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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.