Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Your name is Dave Strider and you are certainly not a wooer.

It’s obviously not some crazy revelation or anything. You mean, you’re only fourteen. It’s only a little weird, having to watch everyone find love whilst you’re just kind of… there. Group hangouts have only become a constant reminder of your ever-growing loserness.

It’s not completely horrible, you guess. It isn’t like you don’t have friends. You still have John and Rose and Jade and… 

Your name is Dave Strider and you only have three friends, one of whom is your sister. 

So here you are, sitting slouched against the armrest of John’s living room couch, getting your shit rocked in a game of Super Smash Bros. You’ve been zoned out for the past five minutes, your hands on auto-pilot and mostly button-mashing. Rose sits criss-cross-apple-sauce on the carpet while her girlfriend fixes her headband beside her, but it wasn’t even messed up in the first place. Their voices are so hushed, it looks like they’re just mouthing words. 

John cracks a stupid joke and his girlfriend cackles . It was a C- joke at best, but you know she’ll just be giggling over that shit for half an hour. Jade’s on the carpet, almost leaning into the fireplace. You take a quick glance over at her phone as her fingers pitter-patter away at the keyboard; she’s texting a boy. 

Your mind wanders again. Jeez, how long has it been since you’ve taken your Adderall? Two days? Four? A week? Shit’s too hard to keep track of. Maybe that’s why you should take it. Fuck it, it’s fine. 

You snap back to reality for the second time when you see everyone in the room staring at you in confusion. It looks like John beat you again, which would usually result in you throwing your controller at his head. This time, you’ve been staring into space for however long. 

John waves a stretched-out hand in front of your face. “Dave? Dave ? Fuck, guys, I think I broke him,” he seems genuinely distressed over this. What a dork. You breathe in and quickly survey the room. Rose is giving you some weird smirk, Jade is giggling to herself, and John’s girlfriend is leaning over to peek at you. 

You breathe out. “Oh. My bad,” you murmur, “I think I zoned out for a bit. Fuck, I’m tired as hell.” You try to chuckle, attempting to appear as composed as humanly possible under the growing pool of anxiety in your stomach. So much anxiety, you can practically shovel that shit. Make an anxiety snow cone or something. Jeez, you need to sleep . 

John shrugs and goes back to the game. Rose offers to walk you both back home for the night, but you know you’ll feel like a dick later for ruining her lesbianization time with Kayaya… Kakaya? Kanaya. That’s it. Probably. 

You hope and pray ‘lesbianization’ is a real word.

Your phone reads 12:18 A.M., but walking home alone in the dark is never a problem for a Strider. You know how to kick ass with a katana , for fuck’s sake. You also live in a crime-free rural town in the middle of Washington, but that’s beside the point. You’re ready to ollie the hell outie. You still don’t have the slightest idea what that means. You think it might have something to do with skating? Oops, getting sidetracked again. Annoying inner monologue shit. 

Alright, walk home, take ADHD meds, get in bed. Simple enough. 

You only realize you forgot to give them your goodbyes when you’re already out the door. Fuck, John probably thinks you’re a jackass. Whatever, you’ll just pester him later to clear stuff up. 

You can barely see the dark street under your shades.

You have some weird ass eyes – something to do with albinism. You aren’t exactly sure, since you didn't care enough to listen to Dirk when he explained it to you for the tenth time. It makes your eyes this reddish-pink color; and it sounds sick as fuck until little kids are running away from you in public because they think you’re a ghost. 

Your eyes are extremely sensitive to light, which is why you need the shitty shades. Everyone kind of just assumes you’re a massive tool who wears them for the sake of being a dickhead. You’d probably still rock them even if your eyes didn’t suck butt, anyway.

Too lost in thought for your own good, you’re brought back to reality by colliding with an unfamiliar face. Well, he collides with you, since he’s about a head shorter than you. He takes most of the damage while you stand unscathed, and you’re not even that tall. You mean, you’re taller than John, Rose, and a few other boys your age. Not Jade, though. Damn. Girl’s a skyscraper. 

“Jegus-!” he screeches before falling directly onto his rear. You could’ve sworn he was a human at first sight until you spotted the tips of his nubby horns, peeking out from his absolute mop of a hairdo. The burnt streetlights even concealed the grey of his skin for a second. 

You remember to maintain your somewhat stoic guise before you lean forward and hold a hand out for him. “Shit, whoops.”

He scowls at you, his features defined under the lights. They flicker, accompanied by a light buzzing. 

He swats your hand away with his own before you swiftly pull back and fix your posture, which you now realize has been slouched for the entire interaction. He places one hand on the pavement and rises and damn, he’s short. You choke back a laugh at his attempt to seem authoritative while he’s about as tall as your shoulder. 

“Sorry,” you start. 

He loses it. “Sorry? You’re fucking sorry? Your nitwitted, rotten egg of a thinkpan somehow succeeded in bumping into me when we were both walking in an empty street . Has all of that hair bleach finally sunken into your head, you dumb-fuck, lazy imbecile?” He’s all hands now, flailing his arms around with almost every word. You’re pretty sure he almost hit you in the face. 

You smirk. You’re not doing it to piss him off or anything, but you might genuinely find this dude amusing. “Well, first of all,” you slightly drawl before letting out a breathy chuckle, “these blonde locks are all-natural, baby.” He looks at you like you just pissed in his soup. “Secondly, why the hell are you taking a walk at almost one o’clock in the morning?” 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs before crossing his arms. “You’re also taking a walk, shit-for-brains.”

Trying to compress your Southern accent, you involuntarily respond. “Yup, walking home from my friend’s house. Bet that’s something you don’t know shit about, considering your presumable lack of friends and inability to keep it the hell down.” Your southern twang still peeks out at the end of a few words. Whatever, you’ll probably never even see this guy again, anyway. “People are trying to sleep, which I assume would be pretty tough when there’s a five-foot-tall, screeching maniac outside of their houses. Fuck, people must hate you, dude.” A sneer seeps its way through the end of your sentence. 

You fix whatever expression lay on your face and return to your wall of stoicism. You are the absolute epitome of cool, Dave Strider. So, so cool. 

He huffs from his now agape mouth, his eyes two burning holes of lava, and he looks like he’s trying to explode you with his mind. It’s pretty funny, but you don’t laugh. Not even a mere nose-exhale. Mhm. That’s true Strider manliness right there. Shit, you just smirked at your own thoughts, idiot.

He squeezes his eyes shut and you swear you can see tears welling up in them. Damn, guess you hit a nerve. He shrieks a blaring “Ugh!” before taking his palms and quite literally ramming you to the side. You stumble backward for a second before he stomps his way past you. He flips you the bird without even looking behind him. 

“Dicknips,” you mutter, a little bit louder than you intended. You wonder if he heard you.

You shrug it off. The trek from your house to Casa del Egbert’s is about twenty minutes and you’ve only been walking for about seven minutes until you feel a small, cold, moist prick on your back. It is fucking raining. You are thirteen minutes away from home, you’re tired, it’s twelve o’clock in the morning, and the sky has just decided to piss on you. A shiver crawls up your spine and you are now very hastily rushing home. 

You get there pretty quick, actually. With a weird mixture of flash-stepping, running, and walking to catch your breath, you get home in… twelve minutes and forty seconds. At least it was twenty seconds quicker than you anticipated. 

The front door opens with a soft creak. Dirk lays, splayed across the living-room couch. He looks as if he just finished working on one of his robots, so you know his dumbass is probably getting oil and dirt everywhere. You’d call it gross, but it isn’t like you can say much. You’re currently drenched in a mixture of sweat and rain. It’s nice to see him sleeping every once in a while, though. You know he doesn’t get a lot of rest at all. He looks a lot less stressed when he’s asleep. He looks a lot more like himself. 

You head upstairs, take a shower, get into your pajamas, brush your teeth, and fall into bed with a poof. At least tomorrow is a Sunday. 

You forget to pester John to clear things up as well as forgetting to take your Adderall. Instead, you stare at the ceiling for a good two hours before finally conking out, despite your hankering for some rest. You will never truly understand how your mind works. 

At almost 1:00 in the afternoon, you wake up to Rose vacuuming her bedroom. That damn hoover is so loud it can snap a man out of a coma. Hell, it just did. Okay, clean-freak twin sister. You do you, I guess.

Your medication sits on your desk, having been untouched in days. Have you even taken any in the past week? You barely remember anything from last night, actually. All you know is that you absconded from your friends, ran into some angry asshole on the street, and then got drenched in rain. Well, that means you do remember last night, lyin’ ass.

You untangle yourself from your blanket and trudge over to your desk. The mid-noon sunlight somehow hits your eyes from the worst angle possible, absolutely massacring your retinas for a second. Goddamn. You get through it like the strong young man you are, sit down at your desk, and have your eyes annihilated a second time by your computer screen. Where in the hell are your shades?

The computer pings a few times as soon as you open pesterchum. Perfect timing, Egbert. 

-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:49 –-

EB: hey, dave! you forgot to say goodbye to everyone last night, haha!
EB: and speaking of last night, were you okay?
EB: i mean, i know you always have a lot on your mind and stuff, but jeez.
EB: rose told me you forgot to take your weird brain medicine, which actually makes a lot of sense now that i think about it.
EB: anyway, i know you’re probably not even awake right now.
EB: i won’t be able to reach you until school tomorrow, so don’t even worry about replying. jake’s taking me and jade on another one of his stupid hikes!
EB: sorry for the rambling, i know you get bored reading these. cya tomorrow! :B

Shit, you need to message him before he goes offline.

TG: yaeh no im awekeok

Fucking hell. Between the double-murder on your eyes (by both the sun and your computer) mixed with your urgency to reply, you totally fucked that up. You can still barely even see what’s on the screen. 

Maybe if you squint just a little more… nope. He’s offline. You flump back into your seat and heave a sigh. You proceed to give yourself a nasty face palm, which kind of actually hurts, while trying to decide on something to do for the day. Egbert-Harley-English are off-limits, not that you even hung out with Jake, anyway. Your face stings. 

The loud whirr of Rose’s vacuum stops. You usually wouldn’t be in the mood to have your brain hyper-analyzed by your weird twin sister, but there's nothing better to do. You rub the sun out of your eyes before walking out to Rose’s bedroom door and it opens. Well, you don’t exactly open it, but you grip the door handle at the same time Rose is opening it and you’re unceremoniously flung forward.

“Dave,” she starts, “it looks like you’re finally awake. Looking for these?” She holds up your sunglasses before flipping them around in her hand and dangling them between her index and her thumb. You didn't even realize you were squinting at the soft light of her bedroom before you took the glasses and slid them over your eyes. You blink a few times, let your eyes adjust, and finally look at Rose, who is flashing you a Knowing Smirk™. “What do you need me for?”

“I dunno. Jus’ bored, I guess.” You shrug. You note that her hair is neatly done and she’s already dressed for the day. You, on the other hand, are still wearing some ancient band tee and plaid pajama pants. You shove your hands into the pockets of said pants. You are so cool.

“I’m getting ready to visit Kanaya, if you’d care to join me,” she notifies whilst spinning on her heel and making her way to her mirror. 

She fixes her lipstick and eyelashes as you grimace. “Nah, I think I’ll pass,” you reply. You don’t ever see yourself hanging out with Rose and Kanaya ever again. Not after the night Rose stole from Dirk’s alc stash and proceeded to drink herself and her girlfriend three sheets to the fucking wind in a Home Depot parking lot. You three are still banned from that place. 

Kanaya is also extremely terrifying. 

You press your lips into a flat line and stalk out of Rose’s bedroom. Guess you’ll just head over to the corner store near your house and grab some snacks for today, nothing too serious. 

You grab whatever clean sweatshirt you can find and slip into your red converse. By ‘slip into’, you mean that you wrestle with your shoes for five minutes until you finally get them on both feet. Your outfit looks like hot ass, but it’s not like anyone will even catch you. You can quite literally view the store from your bedroom window.

The aisles are devoid of all people today. The fridges are also devoid of all apple juices, even the piss-tasting ones. You are not partial to sharing why you know what piss tastes like. Not today, partner. You grab a six-pack of mini orange juice bottles (close enough; both fruits grow on trees, right?) and decide that you aren’t even that hungry. Nothing else is appetizing without your beloved AJ. 

You haul your lumber over to the check-out counter at the front of the store. Once again, there’s nobody here. You’re starting to get the creeps over the whole place being a ghost town in the middle of the day. Maybe the lack of apple juice in this place is driving away all of the customers. You place the OJ on the counter and you finally hear footsteps from one of the back rooms.

You’ve never seen anyone working here except for the troll with the funky face paint. You guess this was the only place that hired stoner clowns with weird hair. 

Gamzee, you think his name is. You’ve probably read his nametag a billion times. 

Finally. May this baked juggalo troll finally come to rescue lil’ ol me. The footsteps are heavy and quick though, unlike his unusual stride. Maybe he invested in some new boots or something. You noticed his old sneakers were stained with about a year’s worth of grape flavored Faygo. They even smelled like Faygo. 

The door creaks open and what walks out is not a stoner clown with funky hair. Instead, it’s the same troll who cussed you out at 1:00 in the morning. Nubby horns, the scruffiest hair in existence, and razor-sharp teeth. Yup, the real deal. 

“Jegus fuck,” he mumbles to himself before slamming the door behind him and walking over to the counter with the same stomp he left you with the night before. The guy’s stomping is even louder now and he’s not even wearing boots. Is this dude just that heavy-footed? Goddamn.

He slides your orange juice over to his side, scans it, and slides it back your way. He gives you this half-lidded, exhausted stare and leans a bit to the side before you realize you forgot to pay. You hand him a good ol’ few bucks (which is to say literally everything in your pockets.)

“Stupid ass juggalo,” he grumbles to himself once again while counting the money you handed him. You slightly cock an eyebrow. Does he seriously not remember me from last night? 

He finally looks up at you when he hands you the leftover change. He’s squinting in frustration and his bottom teeth dig a little further into his lip. Looks like he’s finally putting the pieces together, huh. 

“You… hm.” He mumbles. Give him some time, Dave. His ‘thinkpan’ doesn’t seem to be fully developed yet. “You’re… the douche.” He furrows his brows and stares up at you like you just ate a bug. Wait, isn’t that normal for trolls? To each their own, you guess.

“Yup, that must be me. The D in Dave stands for Douche,” you quip, rolling your eyes. You reach for the orange juice, but he grabs it first and slides it back his way with a hum of disapproval. 

“You’re not getting this until you tell me why you were such an ass last night,” he asserts. 

Are we serious right now? Nubbyhorns is holding my orange juice hostage. What the hell. 

You heave a loud sigh. “Just give me my fuckin’ OJ dude,” you groan, “we’ll literally never see each other again.” 

He tightens his grip on the juice as you reach for it once more. “I already paid, just give me the damn juice.” you beseech, a tinge of lava now spilling into your words.

“Not until you fucking explain yourself!” 

You finally reach over far enough to get a good hold on the orange juice. You assume you can just peel it out of his grip, but damn he’s strong . You didn’t expect this from such a teeny dude. The orange juice is on the middle of the counter now, just between both of you. 

“Shit,” he lets go of the juice with a shove. You, being too lost in your mind to realize, don’t release it. It collides straight with your chest. Ouch.

A roaring sob bellows from the back room, followed by a loud sniffle. “-aaarrrkaaat!” He shoots you a quick. blazing glare before spinning on his heel and rushing over into the room. 

“Gam? Gog, I’m fucking sorry !” His voice is booming, penetrating even through the solid brick walls of the shop. “Urgh, I’m such a bad moirail, I know. C’mere. Shoosh.” His voice is strangely comforting near the end, like he’s straining to tame a startled cat. 

Your mouth curls in distaste as you finally grab your orange juice and haul it out of the store with you. “Poor Gamzee,” you mutter. 

You check your phone on the walk back home. Welp, guess that took you more than ten minutes. Stupid fuckin’ angry, idiot troll boy. 

The next few hours go tamely. You sit on the couch, messing around in the shitty skating games Dirk buys but never plays. Mid-game, you hear the distant jingle of keys and the typical creaky front door. Looks like Rose is home from her little playdate with her girlfriend. 

You don’t realize she’s directly behind you until she speaks. “Kanaya’s hosting a party for her fifteenth wriggling day,” she announces. You don’t pay her any mind, simply because you don’t give a shit and also because you’re too fixated on the game to even comprehend what she said.

She exerts a loud groan before snatching the controller from your hands. “Dave, these video games are turning your brain to mud. Did you even hear what I said?” Her tone is strict now, like how Roxy sounds on a bad day. 

“Shit– yes, Rose, I heard you,” you’re a little aggravated now. You had a streak on Skate 3, for fuck’s sake. “What the hell does your girlfriend’s birthday party have to do with me?” 

“It’s a wriggling day party,” you roll your eyes before she continues, “and you’re coming.”

“No the fuck I’m not? You know I hate parties and I barely even talk to your girlfriend. It’d be weird if I just showed up uninvited, anyways.”

“Dave, I’m not letting Kanaya think my brother is an asshole. You’re coming whether you like it or not.” Her arms are crossed when you look up at her, and she is menacing . You wouldn’t be surprised if the sky decided to flash lightning right now. 

“Fuck, fine.” You groan before snatching the controller away. Damn, you don’t even want to play Skate 3 anymore. 

You turn off the Xbox and start with your nightly routine, which is eating anything edible enough in the cupboard, brushing that stale taste out of your mouth, showering, and getting into your pajamas. This time, when you get into bed, It’s only ten o’clock. You go out like a light and you weren’t even tired. 

And you don’t wake up until tomorrow morning.

Chapter Text

==> 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re lonelier than you thought you were. 

You’re moving to a new place– your moirail and matesprit’s town, to be exact– and you might just be on the verge of fucking tears. 

No, you’re not on the verge anymore, because you feel a teardrop rolling down your face at this very moment. It’s red, the color of your blood. The color of the reason why you shouldn’t even be alive right now. 

You went to Terezi’s house looking to surprise her. Of course, she knew you were moving to her town. What you didn’t tell her, though, was the fact that you were coming today . 

Maybe if you told her, she could’ve been prepared to see you instead of making out with her kismesis on her living room couch. And no , it isn’t in a pitch way. It’s so painfully red, your own hemoglobin might just have competition. She’s even holding Vriska’s face and– fuck, you can’t even look. She never did that to you. She never held your face on her couch and gave you gentle kisses. 

She only realizes you’re standing there when you emit a loud shriek, and then an even louder sob. Your vision is coming in flashes, like clips to a video. It’s as if you’re flipping through a picture book instead of actually being there. One second, she’s finally taken her lips off Vriska’s and is actually looking at you. Another moment passes and she’s crying and she’s trying to grab your arm and all you can do is pull away and cover your mouth and try not to scream. Before you know it, you’re running out the door and slamming it shut behind you. 

When you’re out, she doesn’t run after you. She doesn’t even open it and call out your name. She lets you leave. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a single shit that her matesprit just caught her making out with her kismesis. You’re almost certain those were crocodile tears streaming down her face. If you weren’t mistaken, Vriska might have been laughing . 

You hate that stupid spiderbitch and that stupid, stupid , blind girl who’s had your heart tied up in knots ever since you met her; and you’ve always fucking wished you never met her. You knew this would happen. You knew everything would turn to shit. You fucking knew and you still tried so, so hard to patch things together. All of the fucking time. 

Your vision is beginning to come in normally now, but your breathing definitely isn’t. You’re not going home. Absolutely not. Kankri would only make everything worse, like he always does. You aren’t sure how The Signless would react, but you’re almost positive it won’t help. Besides, you’d rather not spend your first night in a new home sobbing your eyes out. 

You only have one person left to talk to. 

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] at 22:37 --

CG: I’M COMING RIGHT THE FUCK OVER.
TC: AlRiGhT, lItTlE bUdDy.
TC: ThE dOoR iS aLwAyS oPeN fOr YoU.
TC: :o)

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] at 22:38 --

This might just end up being utterly dreadful. 

It takes you a little to find it, but you’re at his house in about ten minutes, tears still coming in like rainfall. Your hands are shaking and you’re dizzy as hell and it’s the end of the world. You know it is. It feels pretty fucking close to it, at least. Of course, his door is quite literally always open. You swear this troll has the survival instincts of a grub. 

When you come in, he’s sitting on the couch with his palmhusk in his hand and you can already tell this isn’t gonna go well. Before you can change your mind and leave, he spots you at the door and holds his arms out for you to come over to him. 

He examines you with veiled eyes and a seemingly warm smile. You hesitantly approach him and hug him and he pats your back and for a second, just a second , everything seems as though it might be just fine. 

And then he asks what happened and you can’t help but bawl and weep into his shoulder, soaking it with your own reddish sobs. 

“It’s ‘Rezi, ain’t it?” He asks, his voice hushed and a little rusty. You nod once and he gives a hum of understanding. 

“She fucking– she–” you gasp out between sobs. Hell, you can’t even form a clear sentence over your own wailing. “Her and– and Vriska–”

“Was she gettin’ all her motherfuckin’ infidelity on?” He asks, petting your hair like you’re a purrbeast, though you’ve told him countless times that you really fucking hate when he does that. You nod anyway and he lightly pushes you away. It’s gentle, but all you want right now is to be held. Is that really so much to ask for? “Shit, Kar. I think I might have an idea why,” he drones on. 

You sniffle a bit and he puts his hand on your shoulder. You flinch a little under his contact. 

He breathes in, like he’s trying to inhale his words before spitting them right back out at you. “Y’know, recently…” he pauses again. “Me and Terezi have been gettin’ real close, all pitch-motherfuckin’-like. Just like how she and Vris were.” The mention of her and Vriska in the same sentence knocks a few gasps and blubbers out of you. 

He continues on with his explanation, “I think Terezi took that as a sign to get her and Vriska’s vacillation on. You know, to red.”  

The gears are turning in your head. Gamzee isn’t an idiot. Yes, he can do things without thinking sometimes, but he is not dumb. He’s stoned 24/7, but he is very much not stupid. He talks weird and he never washes his facepaint off and only heaven knows when he last brushed his hair, but he is not a dumbass. He knows just what the fuck he did. He knew this would happen. 

Your sobs of dejection turn to those of anger, of rage. You swat his hand off your shoulder and crawl backwards to the opposite end of the couch and your breath is spasming again. 

“You-” you can barely talk. Almost every word is interrupted by a shriek and a hiss and an attempt to try again. Eventually, you figure you can only get the words out if you yell loud enough. “You fucking knew she would do this, asswipe!” 

You’re seething. “Are you serious? You fucking-” you’re hitching with sobs, stumbling over your words. “You got into a pitch-fit with my matesprit, knowing what would happen, and you have the audacity to call yourself my goddamn moirail?” 

He looks hurt, like genuinely , authentically hurt. You always knew Gamzee was a sensitive guy, even when he was a blatant jerk and a lousy, good-for-nothing, pain in the ass. 

Your vision is beginning to come in flashes again, but the gaps between them are longer this time. One second, you’re standing and yelling obscenities and he’s still on the couch, tears welling up in his own eyes. A moment later, you’re already scuffing out of his front door and ending with a slam. 

He doesn’t run after you either. 

You’re still not going home. You don’t even know where home is, exactly. Your face is raw with your own weeping, horrifically red, and you can barely breathe. A cool gust of air blows past and you try to breathe it all in, but you end up choking on air. Your nose is runny and your hair is a wreck and fuck . You’re a mess. 

You use your sweater sleeve to wipe whatever leftover tears are on your face. There are splotches of red on it, like cheap watercolor on crinkled paper. You hate it. You hate your tears and you hate your blood and you hate, hate the color red. You’re already crying again.

You hate yourself more than you hate that brainless juggalo. You hate yourself more than you hate Terezi or Vriska or all of those who ridicule you for being a stupid, useless mutant. You hate yourself more than anyone has ever loved you. 

You walk for ten minutes, which turns to fifteen, which turns to twenty. Before you know it, your breathing has slowed and the breeze has dried your face. You’re still shaking, though. Your legs feel as if they’re ready to collapse. 

You only realize you’re probably completely lost when you reach a fork in the road. Shit, you think the house is on the left? Whatever, you’ll just use a GPS later. Maybe when you actually want to go home. You don’t know if you can call that place ‘home’ yet. 

Just a few more minutes to yourself is all you need. You need time to think. Whatever, tomorrow’s still a weekend, so you’ll be free to sit in bed and cry and- wait, shit. Nope. 

You got a new job recently; an understaffed little corner store that was willing to accept you as soon as you moved here, no matter how long it’d even take. You applied as soon as you turned fourteen, which was only about three months ago. 

Three months. You forgot about your entire new job in only three months. You might just be the biggest dumbass in the history of paradox space. 

You don't remember much about it in general, actually. You know it's a store that sells snacks, drinks and whatnot. You’ve only been inside once. It's pretty ordinary, a little old. Shit, why did you even choose to work there? You could’ve worked at any other store in the world- oh, you remember. 

Gamzee recommended it to you when he found out you’d be moving here. Gamzee himself works there. You have to work with the same troll you just cussed out ten minutes ago (even though you just barely remember half of what you said). You don’t know if you’re still moirails. You kind of hope you’re not. 

Your eyes are glued to the pavement beneath you. If you were to look up right now, the moon would be high overhead, watching. You raise your head with your eyes so raw with tears, it almost hurts to move them. A glimpse, for a split second, is how long you see the moon before slamming your entire face into a white T-shirt. Well, it’s a human boy, albeit obnoxiously tall , wearing a white T shirt. You cuss before falling flat on your ass as he stands like nothing even happened. 

“Shit, whups,” is what comes out of the fucker’s mouth. He bends down ever-so-slightly and holds a hand out to you, which you can’t even reach, so you swat it away. You help yourself up and try to resist standing on your tippy toes to get face-to-face with him. Holy shit, what was he fed as a child? Steroids? And you’re not even that short, you don’t think. Yeah, boys your age have to look down a little bit when they talk to you, but they all suck and none of them matter. Ever. 

He utters one word, a mere ‘sorry’ before you completely explode. “Sorry? You’re fucking sorry? Your nitwitted, rotten egg of a thinkpan somehow succeeded in bumping into me when we were both walking in an empty street . Has all of that hair bleach finally sunken into your head, you dumb-fuck, lazy imbecile?” 

And then he honest-to-God smirks . He breathes in and prepares to spew whatever bullshit monologue he has to offer. “Well, first of all, these blonde locks are all-natural, baby.” He runs a hand through his ‘blonde locks’ (for fuck’s sake, that makes you want to punch him even more) and continues on, “Secondly, why the hell are you taking a walk at almost one o’clock in the morning?” Holy hell this boy is southern. His accent is a little suppressed, but it’s very much still there and very much still noticeable. 

He must be stupid. A complete and utter fucking idiot, maybe. Breaking News: only one person is allowed to walk around at midnight at a time. That one person is this arrogant, blonde windbag. All offenders incarcerated. Then incinerated. Crossing your arms, you shoot back, “You’re also taking a walk, shit-for-brains.”

He breathes in and continues on, but you don’t catch a lot of what he’s saying. It’s not until he says something, a direct jab at you and everything you’ve been trying to run away from tonight, that gets you. “Fuck, people must hate you, dude.”

Time seems to stop for a second as your blood runs cold. You try to disguise your heartache with a hellish scowl, but you can already feel tears welling up for the third time tonight. You take the flat of your hand and shove him to the side before sticking a clawed middle finger in his face as you walk away. He mutters something you don’t quite hear. 

The wind blows colder and you start to walk faster. You can see the house at the end of the street and the lights are all off but one. Shit, Kankri’s probably sitting downstairs waiting for you. You calm yourself down and suck in pearls of tears before they have the chance to run down your face. You don’t bother looking at the moon anymore, you just want to sleep. 

The rest of the walk is almost serene. The entire neighborhood’s lights are off and you can hear the soft chirps of crickets and birds. You never heard that around home. Honestly, you thought that only happened in shitty human movies. 

You reach your new house. You went in there earlier for a moment, before all that shit went down with Terezi. You spent all the time memorizing where your bedroom and the bathroom were. 

You fish through your pockets and pull out a small, silver key with the initials “K.V.” written on it in fresh, red sharpie. Of course it’s in red. 

You stick it in the lock and turn the knob and you see a skinny troll in an obnoxiously red sweater sitting on the couch. Well, he isn’t exactly sitting, you’d say. He’s slouched against the cushion with his head tilted up and his eyes closed and you think you see drool. Gross, Kankri. At least he’s asleep. That’s one of the only times he’ll shut up.

The couch and the dinner table seem to be the only unpacked things in the house, leaving the rest of the place cluttered with cardboard boxes and packing tape. You sneak up the stairs to your room, which you made sure would be far , far away from Kankri’s. 

Your bedroom is littered with boxes, too. The only thing unpacked is your bed, which Signless must’ve put there. There are more boxes in here than there were downstairs. You honestly don’t even remember what you packed. You creep up to a large box labeled “KARKAT’S DVDS – DO NOT TOUCH” 

So that’s why there’s so many boxes in here.  

You’re too exhausted to unpack everything at almost one in the morning. Instead, you shimmy off your clothes and wear whatever pajamas you can find from the boxes before jumping into bed. You don’t grab a blanket, so you sleep cold.

You wake up two hours later at 3:16 A.M. You forgot to bring your melatonin. Fuck. 

You lay in bed for ten minutes to stare at the unfamiliar ceiling. It’s almost horrifically quiet, so you get up and open a window to let the crickets’ chirping make its way into the room. You flick on the light. 

Nothing better to do than unpack. 

You start with the heavy stuff first; bookshelves, your desk, etc… and your unreasonable amount of weighted blankets. You try to stay quiet in order to not wake up the house, but that motivation dissipates when you’re actively swearing while trying to put a chair together. 

You finish setting those up in only twenty minutes, surprisingly. The room still looks just as empty as it did before. You scuffle over to a hefty cardboard box and rip the duct tape down with a claw. The top pops open and you see a fat pile of neatly-aligned romance books. 

You spend the next ten minutes sorting them by quadrant, genre, and even trope, but the bookshelf is only a quarter full. Shit. You find the next box of books, then another, and sort through them again. You just sorted through romance books for fourty minutes. Good fucking grief. 

The last two shelves of the bookshelf are still empty and you know exactly what belongs there. You slide the box of DVDs over to the shelf and tear up more duct tape with your claws. There’s a little bit of sticky tape residue under your claws. Nasty. 

You pick up a Hitch DVD– starring your glorious king, Troll Will Smith– and place it on the shelf. Fuck, this’ll take a while. You grab for a few more, While You Were Sleeping and Miss Congeniality . When the hell did you get so into Troll Sandra Bullock? She isn’t even that hot. You mean, not as hot as Troll Benjamin Bratt. That pool scene? Holy shit. 

By the time the shelf is full, your romcoms are sorted in full alphabetical order. Kankri says they’re ‘an abomination to trollkind,’ but Kankri sucks and should shut up. Forever. 

The next box is light, but you feel a few things swish around in it. Your posters, finally. You don’t have any nails to hang them up with, so you use the leftover tape from the cardboard boxes to keep them up. Whatever, you’ll fix it later. You just want these boxes empty and out of your room. 

There’s one last box. It’s somewhat heavy. When you pick it up, something inside of it clangs before cutting itself through the box. The tip of the weapon stops right before it has the chance to slice through your stomach and gut you. 

Signless warned you not to pack these. He’s always been against ‘the normalization of weaponry amongst trolls’. It’s all bullshit. You know he’s always carrying sickles around with him. 

You’re not sure where to put them without him finding out. You can’t captchalogue it and fall back asleep. Last time you fell asleep with your sickles in your sylladex, you unconsciously equipped them and almost sliced your hand off. This happened two sweeps ago. You’re still terrified. You pull a few books out of the shelf, stick the sickles in there, and cover it back up. See? It’s like it was never even there. 

You spend the next hour lifting ungodly bulky suitcases up the stairs and to your bedroom closet. It only takes you around thirty minutes to actually get your clothes put away, since there’s not even a lot to even begin with. Directly after you finish, you throw the suitcases in the closet, slam the doors shut, and crash into your bed. 

At least your room will have just a little bit of flavor when you cry yourself to sleep tonight. 

The sky is a dark blue. It’s still twenty minutes before the sun rises and the world is still tranquil for a second. A bird chirps, which coaxes an entire choir of them into joining. And then you’re lulled back to sleep, finally. 

You wake up almost forty minutes late to your alarm. It’s been blaring for an entire half an hour and you were knocked the fuck out. You’re gonna be late to your first ever day of work, you lardass. 

The alarm reads 11:38 P.M. when you slam it off. Your shift starts in two minutes. You’re so fucked. 

Rolling out of bed and trying to find your footing, you rush to the closet and pull out a black hoodie and grey jeans. Whatever, you wear shit like this almost every day. You don’t think anyone important will even see you. Gamzee might, if he decides not to sulk in his house like a wriggler all day, but he doesn’t count as ‘anyone important’. 

You rush to the bathroom, hang your clothes up, brush your teeth, and hop in the shower. You get changed directly after and your jeans do that weird post-shower sticky thing to your skin. Your hair is a mess, even when it’s dripping wet. You almost scalp yourself in an attempt to brush it out. You’ll… figure that out some other day. Probably.

You look a little worse than sightly. You have teeth that tend to poke at your bottom lips, not sharp enough to be troll-like but not dull enough to be human. Your eyebags look like entire purses and you always look a little like you haven’t eaten in days. Your eyelashes make you look like a girl. 

You’re obviously not excited, especially since you know your shitty sorta-moirail is gonna be there, but you aren’t all that nervous. The store is right down the street, so you can probably just walk there. 

You waste another two minutes staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

Fuck, you’re in a new town with new people with a new job and a new home. At least you know you aren’t leaving anything behind, anyway, since you didn’t even have any friends back where you were. You were always one to put family first. That’s what Signless taught you. It’s not like you really had a choice. There was nobody else to ever put before them. 

Your own gaze at the corpse in the mirror is starting to creep you the fuck out. You grab your phone, check the time; 12:18 P.M., and head downstairs before being nearly blinded by the sun. Who the hell put sheer curtains down here? Whatever, you need to get out of the house. You’re already thirty minutes late. 

It’s obnoxiously sunny outside. You always found Earth’s sleep cycles to be ridiculous. It’s unfair that trolls on Earth aren’t nocturnal when your species was literally made for it. What’s the point of diurnality, anyway? It only gives you a greater risk of being attacked when you’re sleeping. Stupid humans and their stupid human nature and their stupid need to force it into every other species.

You can already see the store at the end of the street, all brick and halfway worn-down and reeking of juggalo filth. It’s no wonder they were willing to wait three entire months for you to get here. You can’t really imagine anybody but Gamzee wanting to work here. You might even find it funny if you weren’t literally on your way to work there right now. 

The place looks almost abandoned when you get to it. Lights are off, the parking lot is empty, half of the shelves are completely devoid of any substance. You can already tell that working here is either going to be the most hellish experience you’ll ever face, or it’ll be easy as fuck. You walk around it and enter through the unlocked back door. 

It’s cold and dark and stinks of grape Faygo. You’re not surprised, since Gamzee’s been working here by himself for almost a year now. It’s like he has some scented aura of Faygo and sour candy that follows him around everywhere. 

You flick the lights on and see metal shelves and cardboard boxes. This must be the back room, you’re guessing. It’s windowless and small, but somewhat bigger than you were expecting. You aren’t even sure if there are any supervisors here. It’s very clear to you that nobody has taken the time to clean this place in months. 

Progressing further, you enter the door that leads to the front checkout of the shop. The lights are accompanied by a buzzing sound that you’re sure will haunt you for your entire shift. You unlock the front door of the shop and stand at the register. 

You stand for ten minutes, which turns to fifteen, which turns to twenty. There was literally no point in rushing to get here when absolutely nobody comes here anyway. You spin around on your heel and head into the back room as you tug your phone from out of your pocket. You’ll be gone for five minutes, no biggie.

Your phone is littered with pesterchum notifications– a few from Terezi, which you are not opening (in an attempt to protect your own fucking peace), and a few from Gamzee. Let’s see what this imbecilic clown has to say this time. 

-- terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:07 --

TC: YoU hUrT mY fEeLiNgS lIkE cRaZy ThErE lAsT nIgHt, BrOcHaChO
TC: I'm CoMiNg To WoRk NoW
TC: I rEaLlY eXpEcT aN aPoLoGy, LiTtLe BuDdY

-- terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:09 --

CG: FUUUCCCKKK.

You need to get to that goddamn register and as far away from that back door as possible. You’d rather die than have to console Gamzee as soon as that fucker walks in.

The way Gamzee thinks has always been a mystery to you, despite having known him for so long. Though you’ve been pretty sick of his shit even before you both formed a moiraillegiance. It was mostly just his whining and prying that got you to actually accept his request in the first place. What the hell is up with you and getting into all of these doomed relationships? You’re such a dunce. 

You walk out of the back room, slamming the door and subconsciously grumbling to yourself. There’s already a customer. How long has he even been waiting? 

He’s wearing the most fuckass outfit you’ve possibly ever seen. Whatever. Maybe you’re only judging this guy because Gamzee’s got you pissed off at almost everything right now. You grab his orange juice, scan it, and slide it back. He hasn’t even given you the money yet. 

When you wait a few seconds in deafening silence, he finally realizes that he still needs to pay. He hands you a five dollar bill and one singular penny. You respect the hustle, you guess. 

It reminds you of how broke Gamzee is all of the time. He’d always blow everything in his pockets on sopor slime. Fuck, you need to stop thinking about Gamzee so much. You grumble to yourself and count the money.

You hold out the change and finally get a good look at the guy behind the counter. It makes more sense to call him a boy, though. He looks just like any average boy your age. Though he looks a bit stunned? You don’t even know this guy. His eyebrows are raised to meet his unnaturally blonde hair and he’s staring directly at you through his sunglasses. What the fuck? Who wears sunglasses indoors? 

He does seem a little familiar, though. Tall as shit, pale blonde, and pretentious shades resting on the bridge of his ghostly nose. 

“You… hm.” Fuck. You definitely know him. From where, though? You try to search the inner workings of your mind before you make a fool of yourself. “You’re… the douche.”

“Yup, that must be me. The D in Dave stands for Douche,”

Okay, asshole. Y’know, you would’ve let his shit last night slide because maybe , just maybe, he was going through something just as shitty as you were. It’s pretty fucking clear right now that he’s just naturally like this. You grab his orange juice and slide it back your way, “You’re not getting this until you tell me why you were such an ass last night,”

He sighs. He sighs as if you’re the unreasonable one here, which you are very much not. “Just give me my fuckin’ OJ dude,” he groans, “we’ll literally never see each other again.” 

When he reaches for it again, you tighten your hold on it ever-so-slightly. “I already paid, just give me the damn juice.” His tone is getting louder, like an angry father. 

“Not until you fucking explain yourself!” 

He grasps at the juice, all long-limbed and lanky. It’s almost funny watching him fumble with all of his human strength. You’re not even holding onto it all that tight and he’s struggling like he’s fighting a goddamn war. You resist the urge to scoff. 

Mid-battle, you hear something from behind you. Not directly behind you, of course, but from the back room. The smallest creak of a door opening, and then closing just as fast. 

You let go of the juice and it collides with his chest. Before you run to the back room, you shoot him a blazing glare. Shit. You need to calm Gamzee down before he- 

“Kaaarrrkaaat!”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Gam? Gog, I’m fucking sorry !” You shout. About halfway through the back room, you find him already sobbing on the floor, head in his hands, purple tears drenching his face. 

Karkat, don’t leave him. You’re his moirail, remember? You’re meant to care for him. No, it doesn’t matter if you’re nauseatingly tired of him. You’re his moirail and you need to help him. Now. Whether you want to or not. 

“Urgh, I’m such a bad moirail, I know,” You hold his head in your hands and pap lightly at his forehead. “C’mere. Shoosh.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to start crying, of all things. In those texts, he sounded almost angry? Assertive? You aren’t even sure what to call it. 

“Kar,” he sniffles. He’s so fucking pathetic . Wait. No. Don’t think that. He’s your moirail and you need to love him no matter– “Karkat, you’re so selfish, man.” 

“…What?” 

His eyes are glossy, purple, and void-like. Your claws are just conveniently close to them. No, Karkat, you don’t want to claw his eyes out. Nope. 

“You’re so selfish,” he blinks and violet tears roll down his face. There are little trails and smudges in his face paint where his tears fall. “All yo-u want is to have everyone for y-yourself.”

“Gamzee, what the fuck are you even talking about right now?” It takes all of your strength to lightly push him away instead of shoving him into a shelf. “ I’m the selfish one? You’re the entire fucking reason Terezi committed quadrant infidelity with me and Vriska!” 

“See? That’s what I mean, man. You want Terezi for yourself all the time.” His tears have already stopped. 

He has to be kidding. Like actually fucking joking. Hey dumbass, April Fools was months ago. Keep up. 

“Gamzee, I can’t fucking– I can’t–” Shit, no. Don’t say it, Karkat. You’ve already broken your matespritship this week. Please don’t say it. Don’t fucking– “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”

Fuck you, Karkat. 

And fuck you, inner monologue. 

His pupils shrink into little dots as a dark violet color floods his irises. He doesn’t talk. His mouth is just a little bit open, sharp teeth that could tear you apart if he really wanted to. 

But he doesn’t. And you stand up and you walk out of the door. 

He doesn’t watch you. He stares off into space, sitting on the ground. You can’t tell if he’s crying again or if his face is only stained purple from tears.

And maybe when you walk out that door you feel the sensation of crying; the concept of crying. Like it’s an abstract idea rather than something you did last night, or something you could be doing right now, or something you can do if you think about your life just hard enough. 

And maybe when you walk out that door you feel a weight lifted off your shoulders and you smell the September air and you’re not hyperventilating or shaking or sweating over this. 

And maybe when you walk out that door you feel fine. 

You’re not going back there. Ever. Quitting on your first day might be pathetic, but not as pathetic as being moirails with that juggalo. 

You’re fucked. 

You walk home, navigate the vaguely familiar house and trudge up the stairs before opening the door to your bedroom, changing into some comfier clothes, and falling into your bed with a slight bounce. 

You stare up at the ceiling, your limbs sprawled out and your curtains closed. Do you feel a little guilty? Yeah, somewhat. But do you feel as horrible as you did last night? Nope. And that’s what makes shit like this good. 

You lay awake two hours before falling asleep at five o’clock. 

You have a lot of sleep to make up.

Chapter Text

==>

Fuck. This. Fuck this so much. 

Your alarm is blaring, holy shit, die, and your erst blissful slumber has invariably been terrorized by an ultimately morbid, lachrymose fact– one that comes to torment you once every seven days: the weekend has come to a sunset. It is time to tend to your studies. 

Shit’s so bad, it’s got you sounding like a certain flighty broad. 

You rub the fog out of your eyes and use all of your body strength just to sit yourself up. Why the hell do you feel drowsier in the morning whenever you go to sleep early? It doesn’t make sense. You drag a pillow to your face and groan. Fuck, okay. Actually get up. 

And so you do, tossing your blanket across your backside, cape-style, and dragging it with you towards the closet. Has it always been this cold in here? You’re almost shivering. You open your man-made blanket-cloak from the front and look down at your pajamas. Basketball shorts, Dirk’s old shirt, and mismatched socks. Well aren’t you just a hunk. 

You throw the blanket back onto your bed– though it falls directly back onto the floor anyway– and begin looking for an outfit. Sweatpants and a T-shirt don’t sound too bad. It’s not even that hot out anymore. You stand a little upset at that thought. 

Squinting at the window, trying not to blind your own bare eyes, you watch a few brown leaves detach and plunge. It’s only August and you feel some sort of unending dread. You hate winter. You don’t even care that your birthday is in December. Winter sucks and should die. Whatever, get back to picking out your outfit.

You change into your clothes, brush your hair, slip on your shades (great, you can finally stop squinting), and look in the mirror. Wow, get a load of this white boy. 

All that’s left is to brush your teeth, grab your headphones, and vamoose. 

Except you end up getting distracted while brushing your teeth in an attempt to release a spider without killing it, which results in you running fifteen minutes late. You honestly should’ve just killed it; given it a taste of the Axe body spray that’s been marinating under the bathroom sink for two years. 

And so you’re running down the stairs, your backpack hanging off your shoulder and a singular piece of toast in your hands. Shit, you’re like a corny anime schoolgirl right now. What’s next? Are you gonna bump into your senpai on the sidewalk? Whatever, it’s not like you like him or anything. Baka. 

God, you are terrible. 

You can tell that Rose has already left, shoeprints stamped on the sidewalk, wet from last night’s rain. She usually leaves twenty minutes before you do just to catch up with her girlfriend. 

Rose’s girlfriend’s always been somewhat of a mystery to you. A mystery to Dirk too, but you don’t think he cares that much. You know you should support whatever makes your sister happy, but jeez, Kanaya is creepy as shit. Well, not really creepy, that’s Rose’s thing. Kanaya is… scary. Intimidating? Maybe all troll lesbians are like that. Y’know, there’s this one troll lesbian who sits across from you in algebra with a missing eye and some weird robot arm, and she’s pretty fuckin’ intimidat– shit, you’re getting sidetracked. 

Kanaya has these jade-green eyes that can pierce through bolted doors, you swear. You even heard that her strife-specibus is set to goddamn chainsawkind. Chainsawkind. This chick can wield an entire chainsaw. That’s not normal. 

You guess you’re just a little frightened. You’re not as scared of her hurting you as much as you’re scared of her hurting Rose. You dunno. Maybe she’ll do a good job at protecting.

Sometimes, in just the right light, she looks like a vampire. Maybe that’s what's creeping you out. 

You’ve never been more scared to attend a teenage girl’s birthday party. 

Just as you’d predicted, you’re a little later than usual. Not late to class, but just late enough that all of your friends have already left the usual morning hangout spot. You rush to class anyway to avoid being late there, too. 

You walk into class, students chatting with one another. Well, all students except for Kanaya. She’s sitting in the back corner, per usual, reading one of her vampire fantasy books and keeping to herself. You walk further and sit in your usual seat, the desk to the left of Kanaya’s. She doesn’t seem to notice you. 

“So, um, Kanaya. I heard your bir–sorry, wriggling day is coming up,” there’s a question-like lilt towards the end of your sentence, as if you’re not quite sure if Rose had just been lying to you last night. 

She… doesn’t answer. Well damn. Must be a pretty good book. 

You stare at her for a few seconds, awaiting some sort of answer, before her head perks up to look over at you. “Were you talking to me? I’m sorry, I’ve been so enamoured with this book all week,” she softly chuckles, “Yes, my birthday – as you would call it– is soon. What is it that you’re asking me about?”

“Yeah, Rose told me about it, but she never really told me what day it was. I was just wondering, since she’s pretty much dragging me to it.” 

“Saturday of this week. You know, you don’t have to come if you really don’t care to,” she places her book on the desk, “Your absence will be quite a shame, though.”

Now you feel like a dick. “Nah, I’m going. Just curious, ‘s all.” 

She nods as her glowing irises go back to scanning her book before the bell rings. A good majority of the class groans as Ms. Paint, your algebra teacher, walks in. Man, fuck algebra. 

“I hope you’ve all had a great weekend, everyone!” she starts, the same cheery smile and decorated little act she puts on every Monday. “C’mon, get your workbooks out to page four-hundred and fifty-seve–” the loud creak of a door interrupts her words. 

Along with almost everyone in class, your eyes shoot to the doorway. Still, everyone except for Kanaya, who’s been contently filling out the page of math by herself. Looks like we got a goddamn intellectualist over here. Man, fuck that. You kinda hoped she’d get distracted by whoever had just burst in for just long enough for you to copy down a few answers. You have no idea what the hell a y-intercept is. 

Before you looked up, you’d expected Miss Peixes– A.K.A ‘The Condesce’ , as most students would call that fishwife– to be stiff at the door, ready to scold Ms. Paint for whatever she can grasp at. Too nice? Too cheery? Too forgiving? You’re pretty sure she’s given out pink slips for all three. You feel a little bad for Feferi. Couldn’t imagine having that witch for a mother. 

Once again, your senses are extremely wrong. It’s almost funny. Well, It’d be just hilarious if what was standing in the doorway, all five-foot-three and counting, wasn’t the same scruffy-haired troll with pointy little teeth and that fake-menacing glare. You’re a little convinced he has a severe, life-threatening case of RBF, because not once have you seen him looking anything but pissed out of his goddamn mind. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that you’re sitting right here. 

Oh HELL no. 

Even Ms. Paint looks startled, as if a wild coyote is at the doorway, getting ready to ravage away at whatever happiness and cheer is even left of this class. It wouldn’t be all that far off, anyway. 

The only empty seat in this class seems to be directly in front of you. Hell, it’s like every time you’re around this guy, everything seems to play out like shitty fanfiction. 

“Oh! Karkat Vantas, ‘s it? I’m sorry, I’d assumed you weren’t coming today!” the teacher greets. 

Well shit. He’s in the right class. Even he looks confused, which is a little dumb, considering he navigated this entire classroom by himself, didn’t he? 

“Yeah, that’s me. Uh– sorry I’m late, this place is a fucking maze.” He sputters, scanning the room with golden eyes. You watch his hands tighten around his backpack strap as he realizes that he’s paused an entire lesson. 

“Clean language in the classroom, please. May you come to my desk for a second?” she escorts him, “Class, fill in the next five pages!” 

You eye Kanaya’s workbook. You’ve pretty much given up on trying to discreetly copy answers from her, let alone even try in this class. What the hell are you gonna use math for, anyway? Slope and graphs and exponential function and all that bull– it’s got nothing on the ill beats you’ll be making when you’re finally a DJ. Yes, it’ll happen. Just give it a few years, jeez.

Ms. Paint whispers something to him, not exactly loud enough for you to hear, but he nods anyway. As he walks over to the desk in front of yours, he finally sees you. He gets a second-long glance at you and his eyes widen into planet-sized pearls before he turns around, planting himself in his new seat. His backpack slides to the ground and he looks a little stupid, sitting there with nothing on his desk whilst everyone’s actually working on stuff. He looks around. 

“Oh, sorry mister Vantas! Would you mind grabbing a piece of lined paper and reviewing as we go? I’ll be sure to have a workbook in for you by tomorrow,” 

He nods and grabs at his bag, fumbling with each and every pocket, silently scrambling for a notebook. He’s rummaging for ten seconds. Then twenty. Half a minute. You’re pretty sure this dumbass forgot to bring a notebook. To school. That’s like, the first thing you need for school. A fucking notebook. 

You dig your elbows into your workbook and lean forward, “Dude, every time I see you, you’re always fumbling over some shit. Like, I’ve never seen you be a functional, put-together person a single time ever.” you taunt, his hands pausing in their search for a notebook and his head ever-so-slowly turning, exasperated eyes meeting yours. He’s pissed.

Kanaya places her pencil down in the dip of her desk. “If I were you, Dave, I wouldn’t be talking about put-togetherness. You have twelve missing assignments in this class alone, do you not?” 

“Calm down, I’m joking. God forbid I’d like to get acquainted with the new kid, jeez.” 

“Strider, bothering a new student does not equate to getting ‘acquainted’ with them,” she asserts, “I hope you know that I say this with as much benevolence as possible, but consider fucking off?” 

You roll your eyes and slump back into your seat with a sigh, which comes out more like a high-pitched huff. Nobody heard that. This shit is why nothing fun ever happens. Whatever, you’d rather pussy out than get mauled by a Twilight lesbian and her shitty chainsaw. 

She hands him a thin page of lined paper and the three of you continue on with class as if nothing ever happened. You don’t even think the teacher noticed. You honestly doubt she’d care. 

The next two periods go just as boring as any other school day would– John getting you both in trouble for passing notes in class, resulting in only you getting a Wednesday detention (which is utterly stupid), and Jade getting dog fur on you somehow? You aren’t even sure if she owns a dog. 

You usually don’t pack anything for lunch, nor would you ever dare to eat whatever slop the school plans on feeding you. You think you’d rather eat whatever abominations that Dirk decides to cook up for himself every night. You find your usual seat in the lunch room, a round table where you, John, Jade, Rose, and Kanaya sit and mess around for the few minutes given to eat. Kanaya’s seat is unusually vacant. This might just be the first time she’s passed up an opportunity to hang out with Rose. 

“Dave, do you know if Kanaya’s here today?” Rose hits. 

“Nope,” you lie. You’re not exactly lying in order to avoid telling the truth, you’re just too lazy to tell Rose that Kanaya may or may not have cussed you out at seven in the morning. Rose squints her eyes at you ever-so-slightly before going back to her sandwich. Some odd, unsettling feeling washes over you at that. 

A few minutes pass. John and Jade are wrestling over a parfait as Rose eats quietly by herself. You honestly should’ve told her that you’ve seen Kanaya today. She looks sad. Where the hell even is Kanaya? Whatever, none of your business. You take your phone out and begin to play useless mobile games.  

“My apologies for being late, everyone,” Kanaya’s voice is soft and unexpected, like wind behind you. “I brought a friend, if you all don’t mind.” 

You nod and she finds her seat. You don’t bother to look up, considering she’s probably just brought another one of her random troll friends to sit with the group– one that’ll eventually make some lame excuse to leave because John won’t stop questioning them about their horns or something. 

You sit for a few more minutes without looking up, scrolling through whatever nonsense you can find on your phone. Kanaya and Rose are talking, Jade gets up to throw away her squashed-up parfait, and John leans over to whisper in your ear. “Dave, does that guy have a problem with you?” 

“Who, what?” You look up and see that same boy, Car-cat, or something. You catch him staring at you, the look on his face as if he’d just smelled something rancid, before his eyes dart down to his own lunch tray. “Looks like someone has a staring problem,” you mumble over to John. He shrugs as he steals a french fry from Jade’s squiddle lunchbox. You watch the troll boy poke at his lunch with a flimsy plastic fork. 

He’s not, like, the worst right now. You mean, you much prefer this timidness over having to hear him yelling at you from across the store counter. He’s like a black cat. Some cowardly, nervous, black cat. He grabs an unidentifiable slab of meat from his tray, stuffs it in his mouth, and grimaces. You fight the urge to giggle. Striders don’t giggle. 

Jade comes back and notices his hesitance. “Hellooo,” she draws out, “I’ve been gone for three minutes and you’re still not talking! C’mon, what’s your name?” she enthusiastically flumps into her seat, snatching her lunchbox away from John and keeping her eyes locked on the new boy. 

“Oh. I’m Karkat.” There’s a crackly rasp in his voice.

“Car-cat…” John snickers to himself, “Beep beep, meow.” 

“...What?” Karkat furrows a brow and looks around, like he’s just spawned here out of nowhere and has no idea what’s happening. A few times his angry eyes meet yours, only to look away again. You don’t think he even knows you’re looking from behind your shades. He sighs and rolls his eyes. 

Kanaya chuckles, “Don’t worry about him. That’s only John.” 

Jade digs two elbows into the table, palms pressing into her cheeks, “So, where’re you from?” 

He looks a little bit like he’s just been asked if he’d committed a crime, and a lot like nobody has  ever been this nice to him. “I’m from a small town a while up North; I don’t think you’d know it.” 

Rose joins the conversation, “And what brought you here? This place must be pretty drab compared to wherever you’re coming from.”

“I guess I, um,” he chokes on his words, “I guess I just moved. No reason, really.” You watch him calm down, the tension in his shoulders from a few minutes ago slowly dissipating as the table manages to pull words out of him like it’s nothing. 

The table goes quiet again. Shit, guess it’s your turn to say something. You take a good look at his face; he seems to be perpetually angry, or at least he looks it. As normal as he’s been all day, his expression seems unchanged. “Man, why do you look so goddamn irritated all the time?” you probe. Rose elbows you. 

“Y’know I could really say the same thing about that smug little facade you put up, right?” he retorts. Jade covers her mouth in an attempt not to chortle, John chuckles, and Rose sneers. “See? even your friends know I’m right.”

“Oh, fuck off. They laugh at everything.” 

“Dave, don’t get so offended!” Jade snickers. You roll your eyes. 

“I thought your whole pompous put-on was an ‘act of irony,’ was it not?” Rose quips, “Don’t tell me you’re… genuinely an asshole?” She smirks and lays the back of her hand on her forehead, displaying some big, dumb, dramatic show. “Oh, the horrors!” 

You scowl at the newest dumbass at the table and he scowls back ten times harder. Your little staring contest breaks as he begins to laugh, all raspy and coarse– “You look like a fucking idiot when you make that face,” he cackles. Sharp little teeth on display and eyes all scrunched up. 

“And you think you don’t ?” The last part of your question is broken by the lunch bell. “Oh, goddamnit.” You watch his conceited little smile as he gets up to walk to class with Kanaya.

…

Fuck that guy. 

Science is next period; mostly notetaking and labs. It’s rare that the teacher ever comes in at all. Your usual seat is stationed in the far back of class, practically a blind spot from the teacher’s desk. Aways a perfect opportunity to mess around and hang out on your phone. You weave through hallway traffic and open the classroom door and oh fuck oh hell no.  

It looks like the tables have turned. He’s in your usual seat in the far left corner, rummaging through his bag and eventually finding an empty notebook to lay flat on his desk. Looks like he finally found one, after all. He hasn’t noticed you yet. How did he even get here before you? You both just came from the same place. 

You watch his eyes go all big and doe-ish, like two amber planets when he sees you at the door. He horks an indignant huff before going back to minding his business. Okay, asshole.

Almost all unoccupied desks in the room are directly at the front of the class. Fuck this shit. You’d honestly rather sit next to that degenerate than sit up front. Maybe it’ll even give you a chance to mess around with him again. Make class a little more interesting. 

He looks livid when you trudge over to the desk on his right and set your stuff down. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He whispers.

“Didn’t feel like sitting in the front of class.” 

“There are a billion other fucking seats that aren’t stationed in the front of class, dipshit.” You can tell he’s struggling to not shout.

“Yeah, but like, this is the back of class. I like to sit in the back of class.” 

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see right through your skull and get a good look at your brain. “That’s stupid.” 

He turns around and you both wait a few minutes for class to start. Another substitute teacher comes in, blabbering about some dumb shit nobody cares about. Yes, you know what a punnet square is. No, you don’t know how it works. No, you’ll never use this in the future. 

Everything the teacher says, you still write down in a desperate attempt to keep yourself awake; but you end up finishing earlier than everyone else. You better find something else to do before you zonk the hell out and miss the rest of class. 

You rip a page from your notebook and begin writing down whatever comes to mind in sparkly, obnoxiously red gel-pen. As much as you find that boy to be just as exasperating as any other annoying person you’ve encountered, you can’t help but feel the need to annoy him. You fold up the paper and toss it onto his desk.

so do you spell your name like karcat or carkat

The paper smacks the center of his notebook and he flinches before turning around to peer at you. His face contorts, eyebrows sinking down like the dip-slope of a mountain and a nasty squint searing into you. He’s trying pathetically hard to be scary. You hold back a grin. He leans down and takes a little long to read it– you’re not the proudest of your handwriting.

He pushes the paper aside to finish his notes faster than you’ve ever seen before immediately writing back. He throws the paper onto your desk with so much force that it nearly slides off. You grab it and read.

DO YOU SPELL YOURS LIKE DICKHEAD OR DIPSHIT?

IT’S KARKAT.

Of course this boring motherfucker only writes in pencil. You highlight part of his note with your pen and add a little more before tossing it to his desk.

DO YOU SPELL YOURS LIKE DICKHEAD OR DIPSHIT? ladies call me dickshit

IT’S KARKAT. even worse than i thought

of course your boring ass would write back to me in pencil

can’t even show respect for my novelty gel pen huh

You hear an irked sigh from his direction, followed by rushed scribbling. You both pause to take more notes from the board before he tosses the paper back onto your desk.

YOUR NOVELTY GEL PEN ALONG WITH YOUR EGREGIOUS HANDWRITING SHOULD BE ILLEGAL, ‘DICKSHIT’.

NOW LEAVE ME ALONE AND DO YOUR WORK.

You write and throw the paper back.

oh karkat you wound me with your blatant disregard for my sentiments

has nobody ever taught you how to treat a nice young woman like myself

He writes before crumpling up the paper and throwing it at you. You catch it before it hits your face.

I DIDN’T KNOW ‘NICE YOUNG WOMEN’ WORE DOUCHEY SHADES AND BOTHERED THEIR CLASSMATES WITH INCESSANT, ILLEGIBLE WAFFLING.

QUIT PASSING THIS SHIT TO ME.

You don’t even bother writing anything down, just ball the paper up and launch it at his head. He jolts– a look of pure, unadulterated rage washing over his face and his shoulders going so tense that he looks like he’ll snap like a stale rubber band.

He looks at the teacher, takes a deep breath, and continues taking notes. Now what the fuck. You guess he doesn’t give a shit if you project a paper ball at his head, but he draws the line at some goddamn Sunny-D. Weirdo.

The next half of class is spent taking notes and fighting the urge to doze off. Sometimes you wonder how everyone around you is even capable of just sitting there, working for hours and hours without having to fight to keep from collapsing.

You can’t help but peek over at him a few times, though. You wonder if he has the same problem, or if he actually gets enough sleep at night. As much as you hate him, some part of you wants to get to know him. He seems interesting enough– his face permanently scrunched in distaste, a Rose-like neatness to his handwriting. He squints up at the board and you hastily whip your head away. You don’t care about him that much, now. You feel weird. 

The bell pulls you out of your stupor. He’s already up and at the door, along with the rest of the class. Why the hell are you even focusing on him? You don’t want to be friends with him. Remember that encounter on the street? The argument at the store? He’s loud and obnoxious and brash and you’ll probably be forced to befriend him from Rose or something. Whatever, just get to last period so you can finally go home. 

You pick yourself up and go, peering as he walks down the other hallway. Nope. Shit. Keep walking. Stop looking over at him or he’ll think you want to be his friend. Fuck that. He’s weird and he’s hotheaded and he probably wouldn’t even understand your immaculate sense of humor anyway. Okay time to stop thinking about him because now this is entering weird territory and– 

“Dave!” you hear a familiar, somewhat nerd-ish voice call out to you, “Class is over here, doofus!” 

Shit; zoned out so hard, you almost missed your own class. You walk backwards in shame and find your seat near John. “Sorry. Head in the clouds,” you excuse. 

“You sure have been doing that a lot lately, huh. Don’t you have some funky medicine for that stuff?” 

Did you forget to take your Adderall this morning? That must be why you’ve been zoning out so much. “Whatever, I can live without it.” 

He emits a hum in acknowledgement and class continues on like normal– which means you both make fun of the teacher while her back is turned and proceed to get no classwork done. You proceed to wonder why you have a D- in this class. 

You find Rose after class, huddled up on an outdoor bench with Kanaya, reading her book. You sneak up from behind her, stand as tall as you can, and prepare to scare the shit out of–

“Dave.” She heaves a sigh and closes the book, passing it to the troll next to her. “You’re terrible at staying quiet, did you know that?” 

You stand over next to her. “Nah, I’m the king of stealth. You just have the ears of a goddamn bat.” 

She pecks her girlfriend on the cheek and stands up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. You’re already ten steps ahead when she’s finished tidying up her skirt and fixing her hair. Damn girl shit, or whatever. She catches up anyway.

“So, have you made your decision yet? To go to Kanaya’s party, I mean.” The wind is blowing her hair into her lip gloss. It’s funny watching her try to talk. 

“Quit talking about it like I ever had a decision in the first place,” you groan. “Yes, I’m going. But don’t be surprised if I leave early.” 

“I’ve never truly understood your fear of parties.” 

“It’s just the loudness. Y’know, not everyone is a huge fan of being in a house with a hundred people, all screaming and drunk.” You shiver. You can’t tell if you’re shivering at the wind or at the thought of going to a party. Yuck.

“You know Kanaya won’t invite those types of people.” 

“Then who is she inviting? It’s a fifteen-year-old girl’s birthday party, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’ll only be a few friends of hers; Nepeta, Aradia, Vriska–” 

You cut her off. “Girl with the robo-arm? Oh hell no.” 

“Come on. That new boy will be there, too. The one you met today.” You walk in silence for a few seconds. “Karkat Vantas, I think his name is. He’s in a class of mine.” 

“Him? C’mon, that dude is not my friend,” you scoff. “He’s pretty fun to mock, but that’s about it. Dude’s just about as interesting as a brick wall.” 

She glares at you and you swear something chilly just crawled up your spine. 

You sigh. “Whatever, I’ll deal with it.” 

She nods her head and smiles to herself. It’s that weird, condescending smirk she pulls whenever she gets what she wants– which is always. It’s not like anyone can ever say ‘no’ to her without the fear of being hexed in their sleep. Fuckin’ creepy. 

Keys jingle as she unlocks the door and makes her way inside. She unties her shoes and neatly places them on the rack. You kick your shoes off and punt them into the corner. A small trail of mud is left on the floor and Rose frowns at you. 

Finally, nothing left to do. You hike up to your bedroom and crash onto your bed. 

Shit, nothing left to do. 

You’re not tired, so you can’t sleep the time away; John has piano practice and Jade has gardening club, so you can’t hang with them; and the idea of catching a cold while trying to take a walk in this wind doesn’t sound all that great right now. 

You saunter down the hall and find yourself at a familiar door. It sticks out; an ornate, golden door handle with a purple yarn tassel hung around it. You hear the faint clinking of metal knitting needles and charm bracelets from inside of the room. 

“Dave, quit standing outside my door like an imbicile,” she calls. You open the door. “What do you want this time?” 

“Jus’ bored, I guess. I also need advice.” 

She motions to the free spot on her bed and you slump down. The smell of candles and warm blankets swirls around the air. You take a look around the room– a half-finished single crochet blanket on the floor, a basket full of yarn, a tall vase of mis-matched knitting needles, and dozens of miscellaneous granny squares in a pile. Yep, this is your sister’s room, alright.

You listen to her needles clink. Scrape. “What’s the issue?” 

“I dunno, I just-” you turn over and your shades clash against a stray stitch marker. You flick it away. You guess you have no other way to word this. “Is it normal for someone my age to have barely any friends? I mean, it feels pathetic.” 

She sighs. “Dave, it’s perfectly normal to want to keep your circle of friends small.” You listen to her needles clink. Scratch. She curses under her breath as she misses a stitch. “Why? Has someone been bothering you about it?” 

“Nah. It’s just weird, y’know? I see John and Jade hanging out with just about a billion different people every day. Makes me feel like a loser,” you chuckle. You’re not butthurt over it. “I wish I could just talk to people and immediately be friends with them. Like, the way John and Jade always do.” 

You watch the gears turn in her head, her jaw slightly grinding as she finds the right words to say. It takes about twenty seconds for her to finally reply. 

“Well, you came for advice, and I’m going to trust you not to take this the wrong way,” she warns. You nod. “I think it might be time for you to quit being such a jerk to everyone.” 

You hum. Not in approval, but not in distaste either. You’re not even that mean, you’re just brutally honest. God forbid you don’t sugarcoat every damn word that comes out of your mouth. “C’mon. I’m not a jerk,” you watch her eyes widen for a second, “I mean, look at Karkat. He’s harsh, but nobody bats a damn eye.” 

“For someone who dislikes him so much, you have quite a lot to say about him.” She pauses to count her stitches. “It’s evident that Karkat’s impoliteness is most likely how he displays his affection.” 

You huff. “And how do you know he doesn’t actually mean it?” 

“Well, he’s a new student from another town– somewhere that he wouldn’t tell us, moving here for reasons he’ll probably never give out. It’s obvious that his anger is a defense mechanism– a way to make himself seem more stable and secure than he actually is. Even if nothing happened at his old place, moving to another town must be hard for him.” 

“And that gives him a reason to be a dick?” 

“Dave, what you’re not understanding is that you don’t have a reason to be a ‘dick’. You’ve lived here your entire life. You have a stable family. You’re happy and healthy.” You listen to her needles clink. Tug. “Those around can tell that you are fine. Those around can also tell that Karkat is a teenager in distress. Just let him adjust.” 

You guess she’s right. You mean, you wouldn’t exactly call a house of three kids with absent parents a ‘stable family’, but you won’t throw a bitchfit over that. Maybe Karkat really is just some teenager in distress. You wonder how he’ll be once he gets used to this town. A lot less rotten, you’re guessing. 

“Just-” she pauses. It’s pretty rare that she finds trouble with spewing whatever comes to her mind. “Just try to be nicer, alright? I’m not asking for you to be cheery and upbeat all the time, but drop the whole ‘stoic prick’ persona. Whether it’s an act or not.” 

You hum. There’s not much to say. 

As you’re about to exit, she reminds you of one last thing. “And please, quit teasing Karkat. He may have gotten enough of that at his old place.” You nod and continue leaving. 

Listening to Rose’s yammering has tired you out a little. You can’t tell if it’s her naturally-soothing voice or the fact that it gets too boring to handle. This time was alright, though. You guess you’ll actually take her advice for once. Maybe If you haven’t forgotten it by the time you’ve woken up.

It’s darker than usual in your room. Shit, It’s almost winter. God, you fucking hate winter. It sucks. It’s cold and it’s ugly and the snow gets all smushy before anyone even has the chance to build a snowman. It’s gross and you despise that shit.  

You throw yourself onto your bed. The coolness in the air aids in lulling you to sleep. You know you’re going to be absolutely freezing when you wake up, goddamn winter, but you’ll ignore that for now. You’re tired. 

You find yourself dreaming for the first time in a long, long time.