” would be used for their Viennese waltz. That would be preposterous.”

“I feel that much was obvious,” you sigh.

“Perhaps.” Kanaya moves slightly to the left. “Do you believe that this romance is genuine? I recall Terezi mentioned that they were considering a false courtship to improve their popularity. They may not be truly interested in one another.”

You laugh. You know your brother well enough. Despite his directorial repertoire, he can’t act to save his life. He’s particularly bad at feigning any sort of soft emotion. If this were to be a publicity ploy, you’d be able to see it from miles away. And you say as much: “No, they’re actually dating.”

“Well,” Kanaya hums, “it is the semifinals. I suppose we should also do something to garner favor with the audience.”

Saturday, 11 November 2017

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and you just saw your twin sister having sloppy alien sex in the communal bathroom. Okay, honestly, you didn’t see it. They were considerate enough to hide behind a stall door. But you still reckon it’s an absolutely bonkers thing to have come into contact with. If nothing else, it’s 9:15 a.m., and you would never deign to have sex so early. Hell, you haven’t even had your morning coffee.

Of course, you still tell Karkat about it. And he responds with a snarl and a look you’d classify as “perfectly able to kill.” His arms are folded firmly across his chest as he huffs, “Fucking disgusting. I don’t give a feculent fuck if you’re horny. Don’t fuck in a public bathroom, for fuck’s sake.” Here, he whips out his phone.

And you interject, “Hot shit, are you about to call the cops on them!?”

“What?” There’s a look that almost looks like a smile on Karkat’s face. “Of course not, you dimwit. I’m calling the custodian. He’ll get them out of there.”

Now, you’re not usually one to break up a good fuck. If you’re horny, you’re horny. And you’re definitely not about to get caught on the hook for doing it this time. So, impulsively, you snatch his phone out of his hand and lob it across the room.

Not surprisingly, he levels a venomous glare upon you as he snaps, “WHAT THE FUCK, STRIDER?”

“Look, dude, they saw me in there. I’m sure of it. If someone drags them out of there, I’m getting my ass roasted fifteen ways to sideways. And it will not be as fun as it sounds,” you groan. “I’m sure they’ll claim I’m being ‘homophobic’ or something.”

Karkat seems ready to say something, but he ends up keeping it to himself. Instead, he rolls his eyes and plods back to the corner. He fiddles with the controls for the sound system for a few seconds before turning on the song. As the first notes of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” strain through the air, he turns to you and says, “Whatever. It doesn’t fucking matter that much. Let’s just go back to practicing. We have one day to figure this shit out, and you’re still performing on par with a goddamned toddler.”

“I think I resent that,” you sigh.

“Then DANCE BETTER, you fucking slob!”

You watch as he easily glides across the room, melting seamlessly into each step. Before, you would’ve scoffed at such a display. Sure, it’s impressive, but you’ve never cared much for this sort of stuff. But now you’re intrigued. You’re downright mystified as he seems to float across the hardwood floor. His body defies physics, holding still when it should rise and fall with each step. He doesn’t need a partner to coordinate his movements; he controls himself like a machine.

And when he finishes — as he demands to know if you’ve “caught so much as a fuck-munching second of that” — you realize that you’ve been too enthralled to memorize the steps.

A sheepish smile pulls on your lips, and you rub the back of your neck as you mumble, “Nah. Not really.”

He breathes a low growl, but it’s not as angry as before. If you really think about it, you might even reckon there’s an ounce of fondness beneath the annoyance. There’s a tiny smidgen of a smile on his face, and he ruffles your hair when he walks past you and sighs, “Fine. I’ll do it again.”

Monday, 13 November 2017

“Live from Hollywood, it’s Dancing With the Stars!”

“Are you aware that you and Karkat have become a favored pairing on the internet?” Kanaya’s voice pulls your attention to the left. She’s holding out her phone, and her Chittr feed is stuffed to bursting with posts bearing the “DaveKat” hashtag. Every other post seems to be about you and your ornery professional dance partner.

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about it.

You’ve never been shy about living in the public eye. Most of your professional career has been two steps shy of what you’d call “a massive clusterfuck”, and you can’t imagine that changing anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean you necessarily like being hounded by the occupational equivalent of paid hecklers. You may not admit it out loud, but you’d honestly prefer for some things — your relationship, for example — to be kept a secret.

You’re still halfway to formulating a reply when another voice, no less familiar than the first, speaks up. “It’s really quite fascinating,” Rose hums in that annoying, know-it-all way that she always does when she’s taunting you. “From what I understand, there is a bit of a fandom tradition to ‘ship’ dancers and their partners. Most of the time, it is wild conjecture. Of course, it seems to be a perfectly valid concern this time around.”

“Ugh, yes,” Vriska groans. A dramatic sigh leaves her lips as she flops onto the balcony sofa. “I hate that shit. Sure, maybe I’m fucking Terezi, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Kanaya narrows her eyes as she pokes back, “Oh, so this is merely the Season of Romances, is it not?”

By now, you’ve learned more than a few basic facts about the remaining couples. There are, after all, just four pairs remaining. You can’t exactly call Vriska your favorite out of the remaining gaggle of bizarre personalities, but you don’t hate her. You can tolerate her presence, and you might even say you enjoy being around her at times.

But right now is not one of those times.

Having had your fill of inane bullshit, you bury your hands in the pockets of your sequin-studded slacks and stand. You wander to the concession table in the back, fully intending to gluttonously scarf down a few handfuls of Alternian grub bundles (the space equivalent of pigs in a blanket), only to be derailed by yet another cloying presence.

And it’s not like you hate Nepeta, either. In fact, she’s probably one of the nicer trolls. At the very least, she doesn’t seem to be constantly chomping at the proverbial bit with barely contained murderous rage. She is, however, what you can safely reckon to be “a bit much.” She sure as hell ain’t beating those allegations today, either, as she pounces on you immediately. After swallowing whatever she’d been chewing on, she flashes you a wide smile and (almost literally) purrs, “Dave! You and Karkat sure are making a purr-etty big scratch on social media. How’re you feline about that?”

“Like I just want some fucking grub bundles,” you mumble. You should be slightly more gracious, but a solid week of being hounded about “rumors concerning your current relationship status” have worn you down. You gently redirect Nepeta, moving her just enough to grab two handfuls of the breaded snacks. Then, with all the grace and care of a toddler, you shove both into your eager maw.

“Well,” Nepeta’s grin widens, “I think you’ll paw-bably make it to next week!”

You want to ask her what could make her think that, but you’re dragged away by the production crew before you can even open your mouth.

The Viennese waltz is your first number. It’s a close, tight, and technical dance. You’ve worked your damned ass off to get it just right, but you know you’ll be nowhere near the same level as any of the other contestants. At the very least, you’re not flexible enough to pull off half the wild lifts and stunts they’re doing. You mentally filter out the announcement and focus on Karkat.

It’s easy enough to do. You can’t take your eyes off his pale gray tailcoat. The costuming team has really gone wild. It’s gorgeous on him, highlighting every soft line and curve. He’s one of the bigger dancers, but the suit’s sweeping outlines make him look like a chiseled statue. It takes every ounce of concentration to split your brain between what’s in front of you and what you need your body to do.

When you start to stray, a firm voice pulls you back in: “Come on, Strider. You’ve done this in practice.”

It’s enough to drag your focus where it needs to go.

You don’t need to see yourself dance to know you lack the polish everyone else possesses. You’re just not used to moving like that. You’ve built yourself for reflexive speed. You’re a fighter, even if that fact grates against your nerves. But you’re confident enough in your performance, and you’re quite pleased to see those round paddles dole out a tidy twenty-five points when you’re done.

-----

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you’re more than certain this is your last week on the show. As far as you’re concerned, you should have gone home eight weeks ago; your presence in the semifinals is nothing short of a fluke. Either the audience genuinely loves you, or they’re angling to cast you into a world of karmic torment.

You managed to survive your Viennese waltz, and you’re currently poised to begin the Argentine tango. Everything you do — all that follows that first string sting — is pure instinct. You move with precision and ease. Dave is nowhere near the same level, but you’re pleased to see him trying his best. He’s laying more on the floor, and you can tell. From experience, you know the judges will notice as much, too.

But most of your focus is elsewhere.

You’re trying to reel in the swirling passion in your chest when you catch a whiff of his earthy cologne. You’re beating back the warmth in your chest and a rising lump of affection in your throat. The song wraps around your mind like a coiling slitherbeast, and its end is as abrupt as your final act. Without thinking, you reciprocate what you’d received last week. You dip him into a kiss, and the roar of the crowd feels like a minor earthquake beneath your feet.

Again, you let yourself get lost in the experience.

You’re not too concerned about the score. You’ll be going home, anyhow. And you maintain a casual smile as you stand on the stage, beneath the dramatic lights, and listen to the final verdict. That expression falters when you process what Tom Bergeron says: For reasons beyond your comprehension, Vriska and Terezi get sent home. You’ve survived — with Dave — to the finals.