Chapter 1: Tomorrow, Noon, We Hit the Air
Summary:
Chapter title from Stan Rogers' “The Mary Ellen Carter”.
Notes:
This fic uses CSS to look all fancy and shit! Yay! Credit to La_Temperanza for the fake email skin and La_Temperanza & CodenameCarrot's texting skin because ~I flunked coding in college~! o(*￣▽￣*)ブ I ditched the usual quirks for readability/accessibility reasons. Also because BRUH that's like. So much work. And I am so lazy. Explicit because I eventually plan on a little smut. As a treat. A treat for me, specifically. Anyone else enjoying it is very poggers and coincidental. Chapters with “[E]” contain explicit content that may or may not be skippable.
Be sure to SCROLL through the entire email.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As far as Karkat Vantas is concerned, the very idea of the “Rent-a-Bud” business model is predatory. It’s yet another capitalist scheme to commercialize every aspect of life. Maybe he, at the ripe age of twenty-five, is just too old-fashioned. He sees few reasons to be offering himself as a platonic escort, and he’s certain nobody would be interested in his services. He’s brash, foul-mouthed, and (quite literally) half deaf — and he’s said as much in his profile. Yet, today, as he checks his emails, he finds a single match.
As the bus pulls away from the Broad Street stop, he rolls his eyes. He reasons that it’s probably some sort of scam. Someone’s looking to steal his kidneys, perhaps. Or, maybe, it’s a flat-out pervert. Either way, he doubts it’ll be someone worth his time. Still, his near-empty bank account needs replenishing. If, as Terezi had suggested, this entire affair can make him some easy cash, then so be it.
Email:
From: [email protected]
Subject: 📢 YOUR FIRST BUDDY TASK 📢
Attached: d-strider-2020.jpg (12.1 KB) d-strider-2021.jpg (11 KB)
Congratulations, KARKAT VANTAS! You’ve gotten your first request on Rent-a-Bud®!
Every Rent-a-Bud® request goes through vigorous safety screening, so you can rest assured you’re meeting with a real, genuine, and upstanding person. 💕 Profiles are similarly vetted, and we encourage all Friends™ to report any suspicious or unwelcome activity from prospective Pals™. Remember that Rent-a-Bud® is for friendly interactions ONLY.
Attached below are the details of your Buddy Request™ from Pal™ user d-strider-120391, received on 04 DECEMBER 2021.
Let’s start with the personal information! These facts will tell you more about your new Pal™.
Full Name: David Ellison Strider
Preferred Name: Dave Strider
Birthday: 03 December 1991
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Location: USA | New Alternia Hills, VA
Occupation: Freelance video editor
IMPORTANT NOTICE: This Pal™ has self-identified as a member of the following vulnerable groups (see the Rent-a-Bud® rulebook for details): LGBTQ+ (Transgender), DISABLED (Physical)
This Pal™ has flagged their ADDITIONAL NOTES section as essential reading.
This Pal™ has an important MEDICAL NOTES section.
ADDITIONAL NOTES: I am submitting this request on behalf of my twin brother, who is currently showing increasing signs of depression. Unfortunately, I have recently moved to Chicago, approximately 800 miles away. Yesterday was his 30th birthday, and I feel rotten for being unable to attend. Please see the attached medical notes. If you need more information, do not hesitate to call me. My name is Rose Lalonde, and I can be reached at all times at ▋▋▋-▋▋▋-▋▋▋▋. I somehow persuaded him to answer the “friendship requests” questionnaire, so those answers are entirely his. I don’t own any of the bullshit I’m sure he’ll say.
MEDICAL NOTES: Dave was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident approximately 15 years ago (T2–T4 incomplete). I supported him for most of the intermediate time until my job forced me to move a few months ago. He generally manages well on his own. No assistance needed for bladder routines (indwelling catheter).
Great! You’re well on your way to your first Rent-a-Bud® job! Now, let’s review the friendship requests of this Pal™! Here, you’ll learn what your new Pal™ is looking for in a new Friend™!
Tell us a fun fact about yourself!
do they even check what i type here? can i just fill this space with bullshit. maybe if all of my friends didn’t move WHO KNOWS HOW MANY HOURS AWAY i wouldn’t even need to fill out this pointless little form.
What are your favorite hobbies?
breathing, eating, sleeping. fuck off with this shit. do you think i’m five years old?
What books or films do you enjoy?
they really just went with the most useless questions they could find huh?
What is your ideal day out with a FRIEND™?
can someone maybe talk to me like i’m a goddamn adult for once?
What are you looking for in a FRIEND™?
… i really just want someone to talk to honestly.
Why are you looking for a FRIEND™?
i’m sorry. i really didn’t mean to come across as such an asshole. i’m sorry.
What can you give as a Pal™?
please. everyone i know moved away. i moved here four years ago because rose’s job dragged her out of houston. i don’t have anyone else. please. i just… i want someone to at least act like they care about me.
What else do you want to tell your new FRIEND™?
i know rose is paying you to do this. i know you probably won’t be able to stand me. i can’t stand myself most of the time. i haven’t met another goddamn person who isn’t a medical professional or my sister in two months.
Amazing! 🎉 Now that you’re acquainted, consider the following benefits:
Pay Rate: $50/hour
Requested Time: 3 times/week @ 3 hours/session
Will Pay for Events: Yes
Will Pay for Food: Yes
Will Pay for Overtime: Yes
Will Pay for Transportation: Yes
If you’re open to being this user’s new Friend™, please message them! Rent-a-Bud® does not host any financial transactions on-site.
The entire email is so downright pitiful that he half expects the attachment to be some sort of “gotcha”. Instead, it’s exactly what it claims to be — a fairly standard portrait. The man in the photo is… admittedly attractive. (Not that it really matters, of course.) Broad shoulders compliment a pale, angular face and a well-defined jawline. Blond hair is swept to the side and neatly maintained. A deep, round scar is barely visible at the base of his neck, mostly obscured by a red and white baseball shirt. His lips are pressed tightly together; he’s either anxious or constipated.
The second photo, still carefully framed to avoid displaying most of his lower body, shows him in a slightly more relaxed state. His shoulders seem to naturally slouch forward, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of reflective aviators. A defined upper body slowly shifts to something softer near the torso. His casual smirk reveals a single dimple on the left side of his face.
With just text and two photos to go by, Karkat can’t make much of a decision about Dave’s personality. The most he can say is that he’s lonely, desperate, and incredibly bad at hiding both of those facts. More importantly, he seems to have a sister with very deep pockets. At the listed rate, just a year of tolerating Dave will net him more than enough to finish paying off his student loans.
He taps on the included phone number. It takes just two rings for him to get an answer.
The voice on the other end is hoarse and rough, sounding more like that of a lifelong smoker than a thirty-year-old man. It’s pleasantly mid-pitched with a plucky Southern twang. “‘Sup. You’ve reached Dave Strider.” His breathing is shallow and calculated. He clears his throat, but the act only seems to make his voice slightly louder. “Sorry. I’m just waking up. Probably sound like shit. What’s up?”
Now, Karkat breathes in. He gives himself a few firm mental kicks to hype himself up. He adopts the most chipper customer service voice he can muster from his chronically pessimistic soul. “Hi! I’m Karkat Vantas. You responded to my Rent-a-Bud ad.”
“Is that who Rose picked? Yeah. Sure. Give me a minute.” A series of muffled breezes fills the speaker. A quiet rattling follows. It takes about half a minute for Dave to return. “You’re younger than I was hoping for.”
“Beggars can’t be fucking choosers,” Karkat mumbles.
Apparently, he hadn’t been quiet enough.
Dave counters with a throaty laugh that ends with a series of weak coughs. “Ah. Fuck. How soon can you come over? I mean… Not to sound desperate or anything, but you said it yourself, right?”
Karkat checks his watch. Personally, he’d rather go home and take a nap; financially, he needs some cash. “I can come over today.”
“Really?” Dave’s tone brightens immediately. “Give me an hour to make myself presentable. I’ll text you my address.”
“Sure,” Karkat practically sings. He may have hated his three-year stint as a craft store cashier, but he can’t say he learned nothing. He considers his ability to fake enthusiasm a fine art. “I’ll see you then.”
Dave doesn’t respond. Instead, he ends the call. The promised text comes through seconds later.
-----
The map app eventually leads Karkat to a modest Cape Cod-style ranch house at the northern edge of New Alternia Hills. A wooden ramp and three concrete stairs lead to an inviting covered porch. Rows of overgrown blue hydrangeas wave in the wind, rubbing against the white brick walls. The garage door has been left open. Inside, there’s a mostly empty space and a beaten-down, faded red Honda Prelude. The name “Lalonde” has been hastily (and poorly) peeled off the side of a dented mailbox.
He breathes in.
One year. That’s it.
He rings the bell.
A minute passes.
Then, two.
Three.
Karkat tugs at his red knitted scarf, a gift from Nepeta, and wonders if he’s been pranked. At the five-minute mark, he’s ready to leave. He’s about to turn around and write the entire interaction off as some sort of morbid prank when the door swings open. His eyes land where a person’s face usually is before sweeping down.
Dave mostly matches his pictures. He has the same broad shoulders and clean-shaven face. Hazel eyes look out through rectangular black bifocals, studying his visitor with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. Well-worn fingerless gloves cover his hands. “I’m assuming you’re Karkat?” In person, his voice is slightly deeper and a touch breathier. From time to time, he stacks a handful of shallow inhales to force out a long exhale. His shoulders seem to involuntarily twitch and contract inward with each breath. “So, uhm.” He presses against the wheels of his chair long enough to shift his position. Its supports rise to the small of his back; the sleek, bright red frame places his gaze level with Karkat’s navel. A heavy-looking bag is strung across the short, blunted handlebars. “You want to come in?” He cocks his head to the side.
“No, I thought it’d be delightful to stand on your porch and freeze my ass off,” Karkat quips.
Dave smirks. He gulps down a few breaths and wheels backwards, opening a path into the house.
Karkat steps inside.
The polished oak floors are covered in scrapes and dents. Piles of paperwork and empty medicine bottles are strewn across the kitchen island, and the warmth of the gas fireplace fills the space with a strange, almost metallic smell.
“I used to share this place with my sister.” Dave parks himself in front of the fireplace. “I’m… uh. I ain’t too sure how this should work, so…” he gestures to a nearby leather armchair. “I guess I’ll introduce myself for real.” He rubs the back of his neck and focuses his gaze on the faux wood logs. His right leg shakes slightly, weakly, before falling still. “Name’s Dave. Thirty. Paralyzed myself from ‘round the armpits down trying to do a wheelie on a stolen motorbike when I was fifteen. Spent a year learning how to move and breathe again. Graduated bottom of my class, flunked out of college, and I work as a freelance video editor.” He claps his hands together and pushes against his knees to straighten his back. “I… I appreciate you taking the time to visit.”
“Have Rose send me the money later today,” Karkat says dismissively.
Dave nods; his nervous smile falters. “Yeah. ‘Course. It’s… I’m buying your time, right?”
“You make it sound a lot worse than it is when you say it like that, but yes.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest and leans into his seat. The cushioning is luxuriously soft. It’s firm enough to cradle his heavier frame without pulling him into an ever-deepening indent. “My turn, right? Karkat Vantas, twenty-five. I got fired from my job as a waiter and took this gig on a whim.”
A wry smirk tugs at Dave’s lips. He rests his forearms against his knees and leans forward. “I’m a whim, then?”
Knowing that honesty seems to be the best policy with Dave, Karkat lets his usual bluntness shine through. “Maybe you’ll get upgraded to an acquaintance after a few visits.”
Dave counters with a genuine smile. “Fair enough. Ain’t really expecting too much else. Just someone to talk to, I guess.”
“About what?”
“Anything.” When Dave shrugs, his left shoulder rises higher than his right. “I guess… Most people think I’m stupid, I guess. Always hated going out with Rose; they’d always talk to her, y’know? I had my little circle of people I trusted, but it ain’t there anymore.”
“That fucking blows,” is Karkat’s honest answer. Idly, he checks his reflection in the nearby mirror. He runs his fingers through his mop of loose, black curls and rubs his hand over his rounded jawline. His skin — with its rich, dark hues — is the near-opposite of Dave’s, though they both seem to share the same arched nasal bridge. “Have you tried visiting them?”
“Yeah,” Dave’s tone takes a sudden, icy turn, “I’ll just hand over my legs without any guarantee that I’ll get them back again. Sounds great.” His brows furrow as he rubs his thumbs against his temples. “Sorry. That was… unnecessarily rude. I don’t much like long-distance travel. Tried it once and had to buy a new wheelchair afterwards. Unfortunately, it ain’t worth it. They’ve got to come to me, not the other way around.” Dave tugs on a lever by his right hip, causing him to sink slightly lower into his seat. “They’re expensive, by the way. Wheelchairs. This one’s ‘round $6,000. Give or take. Custom measurements, pressure relief padding, all that shit.”
“They’re that fucking expensive?”
“Costs a lot to survive shit that would’ve killed you a few decades ago, apparently.” Dave pulls up the sleeve of his bright red sweater and checks the time. A huff of discomfort passes through his lips as he pushes himself upright in his seat. “You want something to eat? I can fry some eggs or somethin’.”
“I…” Karkat wants to say he’s not hungry, but a dull pang in his abdomen begs to differ. “Fine. Don’t do anything fancy, though.”
“Ha! Nah, cooking’s Rose’s specialty.” Dave flips a locking mechanism by his left knee. When he hears a muffled click, he moves. He lazily propels himself off nearby furniture whenever he has the chance, sparing his hands from touching the pushrims. “She’s my twin, by the way. I’m sure she said as much on the sign-up form. We grew up down the street from each other. Divorce and all that sorta drama.” Dave pulls a pan from the lower cabinets and sets it on the convection stovetop. After twisting the knob, he adds a splash of vegetable oil. “My deadbeat dad dumped my ass on her and my mom after the accident. Might’ve been a bad call. Rose was always helping me out. Now it feels like I’m a little lost without her pestering me to do things right.” Two eggs are pulled from the fridge and cracked open in the sizzling pan. “I mean… I can handle myself. There’s a nursing company that comes by once a month. They check my lungs, help me clear out any stubborn gunk, and give me a thorough exam for any injuries I can’t feel. Basic shit.”
Karkat nods.
Dave seems to speak just to hear himself talk. He needs no further prompting; he’s a surprisingly open book. “We really ignored each other until then. She went with the nerdy goth circles. I hung out with the jocks. But it’s almost impossible to think ‘bout not having her here at this point. It’s just… we grew up together, y’know? She was there for me when I needed her most. Even all these years later, she knows how to cheer me up. Maybe that’s what I miss.” He studies the sizzling eggs. “When I turned twenty-one, we both hit up the bars. Both of us were drunk out of our goddamn minds, Karkat. We had to have my mother pick us both up from some hole-in-the-wall dive spot.” He laughs; this time, the sound is crisp and clear. It’s like the ringing of dull, low chime that lingers in the air. Waiting — no, demanding — to be noticed. “Not that you have to do that, by the way. Definitely not today, at least.” There’s something oddly compelling about his mannerisms, how he manages to grab attention like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get. “You want your egg on bread?”
Karkat blinks. “Huh?”
“The eggs are almost ready.” Dave throws his arm over the back of his chair and turns slightly to the right. His mid-back is tense and inflexible. “You want it on toast, or nah?”
“Not really.”
A bright red spatula scrapes two eggs onto waiting plates. Dave sets a fork and one serving in his lap and brings it over to his guest. “Here. You deserve something for putting up with my shit.”
There’s nothing particularly special about it; it’s an egg. There’s salt and pepper. That’s about as much as can be said about it. By the time Karkat has eaten a quarter of his serving, Dave is back in his former place.
One hand starts cutting into his meal; the other flips the lever by his left knee. “So, you want to talk ‘bout you? I’ve chatted ‘bout myself for a while.”
“I’m not really that interesting.”
“Aw, c’mon,” a good-natured smile spreads across Dave’s face, “Everyone’s a little interesting. You went to the local college, right? When’d you graduate?”
“Two years ago. I took a few gap years.” Karkat slurps down the last bit of his fried egg. “I studied child psychology, but I’m not sure why. I guess it sounded good.”
“Then you should be able to figure me out real quick,” Dave smirks. He tucks his right hand under the corresponding leg to lift it into a more comfortable position. His foot dangles limply when it leaves the rubberized platform. “I tried studying music. Figured it wasn’t my style and dropped out. Ended up doing some odd jobs. Car mechanic, cashier, bartender, shit like that. Nothing spectacular.” Bright yellow yolk runs from a fresh slice across the center of his egg. “I wanted to be a musician when I was younger. Eventually, I switched to just wanting to have a stable job.”
“I dreamed of being a romance novelist,” Karkat admits, wrinkling his nose, “Stupid as fuck, I know.”
“Meh,” Dave wiggles his free hand dismissively, “plenty of dreams are a little whack. Rose wanted to be a necromancer, so I’d say a romance novelist is a more realistic goal.”
Despite his best efforts to remain impartial, a whoop of laughter escapes Karkat.
By now, Dave has finished his meal. He collects both plates in his lap and grabs his wallet from the bag against his back. “Look, it’s been nice, but I have to get to an appointment.” He holds $100 in cash between the index and middle fingers of his right hand; the left gives Karkat a surprisingly strong pat on the back. “I’ll see you next week?”
Against his more decent instincts, Karkat pockets the money. “Yeah. Text me whenever you’re free.”
From Dave, a lopsided smile and a casual thumbs-up.
Karkat doesn’t bother sticking around. He’s tired enough as it is. He pockets the cash eagerly before departing.
Notes:
Random Worldbuilding Notes: I'm too lazy right now to research “real” cities, but also too lazy to make a “real” modern world. You're getting 100% unhinged Freak Material™ that's basically just “the United States of America, but with different branding.”
Chapter 2: Far Beyond the Moonlight
Summary:
Chapter title from DragonForce's “Through the Fire and the Flames” (AKA the song that's unfair in Guitar Hero because it's technically multiple guitars).
Chapter Text
Sunday, 5 December 2021
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Sollux:
“Well,” Karkat mumbles to himself, “that’s a fucking bust.”
“Your beer, sir.” The bartender slides a foamy pale ale across the glossy bartop before tending to another customer.
Karkat does his best to ignore the empty red wheelchair parked by the booth at the far corner of the eatery. He flips through his phone and browses social media. When nothing there catches his eye, he opens the news. This, too, is about as interesting as staring at a plain wall. The headlines are bloated with celebrity gossip and discussions of a proposed roundabout on Inglewood. Most of the comments are from people complaining that they don’t understand how a roundabout works.
After what feels like an eternity — but is, in fact, a span of about fifteen minutes — Karkat’s resolve crumbles. He runs his fingers through his hair, grabs his beer, and stomps over to the booth in the corner. He sits, with a loud huff, and slams his drink on the table. “Most non-locals don’t know about this place.”
Dave jumps; his shocked inhale sounds like a pained wheeze. His eyes dart — nervous and wide — toward Karkat. “Fuck. You scared me.”
“That was the goal.”
Dave’s voice is thin and tight; his expression, stern. “You succeeded, then.” Tonight, he wears a faded graphic tee. Judging by the font, it’s the logo for a local metal band. The short sleeves reveal toned arms covered in a near-implenetrable layer of overlapping tattoos. His hair is messier than before, and strands of silvery white show near the roots. He breathes in a few times — hup, hup, hup — then squeezes out a long exhale. “June showed me this spot.”
“Egbert?” Karkat raises a brow.
“You know her, too? Damn, sorry ‘bout that. What a fucking goofball.” A fond smile dances at the edges of thin, pale lips. Calloused fingers idly rub the condensation off a half-filled glass of rapidly flattening cider — Dave’s been here for a while, a few hours at least. “Give me a minute. Sorry.” He presses his left hand against the table to straighten his back and gulps down a few more breaths. The sound grates against a nerve that Karkat can’t quite place. When he’s done, he coughs; his voice returns to normal. “I’m not really supposed to be drinking much, y’know. Makes my brain all fuzzy. Makes it easier for me to forget that I have to, like, consciously take a deep breath every so often.” He pulls his wallet from his pocket and slides a crumpled $20 bill across the table. Simultaneously, his smile fades. “Here. Rose gives you overtime, right?”
“Yeah.” A twisting sensation grips Karkat’s chest, and it’s intrinsically, cloyingly uncomfortable. He speaks to overpower his own uncertainties, “Doesn’t that get annoying?”
“The breathing?” Dave picks at a loose thread hanging from his right sleeve. “I mean… the other option is dying, so I guess I’ll take being annoyed.” A tired smile pulls more at the left side of his lips than the right. “I’d be mostly fine if my injury was straightforward. Too bad it ain’t. Had some real fuckery going on with bone fragments in my neck, too.”
“What do you do when you sleep?”
“Oxygen therapy and luck, I guess.” An idle index finger traces circles against the well-worn laminate table’s surface. “I’ve had some close calls. Oxygen drops too low, I get loopy as fuck, and Rose has to take me to the hospital.” He tugs down the high collar of his shirt, revealing the indent at the base of his neck. “I’ve been intubated a few times,” he lets the collar fall back into place. “Shit. You… Most people probably don’t know what that means. It’s life support, basically. Mechanical ventilation through a hole in my throat. It’s destroyed my voice over the years. Used to be a halfway decent singer, but…” his voice trails off. His eyes focus on the table. “Last time was ‘bout five months ago. Rose found me passed out in the kitchen.”
Karkat nods. The corkscrew around his chest tightens.
“It’s a weird feeling, by the way. You can sort of…” Dave traces a line down the front of his neck with his left index finger. “You feel the little tube going in. You feel it sitting there, scraping away inside you. It’s like a lump you can’t get out, if that makes sense.” Now, he pauses. A nervous hum rumbles from his chest. “Not the best eating conversation, sorry. Heh. I forget that… I mean… Uhm.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Medical shit. It’s just second nature to me, really. Half my life has been in and out of hospitals and having something go horrifically wrong with my body. It’s… better than dying, I guess. Better than that, for sure. But it’s not everyone’s normal. I’m not ‘normal’,” he emphasizes his point with air quotes, “I guess that’s the perk of paying you. I can tell you this, and you have to listen. So…”
“So?” Karkat parrots.
Dave presses against the booth to reposition himself. “You probably think I’m, like, a walking freak. Rolling? Whatever. I guess I am.” His second attempt to fix his posture is more successful than his first. “If you have any questions, let me know. I’m used to it. If you’re up for staying my fake friend long-term, you’ll need to know most of it.”
“It’s probably easier to ask me what I do understand about all of this, Strider,” Karkat admits.
A bemused smirk flashes across Dave’s features. During its brief appearance, he looks closer to his age — the worn lines etched into his forehead disappear. “Ha! That’s fair, dude. So, what do you understand?”
“Absolutely fucking nothing.”
“Yeah, figured as much.” Dave runs his right thumb in a sloping line across his torso; it begins just below his right armpit and ends below his left breast. “I can’t move anything below here. Don’t feel much, either. It’s functionally dead, kept alive by an overpriced cocktail of medications and surgeries. I can flex my left ankle and move the leg a little, though. I guess that’s a bonus?”
Karkat nods slowly.
Dave chugs some of his drink.
Finally, as the sensation around his chest begins to feel like a crushing vise, Karkat speaks up, blurting, “You can stop now.”
A splash of pink burns across Dave’s cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. Probably made shit unnecessarily uncomfortable, huh? Screwed the conversational pooch so bad that I’m wanted for bestiality.” Pale fingers anxiously sweep through strands of blond hair. He finishes his beer and scoots to the edge of the booth. The coat and red plaid scarf on his wheelchair’s seat are carelessly tossed onto the table. “I’m dropping by Burger Bungalow on my way home. You can join.” A single, smooth motion twists his body around the corner and into his chair. He tugs on his pants to adjust his legs, stopping once his feet are firmly planted on the footrest.
“No, I need to get home. I’m taking care of the neighbor’s cat.” In the back of his mind, Karkat realizes his reply sounds like a weak excuse. It is, however, the truth; Mrs. Marpole is paying him a tidy $300 to change her cats’ litterbox daily and give them their nighttime medications. “I’ll see you around, Strider.”
Dave’s expression falters — briefly falling — as he replies, “Sure, sure. Everyone’s got a life but me, right? Ha.” His laugh is hollow and cold. “It’s fine. I need to edit some shit for some indie film company, anyhow. I’ve been putting it off for weeks.”
Karkat doesn’t wait to hear more. He buries his hands in his pockets and trots out of the building with perhaps too much zeal. Maybe it looks rude, but he reasons it away as a well-meaning attempt to fulfill his petsetting duties.
-----
Text messaging chain between Dave and Rose:
Chapter 3: They'll Never Know You Lied
Summary:
Chapter lyrics are the obligatory drop of Yoko Honna's version of “Country Roads”.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 7 December 2021
The plan for Karkat’s next meeting was laid out on Monday night. Dave would pick him up from his apartment around noon, and they’d visit a so-called “Winter Art Showcase.” Dave’s description of the event made it sound like some sort of upscale art gallery. The official website made it look like a kitschy Christmas décor sale. An hour of digging failed to uncover which of the two evaluations was true.
Not that it matters.
Now, after shoving himself into an uncomfortably cramped Honda Prelude, Karkat plasters the best customer service smile he can muster onto his face.
The interior of Dave’s car is in far better shape than the exterior. A black suede stripe runs down the center of medium gray leather seats. Black floor protectors stand out against a custom red interior. A brushed copper veneer covers the A-pillars. Jutting from the left side of the pearl white steering wheel is a roughly three-inch-long handle. From what Karkat can tell, pushing the lever makes the car accelerate; pulling activates the brakes. The left-side passenger’s seat has been removed and replaced with a hard plastic storage liner, into which Dave has deposited his wheelchair. It’s the sort of lavish setup Karkat would expect from a celebrity.
And maybe his shock finally bleeds through.
As the car slows to a stop before one of the city’s umpteen stoplights, Dave flashes a proud grin. “Did most of this work myself. Nice, ain’t it? Inside’s more important to me than outside. I’ll do the body work eventually.”
“How did you know how to do any of this?”
“Used to work as a car mechanic. Worked there three years in Houston,” Dave shrugs. “Ended up quitting when a new manager came in. He didn’t trust me much with the cars, always accused me of scratching ‘em up.”
“What didn’t you do, then?”
“Didn’t manufacture the parts, I guess. And I had someone else install the hand controls.” When the light turns green, Dave applies slow, steady pressure against the left-hand lever. “Not to brag. Totally not bragging.” The widening grin on his face says otherwise. “Used to prefer motorcycles, but I’m sort of terrified of them now.”
“Legally acquired motorcycles or…?”
A tinge of sheepishness buzzes beneath Dave’s otherwise straightforward reply: “Stolen. I never technically owned my own motorcycle. Hell, I didn’t have a legal license ‘til I was ‘bout twenty. So, great news! I am legally allowed to drive this thing. And only this specific thing.”
Karkat nods. He’s never known much about cars, but everything seems to be professionally installed. At the very least, he can’t say it looks like a slapdash monstrosity. If Dave is telling the truth, he was good at what he did.
The vehicle bounces over a series of speed bumps and potholes as it pulls into the raceway complex. It’s still early; the parking lot is mostly empty. Even so, Dave’s parking pass doesn’t seem to do much. They’re still directed to a spot a fair distance from the entrance.
At this point, Karkat is starting to feel claustrophobic. As soon as the car stops, he stumbles out and waits near the rear. At first, he tries to focus on the slowly growing line of cars trundling into the venue. But curiosity is a powerful drug; it doesn’t take long for his gaze to be drawn back to Dave.
A lever on the left side of the driver’s seat lets it rotate towards the door, giving Dave easy access to his chair. Each movement is well rehearsed and borderline instinctual. The wheelchair frame comes first, gets attached to one wheel, and popped onto the second with just as much ease. It’s dropped to the asphalt with confident disregard. He plants one hand against the wheelchair’s cushion and uses the corresponding arm as the pivot point; the movement reveals that his burgundy suit jacket has a slit running halfway up the length of its back. Upon landing in his seat, he uses one hand to adjust his legs; the other turns the chair back around. When he’s done, he slams the door shut.
“I said I covered your tickets, right?” Dave elbows Karkat’s hip as he passes. “Not that they’re expensive. Ten each. But, hey, that’s ten extra in your pocket.” His black, custom-tailored tie wrinkles as he leans over the right wheel of his chair. “If you see something you wanna buy, I’ll cover that, too. Just keep it in a reasonable price range, okay?”
“Define ‘reasonable price’?” Karkat buries his hands in his pockets and trots after Dave. As they near the entrance, he realizes that he’s woefully underdressed. Everyone else is wearing at least a button-up shirt, and he’s in little more than some faded jeans, a black windbreaker, and a faded college pullover.
“‘Dunno. A thousand, I guess?”
“Where the fuck do you get all this money?”
“Pretty even split between a benevolent twin sister and a lucrative gig as a film editor.” A blasé shrug punctuates Dave’s statement. His breaths rise as short, small puffs of condensation against the dry December air. He digs his phone out of his pocket after parking at the back of the line. “Rose and I used to come to this every year. It’s kitschy, but some of the shit’s pretty neat.”
“So why not invite her again this year?” The minute the words leave his lips, Karkat realizes his mistake. Blood rushes to his cheeks and burns the tips of his ears. “Shit. Yeah, she’s in Chicago. Sorry.”
“Easy to forget, I guess?” Where Karkat expects anger, Dave offers bemused confusion. He pulls a pack of gum from his pocket and slides the top stick free. “Want some?”
“I hate chewing gum.”
“Sheesh. Okay then, Willy Wonka. I’ll try and remember that,” Dave smirks and pockets the package. After sticking the gum into his mouth, he stores the empty wrapper in his breast pocket. “You ever been to one of these before?”
“I’m a non-practicing Hindu, Dave. I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Your socks say otherwise.”
Karkat’s brow twitches as he glances down long enough to catch a glimpse of the candy cane patterning barely visible below the hem of his pants. “They’re a gift from a friend,” he huffs.
“Fair. I mostly just like getting free shit. The monthly nurse rotation tends to be nicer, too. Maybe they’re feeling the holiday spirit or something.” Dave inches forward as the line moves. He flexes his fingers and tugs at the sleeves of his jacket. “I grew up in Houston.”
“Pretty hard to fucking miss,” Karkat smirks.
Dave laughs. Something about the sound — the breathy, rasping lilt — slams Karkat’s heart against his chest. Of course, Dave is blissfully unaware of this fact as he continues, “Lived in an uppity neighborhood with my borderline skinhead father for years. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s Hindu.” Perhaps noticing the furrow of Karkat’s brow, Dave quickly tacks on, “As far as I know. I mean… I don’t go ‘round asking people ‘bout that shit.”
Unsure of how he’s supposed to respond to such a comment, Karkat offers a slow nod. He steps to the front of the line.
The attendant, clearly dreaming of being anywhere but here, eyes both men over. She chews the end of her pencil before directing her attention to Karkat. “Tickets, please?”
“He has them.” Karkat jabs his thumb in Dave’s general direction.
An awkward silence fills the air. Dave loosens his tie as he hands over the requisite QR codes. When they’re waved inside, he moves quickly. “Sorry,” he mutters, “that’s… I wish I could say it’s weird, but people generally assume anyone hanging out with me’s my caregiver. Just roll with it. Generally easier to appease them than explain anything.”
“Any idea why?” Karkat pointedly refuses to meet Dave’s gaze. Part of his aversion is a wholly unwelcome sense of genuine concern, but the array of gaudy winter-themed items filling the sea of vending booths is an equally compelling reason to keep his eyes elsewhere.
“Pretty obvious, ain’t it?” Dave wheels forward. One push covers more ground than Karkat’s full-length step.
Karkat finds himself scrambling to keep up. “Hey! HEY! Can you maybe slow your ass down?”
Dave stops by resting his palms against the treads. Rubber grinds against padded leather. “Sorry. Forgot to adjust for short people.”
“I” — Karkat begins. His eyes sweep over Dave and crunch some visual estimates. If he were standing, he’d tower a solid foot above him. “How tall are you?”
“‘Bout six feet. Give or take depending on my spinal cooperation that day.”
Despite assuming that he’d long since overcome his Napoleon complex, Karkat finds himself seething.
And maybe Dave senses that, as he quickly directs Karkat’s attention to a full-scale carving of a plump Santa Claus clad in a Hawaiian shirt and holding a surfboard. “Check it.”
Oddly enough, it works. Karkat’s spiral is instantly derailed. As he gazes upon the peculiar statue, his brain sputters to a halt. “I… What exactly am I supposed to be ‘checking’?”
“Surfer bro Santa, of course.” Dave’s tone is entirely serious, almost reverential, as he studies the object. “Ain’t it great?”
“I mean…” Knowing that the artist is standing exactly a yard away, Karkat can’t convey his true feelings on the topic. Well, he could; he just has enough tact to hold his tongue. Instead, he dances around his feelings, saying, “I suppose it would be the perfect piece for someone who really likes surfing?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Dave nods. He gestures for Karkat to follow him as he wanders down the seemingly endless aisles of tacky handmade kitsch. Whenever he sees something particularly strange, he stops. The loop begins again. Upon seeing felted flamingos in Santa hats, he commends the artist for her “visionary ingenuity.” An older man selling “decorative bottles” — which are, in fact, just bongs — is praised for his “shrewd business practices.” Each stop is immensely amusing to Dave.
As the duo reaches the end of the show’s sixth aisle, Karkat finally speaks up. “So… the appeal here is that…?”
Again, rubber rubs against worn-down leather. Dave spits what must be thoroughly flavorless gum into a tissue and sticks the resulting trash in his pocket. “It’s just weird shit, I guess.” Dave rests his chin on his right palm. “It’s all probably boring you to death, but Rose and I loved coming here. We’d think of creative ways to say that something looked like ass. Hm… Now that I’ve said that out loud, it does sound like a freakish hobby.”
“You talk about Rose like she’s dead.”
“Meh.” Dave sits upright and wheels up to a nearby table. A few feet away, a kiosk is selling deli sandwiches. “Texting isn’t as fun, and her job means I’ll maybe see her once a year. I could try driving, but I’m not sure my back would cooperate long enough for that. Five hours on the road is usually ‘bout enough for the nerve pain to kick in. Shit! Sorry. Not your problem, right. Uh…” He shifts his posture slightly. “You hungry? The vendor there’s usually pretty good.”
“I could eat. Get me a club sandwich.”
A lazy two-finger salute serves as Dave’s reply. He sets his phone in his lap and joins the slowly growing queue.
Karkat, meanwhile, takes out his own phone.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Rose:
By the time Karkat has put his phone away, a foil-wrapped sandwich is sitting in front of him. He unwraps it hesitantly, only to find himself staring at a perfectly normal club. Then again, it’s hard to fuck up something so simple.
“Sorry for the wait,” Dave says, “Bastard in front of me took forever to figure out what he wanted.” His meal looks more questionable. The bread is soaked with grease, and the meat has a strange, slippery sheen. Upon seeing it, Karkat is halfway tempted to suggest that his friend — no, his current employer — considers eating something else.
However, after remembering Rose’s warning, Karkat bites his tongue and takes a few tentative nibbles of his club sandwich. It’s nothing spectacular, but it’s far from inedible. “Rose says she’s sorry she couldn’t make it to this.”
Dave’s demeanor deflates ever so slightly. “Yeah… She tried to surprise me by flying out here for this. Didn’t work out. It’s… fine.” His dour tone suggests otherwise, but he maintains a convincing poker face. After a moment of wallowing, he shakes his head. “Yeah, anyway… I’ll need to use the shitter after this. Takes me a while, so feel free to wander ‘round while I’m gone.”
“You have the most fascinating way of always bringing up disgusting topics when I’m trying to eat,” Karkat deadpans.
Dave laughs. His smile highlights the faintest beginnings of crow’s feet wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. “Guilty as charged.” He peels off his gloves and sets them in his lap before eating. “Thanks again. For hanging out with me. I know you’re being paid for it, but… I don’t know. Makes me feel less like a total goddamn failure having someone to physically talk to, y’know? I don’t have much else going for me right now.”
“I can relate,” Karkat lies.
“Cool. So, anyway,” Dave begins rambling again.
Karkat mostly tunes it out. He catches snippets of one-sided discussions about the benefits of flexible versus rigid fabrics in theater design. At some point, Dave goes on a long-winded rant about how nobody understands key lighting anymore. Were he more invested in the discussion, Karkat would almost find it charming. No, in all honesty, he does find it charming.
Dave knows what he cares about. He works within his passion. He has an avaricious need to create and refine artistic practices. Little snippets of his life — of who he is beneath his aloof and otherwise prickly outer shell — pour from his lips. By the time he’s done eating, he’s spoken non-stop for twenty minutes. And, now, he slips his gloves back on. “Alright. Sorry, but I have to empty my bladder. Should be ‘round six, maximum of ten minutes, so just do whatever.”
“I’ll just wait here, thanks,” Karkat’s reply is bright. But once Dave disappears into the crowd, he spirals.
It’s not working.
None of this is working, and he knows it. It’s getting harder to separate his obsessive need to help others from his pragmatic monetary requirements. The distance between his conscience and his wallet is becoming a vast canyon. He can’t rightfully call Dave a friend, but he can’t stay as impartial as he must to continue charging him for his services.
So, out of curiosity, he opens the Rent-a-Bud app. He browses some of the available jobs, and they all offer a fraction of Rose’s pseudo-salary.
Unless he can find another way to put a neat ribbon on his looming student loans in one year, he’s stuck.
“Hey.” Dave’s voice pulls Karkat back to reality. When a passerby accidentally bumps the back of his chair, he winces and braces his upper body against his knees. Afterwards, he buckles a strap across his stomach. “Making me look like I flunked physical therapy again, huh,” he mumbles to himself. Then, as if nothing had happened, he glances expectantly at Karkat. “We still have half the floor to go. You down for that, or do you need to leave? I’m fine either way.”
Somehow, Karkat gets the feeling that Dave is lying. So, he agrees.
He resumes the intriguing loop of finding peculiar curios and praising them for their most bizarre qualities. Eventually, after listening to Dave dish out at least a hundred of these twisted compliments, he even offers some of his own commentary. What begins as an embarrassing attempt to please Dave quickly morphs into a genuinely entertaining exercise in twisting words into inscrutable pretzels.
By the time they’ve made it through the show, Karkat finds himself feeling lighter than before. He also happens to be the owner of a poorly proportioned soapstone penguin. As Dave pulls up to his apartment building, Karkat must grudgingly admit that he has thoroughly enjoyed his outing.
And, if the oddly serene look on Dave’s face is anything to go by, the feeling is mutual. He pulls the handbrake and offers his hand across the center console. “You’re damned good at acting like you can tolerate me, Karkat. I see now why Rose picked you.”
Karkat accepts the gesture.
Dave’s grip is firm. His hands are surprisingly warm, and something about his touch sends a shock down Karkat’s spine.
Karkat withdraws quickly, surreptitiously, as he responds, “You’re actually pretty fun to be around when you loosen up a little, Strider. Try it sometime. And don’t let that go to your head.”
“Really?” Dave sounds genuinely shocked by the information. “Man, you must have your head on sideways. I’m the ultimate buzzkill. When I’m not spewing sad shit, I’m talking about things nobody else gives a damn ‘bout.”
“No, I’m fucking serious. As much as I hate to admit it, you are a genuinely interesting person to spend time with.”
Karkat’s firm reply garners a thoughtful hum from Dave. A pale hand rubs across a stubble-dusted chin. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, then.” He smiles, and his teeth are coated in fading nicotine stains. “See you ‘round?”
With a touch of pragmatic reluctance, Karkat echoes Dave’s sentiment, “Yeah, Strider. I’ll see you later.”
Notes:
Next chapter has explicit content. I was gonna put it in later, but my libido won. En pace ratsquisher or something.
Chapter 4: Around the World [E]
Summary:
Chapter title from Daft Punk's “Around the World”. (Is that cheating? The entire thing is just “around the world” 144 times.)
Notes:
EXPLICIT CONTENT WARNING in the first half. I honestly don't think it's plot relevant, but there are some character details for Dave that you'll miss. They'll probably get dropped outside a sex dream later, though. ヾ(⌐■_■)ノ♪ If you want to skip the explicit content, just skip over the big italicized chunk at the beginning.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, 9 December 2021
It’s not as if Dave Strider has never had a sex dream before. In fact, it seems as if they’re happening more often lately. And for the most part, they’re usually pretty predictable; he’s usually in bed with June.
And in some ways, he’s always found the unconscious choice interesting. He’s had more sexual partners than June. She just happens to be the most recent. After transitioning at thirteen, he’d spent most of his early teenage years trying to fuck every popular girl he could. Few of them satisfied him. Even after his injury, he abused a mix of conventionally attractive looks and pity points to sleep with anyone who’d take him. Eventually, at twenty-three, he’d found himself in bed with another man, a random hook-up found in the back of Roxy’s old club; that night, he had his first orgasm in almost a decade. At twenty-six, he had a one-night fling with June, and it quickly grew into a “friends with benefits” arrangement.
“C’mon, dumbass, you’ve gotta communicate with me for this to work,” June huffs. Long, tan fingers — the same fingers that have so beautifully played piano tunes on warm summer nights — graze over Dave’s chest, massaging his nipples. Each stroke feels like ecstatic fire in his throat.
Dave lets his left hand — his stronger side — tangle in soft, gently curling hair. He can see June straddling him, but he feels nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut as a blossoming warmth spreads across his chest. Each motion pushes Dave’s shoulders into the overly springy mattress. He can feel some of the coils digging into his collarbone. No amount of bracing against his elbows seems to stop it. His breath catches in his throat; he gulps down a few shallow inhales. His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth to hold more air in his lungs; when he lets it fall, he breathes out.
“Fucking you’s like being in a washing machine,” Dave mumbles, shoving June’s other hand away from his hip. His voice is hoarse and quiet. It’s hard to simultaneously maintain his volume and balance his breathing. “Lay off a little, yo.”
Where Dave expects June’s nasal, chipper tone, he hears something different. The voice is low and coarse, like pebbles in a rock tumbler. There’s the slightest touch of a Maine accent. “I’ve never done this before, you fucking idiot. What do you expect from me?”
Dave’s eyes snap open. He finds himself staring directly into golden-brown eyes. Warm, burnt umber fingers rest against his pale chest. “Karkat!?” he yelps.
The grating, buzzing trill of a phone alarm rips Dave from his sleep with all the grace and softness of a car crash. Thanks to a few errant taps when silencing the sound, his phone begins playing a new voicemail.
A rough, nasal voice crackles through the speakers. “Mister Strider, it’s Balthus Lorne. I know it’s quite early for you, but you must get this job done soon. I’ve been told your editing is second to none, but this project is already a month overdue. Unlike some producers, I do not feel any moral qualms about ending a contract with you. Get me my fucking footage by the end of the week, or you’re fired.”
Another message plays. This time, it’s a woman’s voice — bright, upbeat, and marked by a thick Louisiana accent. “Mister Strider, I hope this message finds you well. I’m with the L’Oreal team. We loved your work on our ad, but we need a few… small edits. Could you maybe switch out the smash cut and shuffle around the scenes? We’d also like it if you could tweak some of the lighting in post-production. We’ll send you the necessary files. Thanks!”
Dave groans. He fumbles with his phone and manages to unlock it with a few groggy jabs at the overly bright screen. After a few minutes of hazy non-thought, he sends a text.
Text messaging chain between June and Dave:
By now, Dave has managed to scrounge together something resembling a breakfast.
When Rose lived with him, she was always in charge of the cooking. She’d made multiple attempts to teach him the basics, and they’d all failed. “I won’t always be here, you know,” she had once said, “Eventually, our lives will take different paths.”
Dave had laughed at the comment. They’re twins, after all; how far apart could they ever get? The answer is, apparently, over 800 miles.
Another voicemail message pops up. With nothing better to do and a desperate need to distract himself from how burnt his breakfast sausages are, he plays it.
“Hello, Mister Strider. Jennifer calling, with LOHAC Home Care and Nursing Services? We’ve spoken a few times. Uh… Anyhow, your recent tests show that you might be getting a bladder infection? Have you been staying on top of your routine? You’re one of our favorite patients, you know! You’re always so kind to our workers, and not many people are so willing to give the new hires the hands-on experience they need. So, yeah. Please call Doctor Abraxas and check with him. The relevant medications will be delivered to your home shortly. Just remember to take them all, Mister Strider. Okay! Goodbye!”
A dull pain shoots up Dave’s spine. He groans and pushes off of the counter. The three remaining sausages get dumped into the trash compactor. If he gets hungry later, he’ll order delivery.
He opens his phone again. A new message from Rose is waiting for his reply.
Text messaging chain between Rose and Dave:
“Great lie, Dave, great lie,” he reassures himself.
He flips through far too many alerts before landing on a new email. While most of what he gets is predictable junk, this one seems mildly important. At the very least, it seems more interesting than his watered-down coffee.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Study in Monochrome Editing
Good Morrow, Mr. Strider!
This is Norman. I believe I asked you to edit Study in Monochrome for me some, ah, four months ago? Could you please send that project along soon? I don’t need it now, but I would very much like it by the end of January.
I have heard reports that you have a bit of a backlog on your hands. That’s okay! As I said, there’s no huge rush. However, I must inform you that the distributors want a rough cut available to them by February. If it is not ready, I must regretfully withdraw my support and send whatever you have done elsewhere.
You’re quite skilled, however. I truly think you’re one of the best in the industry. I trust that you’ll have my footage ready as needed. You’ve worked with tight schedules before, no? Anyhow, let me know if you have any concerns.
Merci!
N. Elidus
Another groan.
Dave crunches some numbers in his head. Assuming he somehow manages to finish everything on time, he won’t need to beg Rose for any cash until June. Otherwise, he’ll be groveling again between February and March. The possibility makes his skin crawl. He’s long since grown accustomed to letting others help him with physical tasks, but he loathes having to ask for money. If the slimy, nagging sensation it produces isn’t enough, he also hates the “lifestyle improvement” stipulations she often attaches to her generous “donations”.
He unlocks the wheels of his chair and starts moving towards his office. He stops when he catches a glimpse of himself reflected against one of the hanging steel pans.
Dark shadows hang beneath his eyes. A rash is forming beneath his nose, likely from where the oxygen cannula rubs against his skin. His hair has grown too long for his liking; the back is starting to make it look like a mullet. Conversely, hair still refuses to grow on the thin scar bisecting his right brow.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, running his fingers through his hair, “I look like shit.”
A stinging ache begins to spread across the back of his neck. It creeps up and settles at the base of his skull. A migraine is coming, but he has no time to stop. He needs to finish editing and call that freelance website editor about the glitch in his website’s contact form.
Still, even as he urges himself to start working, he finds himself drawn back to his phone.
Text messaging chain between Dave and Karkat:
Notes:
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Chapter 5: Like a Leaf on a Breeze
Summary:
Chapter title from Bryan Adams' “Nothing I’ve Ever Known”
yes, from the horse movie.
Chapter Text
Friday, 10 December 2021
Despite being both robust and generally reliable, the New Alternia Hills City buses lack one essential component: cleanliness. They’re generally disgusting, foul-smelling vehicles. In the summer, the outside heat makes them reek. In winter, the interior heating releases every trapped odor possible. Today, the vehicle is drenched in a mixture of stenches best described as piss, rotten vomit, and spoiled fruit. The only thing keeping Karkat sane is the scarf he has wrapped tightly around his face and the (mostly) asinine phone conversation he’s having with an old friend.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and June:
The three-block walk from the bus stop to Dave’s house is largely uneventful. It’s too cold out for most people; only the Northern transplants are comfortable enough to be outside.
When Karkat arrives, there’s a small, white package sitting outside the front door. He mindlessly scoops it up before knocking. Mercifully, today’s wait is short; he’s allowed inside a minute later. Once the door closes, he’s wrapped in warmth. The air carries an aromatic mixture of cinnamon, wormwood, and vinyl records.
Dave immediately takes the box and tosses it onto a nearby pile of similar deliveries. Today, his hands are bare; multiple scars are readily visible. His loose posture is strangely and paradoxically tense. When he smiles, it’s hollow and cold. His black sweatshirt is wrinkled and covered in old paint stains.
“So…” Karkat shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. Despite being constantly told that he’s good at comforting others, he’s never seen such a quality in himself. “Are you feeling better?”
From Dave, there’s a shrug and a noncommittal hum. Instead of answering the question, he drags his fingers through his hair and leads Karkat to a sitting room in the back of the house. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and soft. “Worked late last night. Didn’t sleep much. You?”
“Should I leave?” Karkat’s brows furrow.
“No, you’re fine.” Dave winces as he takes a few deep breaths in. A series of weak coughs accompany his exhale. “Shit. Sorry. This is going to be disgusting.” He repeats the process; this time, he spits the resultant phlegm into a tissue. The soiled wad is discarded in a nearby trash can, and he scrubs his hands with disinfectant. His cheeks and ears burn pink. “Not the best greeting, right?” His joke, like his earlier smile, is uncharacteristically flat.
Karkat sighs. “I know this is probably overstepping my boundaries, but you’re worrying me, Strider. You’re acting remarkably peculiar, even by your standards.”
Again, Dave avoids the question. He opens a nearby minifridge and takes out a beer. “You want something to drink? Beer’s in here, nicer stuff out front.”
Part of Karkat wants to take the drink. His fruitless job search has him feeling despondent. His more logical side, meanwhile, wonders if he can trust his judgement if he agrees. So, for now, he politely declines. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Again, Dave shrugs. He pops open a can of cheap Carapacian and downs a few good gulps. His right leg shakes — slow, then fast, then with enough force to throw him off balance. “Fuck,” he deposits his beer on a nearby side table and pulls his leg back into place. One hand is tucked beneath the thigh; the other presses against his upper shin. “Can I have one goddamn day where everything works?” he growls. Slowly, the shaking stops.
“Have you eaten anything lately, Strider?”
Dave looks up and shakes his head. “Past twelve hours, I’ve had…” he winces as he presses himself into an upright position, “three Red Bulls, some chips, and two cups of coffee.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Karkat stands. He gestures for Dave to follow. “Come on, dumbass, I’m making you something to eat. What do you have in this place?”
“Chips, soda, pasta, and canned shit.”
“You live like this?” For once, Karkat drops the phrase without a hint of comedy. “You seriously live like this? No wonder you’re so miserable all the time. Eat a good meal every now and then, why don’t you?” He storms over to the nearest cabinet and yanks the door open. The interior is mostly empty, save for some severely spoiled chips and a few filthy roach traps. “Fucking disgusting. I feel like Gordon Ramsay looking through here.”
“We could go and buy something to eat,” Dave suggests.
“Open your phone and order some fresh garlic, chives, and lemons. And order some red pepper flakes. Everything else that’s edible in this dump is garbage.” Somehow, Karkat manages to scrounge together some pasta, olive oil, and dried herbs. “It won’t be anything fancy, but I can throw together something worth eating.”
Dave nods.
Karkat, meanwhile, sits on a nearby piano bench, the top of which is upholstered with plush pink velvet, and folds his arms across his chest. “Gods above, Dave, when was the last time you ate something fresh? Not something you bought at a restaurant. I mean when did you make something here, using ingredients you brought home from the godsdamned store?”
Having presumably finished placing the mobile order, Dave sets his phone aside. One hand taps against the wheel of his chair; the other rubs the back of his neck. “‘Bout three months ago, right before Rose left. She made me some chicken parm.”
“Three months ago?” Karkat buries his face in his hands. He’s heard stories of incompetent, bumbling men; for his own sake, he assumed he’d never have the misfortune of having to know one. Reality, however, is proving him wrong.
“I just ain’t good at cooking. I mean… I can put shit together, but it don’t ever come out right.” A blasé look is plastered across Dave’s face. “Rose tried to teach me, but I just sort of assumed she’d always be ‘round to help out. And, in my defense, this kitchen was mostly built for her , not me.” As if to demonstrate, he wheels up to the largest prep area. It’s several inches too high for him to comfortably use.
“You seem to have enough money to fix that, idiot.”
“Sure.” Dave doesn’t argue. In fact, he looks downright dejected.
The flame that had been building in Karkat’s stomach flashes over and fizzles out. As annoyed as he may be to have to show a grown man — one five years his senior, too — the basics of cooking, there’s something else going on. He can’t name it; he can’t fix it. But he can sense it. So, he lowers his voice and softens his usually abrasive tone. “You’re literally paying me to listen to you, Dave. What’s wrong?”
Dave hesitates. He seems ready to draw inward. Then, surprisingly, he does the opposite. “I’m thirty years old, dude. I’m a thirty-year-old man with no friends or social life. Everyone I know has moved, and everyone I could possibly meet is either repulsed by me or thinks I’m some sort of charity case. Does that ‘bout cover it?” His eyes never meet Karkat’s. Instead, he focuses on an ivy plant that hangs from the ceiling.
Karkat opens his mouth. Normally, he has something to say — even if it’s not the wisest advice, there’s usually something there. Now, he has nothing.
“I tried one of those mixers a few weeks ago, before Rose hired you. Most of the people I met either ignored me or said they’d rather die if they were in my shoes. And I know it’s supposed to be a compliment, that they’re trying to commend me for existing, but it just feels wrong.” He pushes off the counter and turns to face Karkat. One hand holds a wheel still, while the other pushes the opposite wheel backwards. “I know you’re being paid to be here. I know you probably don’t give much of a damn ‘bout me, but… I don’t know. It’s depressing to know the only person willing to give me a shot is being paid to do it.”
That crushing feeling rises from the pit of Karkat’s stomach. He massages his temples. “I… I do care about you. Even beyond your sister’s payments, I do care about you, Strider,” as much as he wants it to be a lie, he knows his words are true. The vise around his chest tightens.
Something about the way Dave’s eyes narrow, how his shoulders tense, suggests that he doesn’t believe Karkat. Still, he keeps talking; he bares more of his soul. “I wanted to move here to start over. I was the one who told Rose to take the job at the New Alternia Hills branch. And it was pretty fucking great. But it was…” His leg shakes again. This time, the movement prompts a pained whine. He leans his weight against his knee until the limb stills. “Four years is a long time. Maybe not for you, but it is for me. I was… I was younger. Healthier.”
Karkat nods. His efforts to remain impartial are rapidly failing.
“They put a pacemaker in my chest ‘bout two years ago. Genetic defect, apparently. Started getting pain in my arms ‘round the same time. Arthritis. It’s fucking arthritis. I’m thirty.” Dave pauses. He rubs his hands against his knees. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to use you as a therapist. I guess I just… I want to do more things, and my body won’t let me. I thought I had this whole thing figured out, y’know? It’s been half my life. Probably a little more, now.”
Karkat nods. In the back of his mind, he remembers something about distractions — stopping spirals by saying something so insane that it breaks a person’s train of thought. “Did you actually land the wheelie?”
“What?” Dave blinks.
“Rose said you broke your back doing a wheelie. Did you actually do it?”
The social equivalent of firing a random gunshot somehow hits its mark. Dave laughs. “I did land it. And it looked sick as fuck until I split myself in half against a power pole. So, that’s a plus, I guess?” For the first time today, there’s a genuine smile on his face. “I didn’t keep in touch with anyone I knew then. We all figured it was for the best. But the general consensus is that, if I hadn’t lost control, it would’ve been the coolest shit Houston’s ever seen.”
Finally, the tension in Karkat’s chest abates. He feels his body starting to relax. He mirrors Dave’s brighter attitude. “I assume the bike was a total loss?”
“Aw, damn. That thing was on fire by the time the ambulance arrived.” Dave shrugs. He folds his arms behind his head, slightly pushing out a muscular chest and emphasizing his well-toned arms. “I really should’ve gone to jail after that, but they threw the pity card out in court. I was let go and put on parole until I was eighteen. Compassionate release, basically.”
“Lucky you,” Karkat jests.
Dave responds with a smirk. “Yeah, who would’ve thought? Sometimes, those life-altering accidents win you big points in court.”
The doorbell rings.
“Food’s here. So…” Dave looks away. His expression softens to something more subdued and sheepish. “I wouldn’t mind trying to learn some cooking. Might do me some good.”
-----
By the time the meal — lunch, based on the clock — has been served and consumed, Karkat’s three-hour slot is almost complete. Just half an hour remains. Normally, he’d be feeling the itch to leave by now; today, he doesn’t. Today, he wants nothing more than to stick around. It’s not like he has anything else to do, after all. His interview was canceled.
“Maybe it’s the brandy from earlier,” he reasons. “Yes,” he reassures himself, “it’s just the brandy.”
Hidden in the back of the home is, apparently, a small pottery studio. It’s kept in what must have once been a screened-in porch. The well-worn concrete floor is still visible, and the home’s outer brick forms one of the four walls. The rest are finished with sheetrock and covered in plain, light gray tiles.
Against cool white lights, loose strands of Dave’s hair seem almost silver. His glasses have slipped to the end of his nose. His brows are furrowed. His face is tinged pink, and his ears burn red; if he’s not drunk, he’s extremely buzzed. “You showed me how to do something you know. So, I’ll show you something I know,” he says, his slightly slurred voice filled with uncharacteristic confidence, “You ever worked with clay?”
“In middle school art class, yes,” Karkat admits, his voice surprisingly sheepish. “I’m not exactly an artsy guy, Dave. The most I do is write personal film reviews and bad poetry.”
Dave nods and rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. A length of wire is used to cut through a block of clay, which he then douses in water. The material is kneaded against a dirtied wooden slab and roughly molded until it resembles a loaf of bread. The movement of his muscles seems to make the countless tattoos along his arms dance and wave. He throws the wet material on an electric pottery wheel and turns it on. A plastic slider on the side controls the speed; he raises it until it’s spinning at a decently fast pace.
“Ain’t that hard, really,” he cups his hands around the clay and lets it stretch and bend beneath his touch. “It’s just moving shit ‘round ‘til it looks like something.” He braces one hand against his knees as he leans to remove the lid from a blue-hued bowl of water. Wet clay smears across his jeans. “Hold on. Let me get it started for you.” He sits back up and molds the clay. Moving his hands up and down forces it into increasingly finer shapes. A pillar becomes a round disk, and the disk becomes a stout column. From time to time, he dunks his hands in the water. The process repeats a few times before Dave wipes his hands on a thoroughly dirtied rag and stops the machine. The cleaning does little; when he backs up, he still smears wet clay on the pushrims of his chair. More silty material covers the leg of a wooden stool as he pulls it out from under the table. “Here.”
Karkat sits. He’s nowhere near as inebriated as Dave, but he’s still feeling lighter than usual.
Dave turns the machine back on. He adjusts the slider until the engine is turning the clay at a slower, more manageable speed. “Just get your hands wet and try pushing the clay around.”
Karkat nods. He discards his zip-up hoodie and dunks his hands in surprisingly cold water. He tries mimicking what Dave did, but his efforts seem to do little more than form a lumpy blob. “They make this shit look a lot easier online,” he grumbles.
Dave laughs.
Something warm leans against Karkat’s back. Pale, rough hands grab his wrists and guide his movements; the left side is noticeably stronger. “Loosen up a little, man. You’re strangling the poor thing.” The aroma of pressed flowers, old books, and a generic Old Spice ripoff fills Karkat’s nose. Dave’s voice seems to travel directly into his left ear. “Go slow, judge your strength, and…”
Slowly, the blob begins to resemble an upside-down bowl.
Dave grabs Karkat’s left hand and flattens it against the shape. When it looks like something closer to a thick disk with a slight lip, a pleased hum slides from his throat. “Okay. Now pinch the lip and pull the material up.
When Dave backs up, Karkat hates that he wants more. He bites the inside of his cheek and breathes out. “So…” he says to try and distract himself, “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Part of physical therapy.” Dave moves to Karkat’s left side. Either he’s figured out which is the good ear through trial and error, or he’s read Karkat’s profile. “Good for strengthening arms and hands. I took a liking to it. Rose bought me the stuff for this little studio.” Inadvertently running his fingers through his hair leaves a streak of grayish-brown. “Not too tight. We’re not making a dumpling,” he grins.
A shiver runs down Karkat’s spine. He bites his cheek harder. Still, he follows Dave’s advice. He loosens his grip around the ledge and lets his hands guide the clay into a thicker, looser wall. It’s uneven and ragged, but it’s more than he’s ever done before.
“Yeah,” Dave’s tone is bright and encouraging. There’s a pleased smile on his face. “Like that. You’ve got it. Easy to start, hard to master.” As if to demonstrate, he gestures to a nearby shelf. The stained walnut surface is stocked with a variety of glossy vases, bowls, and mugs. “I’d sometimes send these with Rose to craft shows. She’d sell knitting and all that, but I obviously haven’t been able to do that lately. Getting way too much shit built up back here.” His left leg rises weakly, just enough to shift his foot back onto the rubberized ledge. When he repositions himself, he inadvertently spatters wet clay across the seat cushion.
“Hey. Wait.” He reaches out and grabs Karkat’s wrist.
And Karkat swears he can hear his heart slam into his throat. The faintest hint of iron hits his tastebuds. He pulls his hand back.
Dave raises both of his hands into the air. “Sorry. Sorry! Should’ve known better. Gotta ask and all that.”
“No, you just surprised me,” Karkat lies.
Dave doesn’t question the statement. Instead, he gently nudges a falling edge of the mediocre bowl into a more appropriate position. Silvery brows furrow as hazel eyes closely inspect the clay monstrosity. “You’re doing pretty good. Way better than my first attempt.” His smile has grown wider.
An amicable silence falls between the two men until Dave speaks again a few minutes later, saying, “Okay, can I try to show you something again?”
Despite every logical ounce of his mind telling him to do otherwise, Karkat nods.
Dave leans against his back again. His chin idly falls against Karkat’s left shoulder, and his hair smells like green tea and lavender. “Sorry,” he says, and he means it, “I don’t have any core control. Kinda have to use you to do what my abs are supposed to be doing. So,” again, his hands wrap around Karkat’s wrists. “Move your thumbs in little arches, like you’re opening a pack of chips.”
Karkat nods. Somehow, he manages to follow instructions without making an ass of himself. The feeling in his pelvis is spreading to his chest.
“Okay, now,” he lowers Karkat’s hands until they barely graze the rough edge of the bowl’s lip. Slowly, as the platform turns, the edge rounds itself off. “There. See? Makes it look nice and professional, don’t it?” He laughs, but the sound quickly devolves into a series of pained coughs. He releases his grip and backs up. “Sorry,” he repeats, “Sorry. Eugh…” A wet rumble rises from his chest. He grabs onto the nearby rag and coughs up more phlegm. “Ah. Fuck.” He swallows more breaths. Hup, hup, hup, hup, hup. Then, he forces out another cough. He spits again before crumpling the cloth into a ball. “Just keep… keep doing that. I’ll be back.” All traces of confidence have left his voice. A touch of fear underpins the overpowering uncertainty of embarrassment. Shortly thereafter, the door clicks closed.
Unsure of what else to do, Karkat obeys his command. He turns his attention back to the pottery wheel.
He tries to let his mind wander, but it keeps returning to the same subject.
He finds himself wanting more — to feel Dave’s warmth against him like a blanket.
“Of fucking course,” he grumbles to himself as he moves his hands lower on the bowl. He tries to pull the curve up, but he only succeeds in giving the vessel a strange Coke bottle cinch. Cold, slimy clay smears across his forehead when he tries to wipe away some sweat.
Finally, Dave returns. He’s cleaned himself off some, though his clothes and hair are still streaked with dry clay residue. A light blue medical mask covers his lower face. “I’m playing it safe, but this is entirely on me. I canceled the nursing visit last month and haven’t gotten my lungs properly cleaned out since. So… I’m not sick, but I wanted to make sure you felt comfortable.” While there’s still a trace of a smile in his voice, his tone has fallen; he’s not as vibrant as before. “Bowl’s looking good, by the way. You liking how it’s turning out?”
“I mean,” Karkat studies his creation, “it’s a fucking bowl. It should hold things.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Dave’s eyes wander around the room. “I hate to cut this shit off short, but I think I need to call a team over for my lungs. You do not want to stick around for that. So…”
Karkat nods. For the first time, disappointment settles in his chest at the suggestion of ending a session. “Yeah. I get it. See you around?” he asks, mirroring Dave’s usual parting words.
“Yeah. Sounds good to me.” Even without seeing it, Karkat can tell Dave is smiling. “You can wash up in the kitchen. Don’t bother locking the door. I’ll be out behind you.”
Chapter 6: A Lone Hand in a High-Stakes Game
Summary:
Chapter title from Stan Rogers' “Second Effort”.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, 12 December 2021
By Karkat’s estimates, Sollux never exited the “awkward, gangly teenage” phase. Even at thirty-one years old, he’s still as lanky as ever. The only difference is that his tan skin has a few more tattoos, and his angular face is usually covered in wiry, dark brown stubble that he’s too lazy to shave off. Even his voice is the same: nasal and marked by a pronounced lisp.
Tonight, as he sits at the bar in Bolton’s, he gripes about a recent argument with Aradia. From what Karkat has gleaned, the pair is currently of two minds about household maintenance. Sollux wants to use his generous IT salary to hire cleaners; Aradia wants to save money and do it themselves. Neither side is technically wrong, they merely have different goals.
“You get me, right, KK? It’s, like, super fucking stupid to have to do this ourselves. I have plenty of money to hire a cleaning company.” He idly twirls a stand of his curly hair and swirls the last few sips of beer around in his cup. “What’s your take, KK?”
“I don’t live in a house, Sollux,” he grumbles. “As far as I’m concerned, cleaners are about as useful as lighting your cash on fire. If Aradia wants to do it, save some money.”
“Figured you’d take her side.”
“I’m being pragmatic, dumbass. Jobs aren’t exactly eternal anymore, you know.”
Sollux laughs; the sound is interspersed with frequent snorts. “It is when you’re working for a bunch of middle-age fuckheads with zero concept of server maintenance!” A wide, sloppy smile creeps across his face. “Don’t worry about it, dude. Anyhow, how’d that interview go earlier today?”
The question hits like a punch in the gut. Karkat slams back the second half of his ale before knocking the bottom of the glass against the bartop. As it’s whisked away for a refill, he shakes his head, “Canceled. Like all the other ones.”
“Finding a job’s a bitch and a half,” Sollux shrugs.
“Tell me about it, asshole.” Karkat eagerly takes his next glass. This will be his last. He can feel the buzz coming; its warmth is pleasantly massaging his stomach and chest. Anything more will push him into less enjoyable territory. Unlike most of his friends, he’s a sloppy drunk. So, he slowly nurses this round. He lets each sip push blood to his extremities and wrap tendrils of fog around his usual anxieties.
On the overhead screens, the bar is broadcasting some fairly important UFC fight. Two men bounce around a ring — fists raised, sweaty, and bleeding. Some of his friends may enjoy the spectacle, but Karkat has never had the stomach for it. He looks away and focuses on his thoroughly scuffed Alternia University class ring.
“What’s up with the guy you meet? Wheelchair guy?”
“Dave?” Karkat emphatically points out. “He’s fine, I guess.”
Sollux smirks. “Done him nasty yet?”
“Stop asking about my sex life in public, Sollux,” Karkat hisses. “I swear to every god above, I will walk out of here.”
A low, disappointed whistle precedes Sollux’s reply. “Fine, then.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not interested, anyhow, Sol. I’m probably not his type.” In spite of his better judgment, Karkat downs a modest gulp of O. Stark ale and lets the taste linger on his tongue. It’s bitter, hoppy, and underpinned by a decent helping of tempered sweetness. A slight touch of acidity burns his throat as it goes down.
“Are you interested in him, though?” That knowing, shit-eating smile is plastered on Sollux’s face. It’s the look he gives Karkat when he knows he’s right, and it’s been a nagging presence in his life since they were children. “C’mon, dude. I know you. You’re down bad for this fucker.”
“I’m not,” Karkat lies. The shorter his statement, the fewer opportunities he has to let the truth slip.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are totally into him.”
“I’m going to beat you to death right here, Sol. I will turn your skull into finely pulverized mush.”
Not surprisingly, Sollux is unfazed by the threat. He reacts with a loud laugh. “It’s fine to be into him, KK. I mean. From the waist up, he’s pretty fucking hot. Super ripped, too.”
“I’m…” Sollux’s words bumble about in Karkat’s brain. Slowly, his pleasantly tipsy mind rearranges them into a coherent sentence. As each sound falls into place, his brows furrow. “Holy fuck, dude, I’m pretty sure what you said is wildly offensive.” Immediately after saying this, he realizes Sollux is probably too drunk to care; in all likelihood, his friend won’t even remember this interaction tomorrow. A long sigh escapes him. “Whatever, Sol. Has anyone heard from Nitram lately?”
“Last I heard, Tav was in charge of some sort of massive nerd convention in Seattle. Dude has the most balling job out of all of us.” A loud belch punctuates Sollux’s comment.
At this point, Karkat decides he’s had enough. “You’re absolutely sloshed again, dumbass. I’m calling Aradia to pick you up.”
As if to prove the assessment, Sollux doesn’t argue.
Monday, 13 December 2021
It takes an hour for Aradia to break through the Friday night gridlock.
By now, Karkat’s buzz has faded. It is ten minutes past midnight; the buses are doing their final rounds. Unfortunately for him, the closest stop has already shut down. He zips up his father’s old leather jacket and wraps his gray scarf more tightly around his neck. Even with gloves on, the cold air stings his fingertips.
He usually walks home from Bolton’s, and he knows the route well. (Although, tonight, he would’ve preferred to take the bus.) It’s a ten-block trek that briefly intersects with the industrial district. There’s nothing particularly dangerous about it, save for the ever-present odds of running across someone in a particularly foul mood. Still, after almost a decade, he’s encountered little trouble.
Tonight seems to be going the same way.
He’s almost to his apartment building when he sees the telltale signs of a late-night fender bender. Plastic fragments and tempered glass are scattered across the intersection between a two-lane road and the city’s main thoroughfare. The first car has been taken away; the second is being loaded onto a tow truck. The right side of its front end is warped and bent; the engine is visible through cracks in the body. The main carriage, however, has mostly escaped damage.
It’s a sight that’s not entirely uncommon. Drunk people speed down narrow streets on Friday nights. It’s a fact of life. Were it not for the fact that the second car is a red Honda Prelude, Karkat would’ve written it off as another unfortunate mishap and kept walking home. Instead, he crosses the street and approaches the dispersing commotion.
The rising tension in his shoulders dissipates when he sees Dave.
His brows are knit together, and a hefty tote bag to his left is filled with various papers and personal belongings. An even larger bag, this one seemingly containing camera equipment, is on his right. Something resembling a light blue rolling suitcase is secured to a rack between his legs. When he isn’t rubbing his hands together, he’s vigorously gnawing on his fingernails.
“Hey, Strider. You okay?”
Dave looks up. His response is drenched in bitter anger. “Well, let’s see…” He starts counting off his misfortunes on his fingers, “I just finished helping with a three-hour shooting session, only to get T-boned by a holier-than-thou drunk businessman,” one strike. “Said businessman has no insurance.” Two. “The car I spent five years carefully building and modifying by hand may or may not be totaled.” Three. “And the fastest they can get me an accessible rental car is in two to four days.” A sardonic, sarcastic smile flashes across his features, “So, hey! I’m doing fucking great right now.”
“You could just tell me everything sucks.” A cold wind sends a chill down Karkat’s spine.
“Pretty much.” Dave leans back in his chair. “Cops told me they couldn’t help me with a ride. Something ‘bout liability, so…” When he readjusts himself, he winces. “I don’t expect you to stay here, by the way. Could be an hour or more for the medical transport van to show up.”
“I have nothing better to do,” Karkat admits.
Dave nods. He pulls his wallet out and starts searching.
Impulse drives Karkat’s interjection. “Keep your fucking money, Strider. I’m not going to charge you after a fucking car crash. I’m not that much of an asshole.”
“You’re not?” The honed anger in Dave’s voice makes his shallow joke sound like an accusation. “Y’know, it’s times like these that make me wish I could still smoke.” He fishes a stick of gum from his pocket and pops it into his mouth. “God, I hope they don’t total that thing. I love that car. It’s freakish how much I love that car.”
“How long have you had it?” Karkat sits down on the sidewalk. A nearby air vent pumps out pleasantly warm air from someone’s basement dryer.
“Rose bought it for my twenty-fourth birthday. It came with the rotating racer seat. Everything else was added in later. Took me five goddamn years to finish that beauty and one drunk bastard to ruin it.” Despite not moving, Dave seems to sink deeper into his seat. “I know. It’s just a car. Blah, blah. But fuck did that thing mean a lot to me. At least it could’ve gone out in a blaze of glory.”
“They probably won’t total it,” Karkat says, his voice far too confident for his liking. “At least… if you make a case that it’s medically necessary… Uh… Fuck. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Ignore me.”
Dave seems to need no additional prompting. He’s busy counting something out on his fingers and muttering under his breath. “In theory, I could put it back together for ‘round fifty grand max. I’d need someone else to do the body work, but…” He leans back and idly raps his knuckles against the brick wall behind him. “Damn. I knew I shouldn’t have taken this gig. Not even worth the gas money.”
A trickle of red catches Karkat’s eye. A gash in Dave’s gray slacks reveals a slowly bleeding wound on his right knee. The source is a small, moderately deep puncture wound, likely from where some of the inside paneling hit the car’s occupant.
“Right knee,” Karkat mumbles.
Dave looks down. “Oh. That’s new.”
“Need any help?”
“Nope.” Dave fishes a bandage from his jacket pocket. “I’ll do more when I get home.” He threads it through the newfound hole in his pants leg and presses it firmly against the wound. “This’ll work for now. Thanks for pointing it out.” His phone buzzes. When he picks it up, his frown deepens. “You should go home. Update says it’ll be an hour before anyone shows up.”
An idea flits across Karkat’s mind before tumbling inelegantly from his mouth, “Come back to my place.” Immediately after speaking, he slams his mouth shut.
Dave, too, seems bewildered. “That’s real nice of you, Karkat,” he says, his voice almost painfully genuine, “but it ain’t exactly that easy. I mean…”
Again, the words fall from Karkat’s lips as soon as they hit his brain. “I’m at the newer Railside Homes development. You should be fine.”
Dave’s eyes narrow. He taps at his phone for a few minutes. Then, after a solid stretch of silence, he shrugs. “Okay, so it turns out you’re not lying. It actually is accessible, and I’d rather walk another six minutes than wait an hour out here.” After tucking his phone in his jacket pocket, he leans over and hoists the camera bag onto his lap. “If you’re sure ‘bout this, grab the tote bag. That’s all the backup meds and supplies I kept in my trunk.”
The tote is surprisingly heavy. Still, Karkat hefts it onto his right shoulder and gestures for Dave to follow him. “We’re by the tracks, so expect some noise. Conversely, we don’t have much business activity nearby. Aside from the trains, it’s decently peaceful.”
As if on cue, a train whistle sounds.
“My place isn’t as nice as yours, of course. It’s a basic fucking studio apartment. You can sleep in the bed. I’ll take the fold-out sofa. Unfortunately, I don’t have a benevolent twin sister.”
From Dave, there’s a vague hum of understanding.
The harsh white glow of the front lobby is visible. Karkat needs only to swipe his access card to enter. The central stairwells are flanked by two elevators; the one on the left is already open and ready. Seeing as his apartment is on the third floor, it’s a short journey. After exiting, it’s the fifth unit on the right side of the hallway. He absentmindedly straightens the hammered metal welcome sign as he unlocks the door.
He’s lived here for six years. By now, every movement is hardwired into his routine. He steps inside and sets the bag to the left; his shoes are deposited on a nearby rubber mat. At the same time he flips the switch to his right. The warm lighting buzzes to life.
Dave seems to mirror Karkat’s actions. He sets his camera bag by the tote and carefully removes his black loafers. “It’s a cute place,” he comments.
“Is it?” Karkat peels off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. He immediately trudges to the sofa and throws the cushions on the floor. “Like I said,” kicking the metal frame a few times loosens the hidden hinges, “you can take the bed. It’s way more comfortable than this sad sack of shit. I’d buy a new one, but the sofa comes with the apartment.”
“Where do you want my coat?”
When Karkat turns around, he finds that Dave is holding out his bright red suit jacket. After wrestling the fold-out mattress into place, he snags the garment and tosses it onto the coat rack. “Too tall for you?”
“Yeah,” Dave yawns, “but whatever. I’ll just ask for it in the morning.”
At this point, fatigue is setting in. Karkat scrounges up enough energy to flash a thumbs-up before wandering to the kitchen. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the counter.
Dave, meanwhile, has fished a large zipper pouch, roughly the size of a thick laptop carrier, and a sealed length of rubber tubing from the tote bag. “Is there a plug by the bed?”
“Need to charge something?”
After a moment of confusion, there’s a look of realization. Dave rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yes. My phone’s close to dead. But I’m more concerned ‘bout the oxygen concentrator.”
“That’s fine, too.” Karkat moves to open the mostly empty fridge. He makes a mental note to plan a grocery run. At the very least, he’ll need to buy more ice tea. Ultimately, he ends up snagging a cup of yogurt. “The bathroom’s over there,” he gestures to the small room in the far southwestern corner, “No tub. It’s just a shower, sink, and toilet. Do whatever you need.” He fishes a spoon from the drying rack and starts eating.
It’s not the best meal he’s ever eaten, but it’s better than anything he’s had today.
“Thanks again, Karkat,” Dave mumbles.
“No problem.” Another yawn. “Look, I’d love to stay up and chat, but I’m tired as hell. Wake me up if you need anything. Otherwise, no offense, but leave me the fuck alone until it’s morning.” With this, Karkat scrapes the last bits of yogurt from the side of the container before tossing it into the garbage can under the sink. He’s too lazy to even pull out the bedclothes. Instead, he uses a discarded couch cushion as a pillow and his jacket as a makeshift blanket. It’s warm enough inside, after all.
Notes:
[jingling noises as I dance around in a jester hat] comments welcome and appreciated!
Chapter 7: Where You Go Once You Arrive
Summary:
Chapter title from Phantom of the Paradise's “Special to Me”.
Notes:
BEEP BOOP! Chapter warnings for ableism, grown men being awkward morons, Karkat being an accidental jackass (canon-typical), and very vague references to suicide. The second half is fluffier, if you just want to skip to that. The first half is mostly just fleshing Dave out a little more.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 13 December 2021
For once, Karkat awakes in an apartment that smells like something other than pressed particle board and new-growth wood; instead, an aromatic mix of coffee, sausage, and French toast hangs in the air. For a few minutes, there’s a sense of wonder. His sleep-hazed mind struggles to recall how someone else — a benevolent intruder, at that — could have entered his apartment.
Dave’s voice serves as the reminder, and it hits like a speeding freight train. “You’re up? Cool. Saw the take-out menu for Vagabond’s on the fridge and ordered some breakfast. I just went by what you’d circled. Sausages, French toast, and fresh fruit preserves. It’s pretty good.”
Karkat groans. The alcohol and its confidence boost have long since left his system. Now, as he wakes, he mentally flogs himself; whatever is happening now is quite possibly the worst idea he’s ever had in his life. Then again, he’ll never turn down a free meal from Vagabond’s.
Yawning, he rubs his eyes and sits up. He blinks away crusty residue and looks around the room. His gaze immediately darts to the antique pingfeng screen that hides his bed from view. The blue suitcase from earlier is plugged into the spare outlet; a length of rubber tubing snakes from the side. A bit ahead of that is his dining table, currently filled with a spread of breakfast delicacies.
“I made your bed, by the way. I don’t usually make mine, but I figured it’d be polite to do it here.” Dave’s voice is muffled; he’s on Karkat’s right. As he moves to the left, he lowers his volume, “Paid for breakfast, too. Consider that your pay for yesterday.”
Karkat tugs his sweatshirt down a bit and rolls his eyes. “Like I said, Strider, I don’t want any pay for today. I’m not that much of an asshole. This is just a favor,” he grumbles. (Part of him wants to finish the phrase, to end it with “between friends,” but he bites his tongue.)
Dave finally enters Karkat’s visual field. His top half is covered by a ratty, well-worn University of Houston hoodie. It’s loose around his chest and a bit tight around his stomach. A pair of similarly ill-fitting black shorts have replaced his ruined slacks. (Judging by the stretching patterns, Karkat assumes these garments once belonged to Rose.) His left leg has more muscle than his right. A pair of flexible straps hold a bag against his inner right shin, from which snakes a thin tube that disappears beneath the tattered hem of his pants.
“Eyes up here, buddy,” Dave snaps his fingers. “You’d think the world has a piss kink with how often people stare at the bag. Damn.” When he moves, he inadvertently reveals a quarter-sized rip along the sweatshirt’s left armpit. “Ask questions if you want, but the bug-eyed ogling ain’t necessary.”
Instinct drives a sharp, defensive rebuke. “I wasn’t fucking staring, I” — Karkat begins.
Dave cuts him off. His tone is neither positive nor negative; it is, however, decidedly cold, “Most everyone stares at it. Don’t lie. Do not fucking lie. It ain’t hard to notice it after fifteen years.” He parks himself behind the table and folds his arms across his chest. There’s the faintest trace of annoyance behind his usual mask of indifference.
The unexpectedly icy reply grates Karkat’s nerves in the most viscerally unpleasant way possible. Even without meaning to, it picks at his deepest insecurities. “Well, my fucking apologies for my natural human inclination to stare at the inherently abnormal.” Immediately after the words leave his mouth, he slams his mouth shut.
From Dave, there’s a tiny hint of discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” Karkat blurts. He breathes in — one, two, three — and out — three, two, one. “I… I got defensive. That was unfathomably stupid of me.”
“It… kinda’ was, yeah?” Pale fingers twirl strands of bottle blond hair. His other arm remains draped across his chest. “I got a little rude there, too, so…”
“I’m sorry,” Karkat repeats. He sits down and stares at the meal. Even as an all-consuming, crushing guilt swallows him whole, his hunger drives him to eat. For once, the rich sweetness fails to cheer him up. “Thanks for the food, by the way. I’ll pay you back for that.”
Dave nods. His gaze pointedly wanders around the room. “No need to pay me back. I mean… we’re both adults, dude. We can talk this out. Use words and shit. Uh… I guess I’m a little jumpy after last night. I know it’s not really what most people see daily, so I can’t really fault you for looking. It just gets old after a while, y’know?”
“I do,” Karkat lies.
Dave raises his left brow and shakes his head. “Nah, you really don’t. That was a rhetorical question, but at least we’ve got some engagement going. Two-way dialogue and all that.” He crosses his arms again and leans them against the table.
“I can pay you back for the meal,” Karkat repeats.
“Not necessary. Just… I don’t know. Maybe be slightly more aware of what you’re saying? I get that we can’t always be doing deep dives on shit, but… heh,” he tries to play off his brief show of insecurity as a joke, “feels fucking bad, man.”
“Understandable. I’ve got a chronic, lifelong habit of shoving my stupid foot in my jabbering maw. That’s entirely on me.” That familiar, aching, searing feeling of doubt settles in Karkat’s chest. His temper has always been his greatest weakness. He lets his heart lead him, even when he knows it will lead him down the wrong path. “I… Really, Strider, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Dave smiles, though the expression is more subdued than usual. “So, uh… I can wait and explain it later. After you eat. If you’re sticking ‘round with me for a while, it’s something you should know in case something happens.”
Already feeling as if he’s dug himself into a deep enough hole, Karkat shakes his head. “No, go ahead.”
“You sure?” This time, his bemused smile is more genuine. “Didn’t you complain ‘bout my blabbing earlier?”
“Yeah, well, I hadn’t shoved my entire head straight up my own ass then,” Karkat stares at his meal. A voice in the back of his mind chides him for eating; he doesn’t deserve this. “Go ahead.”
Dave shrugs. His left index finger traces idle circles against the tabletop. Pale skin clashes with black faux marble. “I’ve got no bladder control,” he explains, his voice casual, “and, obviously, that’s sort of an issue. Just, like, the tiniest little issue. The solution is to just drain it constantly. It’s gotta go somewhere, though, and the ‘somewhere’ is that bag.” A disinterested hum accompanies another shrug. “Pretty simple, really. Surprisingly not as gross as it sounds.”
Karkat, unsure of how to respond, nods slowly.
“You can ask more questions if you want.” Dave pushes off the table and leans back in his chair. Now, his left hand beats a mindless waltz against the wheel of his chair; his right hand buries itself in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “Hell, I’ll just run down the FAQ. No, it doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel it at all, actually. Yes, the tube stays in at pretty much all times. Yes, it’ll be this way forever. And, no, there’s no surgery to ‘fix’ it,” he emphasizes his final point with air quotes. “There’re some… other problems involved, but that’s ‘bout all you really need to know. So, any questions?”
“How do you do it? How do you just… not care about what others think about you?”
To Karkat, Dave’s outward confidence is intoxicating. It’s the sort of blasé indifference he’s spent his entire life projecting without ever possessing it. He finds himself wondering if part of his blossoming attraction comes from his desperate need to be like Dave, to absorb even an ounce of that seemingly natural swagger. Even the roughest, most awkward edges have a softness to them that lets criticism roll off so easily.
“Hm?” Dave peels off his right glove and picks up a sausage patty. He takes a few bites before shrugging. “Fifteen years of practice. Took me ‘bout seven to get to where I am.”
“Well, you play the part pretty fucking well, Strider. If I had half the confidence you had, I probably wouldn’t be so damned pissed off all the time.”
Oddly enough, Dave laughs at the comment. A lopsided smirk stays on his face, even as his words take a dark turn, “Well, don’t get it my way, dude. I spent most of my formative years hating my body. The accident really fucked with my already screwed perception of myself. I mean…” He sets aside the sausage patty and grabs a cup of still-steaming black coffee. “It was bad enough being trans in Houston, y’know? To fifteen-year-old me, the wheelchair was a social death sentence.”
He drinks a few gulps of coffee and rubs his left hand against the side of his neck. His eyes focus on the modernist chandelier overhead. “Doctors told me I’d never move anything below my shoulders. Initial prognosis for me was grim as fuck. Frankly, I only stayed alive because Rose begged me to. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I did. It was just a rocky start.” He opens his phone and flips through a few screens. “Rose and the rehab center staff were the only people who gave a damn ‘bout me.” He slides the device across the table.
A grainy old photo showcases a younger version of Dave. His softer jawline is bare; his hair is silvery white. A thick bandage is secured around his throat, and an array of straps hold him in place in a bulky electric wheelchair.
“Yeah. That is how I spent most of 2006. Big confidence boost, right?” He laughs, but the sound is colored by bitterness, like carbonated water flavored with a drop of lemon. “Before that, I was on the track team. I was a gym rat. Always figured the only thing I had going for me was a good body and a halfway decent face.”
Karkat slides the phone back to Dave.
“Anyhow, it happened slowly. Honestly, the insane high of being able to do the tiniest things for myself again — just picking up a pencil or taking off my own shirt — that sort of shit was like a drug. Easy to forget how bad it all is when you get to feed yourself after a year of being spoon-fed by nurses. Like…” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest, “It’s weird, y’know? For years, I saw needing help as a weakness. And when you wake up with a tube shoved down your throat and a doctor telling you you’ll be completely dependent on people for the rest of your life, you’ve got two options: die or adapt. And they gave me both options upfront. I picked the second. Took me years of physical therapy and more shrinks than I can count, but it got better. Slowly.” His brows furrow; his gaze wanders again. “And it’s still not the same, y’know? It never will be. There are days when it all comes back, when I want to go back to how it was. To have all that health and freedom and be able to do whatever the fuck I want without plotting out logistics. To not need a cocktail of drugs to keep my body from shutting itself down. To rewind it all fifteen years and yank my stupid ass off that damned Yamasaki. But that won’t change reality, so…”
He unwraps a plastic straw and starts to impulsively gnaw on the shorter portion. “I mope a bit, realize I can’t do anything ‘bout it, and give myself a day or a week to throw myself a little pity party. When I’m done, I scrape myself off the floor and fluff myself back out into something more workable. That’s really all I can do. Same as you, I guess. Don’t matter what your problems are. We’re all just trying to survive.”
Karkat nods. By now, he’s finished eating his meal; in fact, his plate has been empty for some time.
He’s starting to realize that it’s impossible to stay impartial, to see Dave as nothing more than a stepping stone to being debt-free. He finds himself wanting to bare part of himself to him, to reciprocate Dave’s frank honesty.
“I know that was a lot, but I figured I’d answer your question in full.” Dave sticks the chewed up straw in his pocket and unlocks his chair’s brakes. His tattoos ripple with his muscles as he wheels himself towards the blue machine. He picks up the rubber tubing and starts rolling it into a tighter coil. When he’s done, he packs it into a hidden compartment on the front of the machine. “I assume you want me out today?”
“No,” Karkat answers honestly. “I… If it’s more convenient for you, I don’t mind if you stay.”
Dave nods. When he moves to turn his head, he lets forth a sharp wheeze of pain. “Ah. Fuck. I’m getting old. Thanks, man. You can have your bed back, if you want.”
“There’s no outlet here,” Karkat lies. There is, indeed, an outlet behind the television, but it seems rude to make Dave sleep on a cheap fold-out mattress. “I’m sorry, Strider. I really didn’t mean what I said before.”
Dave waves his hand in the air. “Water under the damn bridge, now. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Anyhow, to make shit more awkward, do you have some spare pants? I stole all these clothes from Rose a few summers ago, and I need something a little warmer over my legs.”
Karkat nods. He trudges to his dresser and digs out a pair of faded gray sweatpants. He tosses them to Dave.
And he catches them easily. “Thanks. Go and do whatever you need in the bathroom. I’ll need to commandeer it for ‘bout an hour afterwards.”
From Karkat, another nod. He obeys Dave. A strange feeling in his gut rises into his throat like bile. It’s a mix of attraction, pain, and embarrassment. It’s a thoroughly unpleasant experience that eats at his soul and chafes every nerve he has. It nags him relentlessly as he brushes his teeth and runs a comb through his perpetually messy hair, sticking around even after he’s done. Eventually, to distract himself, he wrestles the folding mattress back into the sofa frame.
-----
By 8:00 p.m., the sky is dark. A moderate wind pelts icy rain against the building’s decorative siding. Normally, the pattering would relax Karkat; tonight, it mixes with the clicking of Dave’s laptop mouse in the most annoying way possible. The squeaking whine of the upstairs neighbor’s exercise machine only adds to the cacophony of annoyances. Even the pleasant droning of local weatherman Perd Hapley has little effect on Karkat’s increasingly frayed nerves. Having spent most of the day keeping his mouth firmly shut, he finally snaps. He can tolerate silence between himself and his close friends, but something about conversational lulls with vague acquaintances presses against his anxiety like a thumb against a fresh bruise. He slams his laptop shut, ending his nightly job search, and loudly clears his throat.
Dave, whose camera and editing equipment currently covers most of the dining room table, looks up. He adjusts his glasses and cocks his head to the side. “‘Sup?”
With nothing particularly important to talk about, Karkat resorts to asking the most obvious question: “How late are you working?”
“‘Dunno,” Dave shrugs. He lowers his hands from the keyboard and backs up. A few lazy pushes is all it takes to propel himself around the corner of the table and halfway across the room. “Why? If you need to sleep, I can take this into the downstairs lobby.” His borrowed pants are slightly too short and considerably too large around the waist. He’s secured them in place with the leather belt from his discarded slacks, though nothing can be done about the length. “I mean… I could use a break,” he rolls his wrists before stretching his arms above his head.
“No plans, I just…” Karkat’s brows furrow. For once, he has nothing to say.
Fortunately, Dave deftly supplies a conversation starter — as always. “Did you know Perd’s retiring soon?” He gestures vaguely towards the television to clarify his statement. “They think he’ll be leaving by the end of the year.”
It’s not exactly an exciting conversation, but it’s interesting enough to get Karkat’s attention.
Perd Hapley has been a New Alternia Hills staple for decades. He remembers waking up to the man’s voice in grade school. Which is to say that, by Karkat’s estimates, Perd’s retirement would be front-page local news.
“Where’d you hear that shit, Strider?”
“I help WNAH out sometimes,” Dave shrugs. “Perd announced his impending retirement a few weeks ago.” He pulls up to the opposite end of the sofa and glances at Karkat expectantly. “You mind?”
“If you… sit on my sofa?”
“I mean… it’s worth asking. Some people have weird rules about their sofas.” Dave’s face is as unreadable as ever, but something about his stance suggests that he’s being entirely serious. “Like, Rose didn’t like people putting their feet up if they didn’t have socks on. The mother of a guy I hung out with in middle school didn’t like anyone who didn’t live in her house on the sofa. I dunno. People are strange. So, what? Can I sit on your sofa?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Dave nods. He flips the brake toggle and lifts himself from one surface to the other. He manually manipulates the position of his right leg, while his left makes the final, hesitant adjustment without help. “Thanks again for letting me stay. The rental place is a few blocks away, and I love not riding those stank-ass city buses.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone does,” Karkat snickers.
“How’s the job search?”
“Shitty as ever, Strider.” Perhaps prompted by the reminder of his inadequacy, Karkat stands long enough to get himself a can of cheap Carapacian beer. Ingrained Southern hospitality drives him to snag another for Dave. “Getting teeth pulled is less painful than this.”
“Heh. I’m pretty sure eating shit on a motorcycle is less painful.” Dave’s eyes are immediately drawn to the extra can of beer. “Thanks. I could use a drink.” He pops it open and takes a few sips. A growl of discomfort rumbles in his throat; his right leg trembles. When the movement stops, he relaxes. “You ever dated?”
Karkat’s breath hitches in his throat. “Y-yeah. Why?”
“Just wondering.” Dave drinks some more beer. “I haven’t dated much since the accident. Hooked up with plenty of folk, but I haven’t found many people willing to date, y’know?” A spray of pink creeps onto his features. “I mean… Sorry. Not implying anything. Just making casual talk, y’know?”
“I do,” Karkat nods, “but I don’t quite believe it. Like I said before,” following Dave’s lead, he knocks back some alcohol. He lets the overly dry taste sear its way down his throat. “You’re pretty damned attractive.”
Dave laughs. “You’re real sweet, dude. Really. And it’s cute, but… Let’s be honest. Most people aren’t gunning for me. They’ve got bigger fish to catch. I’ve dated three times since then. They split it off twice, said they just couldn’t get over the wheelchair. Had a halfway decent date with a guy ‘bout a year ago, only to drop him off at a three-story family home.” A long, pragmatic sigh punctuates the statement. “Can’t exactly be angry ‘bout it, either.”
“Oh, I think you’re fully within your right to be pissed,” Karkat counters. “I’m sure it’d take some adjustments, but it seems pretty shitty to dump you for that, Strider.”
A dismissive wave follows another dry laugh. “No, I really get it. I do. I don’t always fit into people’s lives. I can rub elbows as friends, but there’s a big jump to partners. I mean… People our age are all doing their own thing, y’know? They’ve got shit to do, places to go, and big plans to follow. Not much time for me in there. Hell, Karkat, I’m sure you wouldn’t date me.”
For the second time today, Karkat’s mouth betrays him. “I would.”
Dave, clearly expecting a different answer, freezes. “I… Heh. I… That ain’t funny, dude. Did you just say?” — he begins.
At this point, Karkat realizes he has two options, and neither is particularly pleasant. Playing along with Dave’s assessment makes him look like an even bigger ass, and doubling down on his statement is…
He breathes in, chugs the rest of his beer, and repeats himself. “I said I’d date you.” He keeps his eyes pointed forward, locked on whatever bullshit is happening in yet another repeat of Law & Order: SVU. “Not that you asked, and not that you’d want to, but…”
“No, I mean…” Dave’s voice is more uncertain than ever. “Look, Karkat, I like you. I do. Minus this morning, you’ve been nothing but lovely. But… I can’t. Not now. It’s not fair to you. If nothing else, I’m sure you could use the money. So…” He pushes up his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s… Maybe be real friends first, okay? I-I can’t do it again. I can’t… I’ve been dumped enough times.”
Karkat’s heartbeat overpowers his thoughts; it’s a thrumming bassline in his head. It’s a steady force in a world that seems to be shifting beneath his feet like quicksand. “Yeah…” He breathes in — one, two, three — and out — three, two, one. “I’m sorry, I just… It pisses me off, I guess.”
“It’s annoying, but it’s just like that,” Dave drinks more of his beer. Somehow, he’s already regained his usual composure. “Anywho, no offense, but is there anything else on? This show depresses the hell out of me. I’ve got movies in my bag. Never know when you’ll get stuck in a shitty motel in the middle of nowhere, right?” He flashes a lopsided smile.
Karkat’s pounding heart feels ready to crawl out of his throat. It twists and turns like a knife in his back. “A-are you saying that from experience?”
“June and I did a road trip once, yeah. Her shitty excuse for a car broke down. Started adding physical DVDs to my bug-out-bag after that. What’s your favorite genre?”
A mix of elation — the joy of knowing he has a shot with Dave — and the anxiety of what he’s just done strangles Karkat’s voice. “I… it’s stupid,” he mutters.
“We both know the sort of shit June watches, dude,” Dave laughs. “C’mon, what do you want to watch?”
“Rom-coms,” Karkat admits.
Dave’s smile widens. “Sorry, man. Don’t have those in the bag. But I do have Freaky Friday. Does that work?”
Finally, some of the stress fades. Karkat mirrors Dave’s body language. As his shoulders loosen, he lets a tentative smile cross his face. “Yeah. That sounds fun.”
Notes:
yo anyone else think it'd be really funny if these two guys had a crush on each other or something lol
Chapter 8: Where Stars Are All Eternal
Summary:
Chapter title is from Trans-Siberian Orchestra's “The Safest Way Into Tomorrow”. (There's also a shorter alternate version that plays later in the "opera" Night Castle.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 14 December 2021
It’s 3:00 a.m., and Karkat Vantas cannot sleep. Instead, he leans against his balcony railing and watches the world below. For starters, there’s an astoundingly annoying and predictably blasé email sitting in his inbox:
From: [email protected]
Subject: MAINTENANCE ALERT
ATTENTION ALL RESIDENTS OF RAILSIDE HOMES!
Unfortunately, as of December 14, 2021 at 02:31, the heating is currently out for approximately half of our residents. If your unit is located on the first, third, fifth, or sixth floors, we sincerely apologize. Maintenance workers have been dispatched to investigate the problem, and we assure you that we are doing everything we can to ensure your life at Railside Homes™ remains as stress-free as possible.
If you have any further questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to use our issue report form. We strive to address any and all problems within 24 business hours.
Then, there are the thoughts.
They race through his mind like a raging wildfire. Memories flash by like snapshots of a life that seems to constantly slip through his fingers. Emotions wash over him — laughter with friends, drunken one-night stands, and every type of pleasure imaginable — before sliding into the night like receding waves. He’s spent twenty-five years chasing the picture-perfect life — the sparkling dreams sold to him in glossy films and time-worn romance paperpacks. None of it ever stuck.
He closes his eyes. He thinks back to high school, when he dated Terezi Pyrope.
He can see her in his mind’s eye, with that wild, wicked grin of hers. Her tight curls were pulled out of her face, held back by a bright red hair tie. Tobacco smoke trailed from dark, full lips. “I’d say it’s not you, it’s me, but we both know that’s not true,” she laughed. “You’re a nice guy, Karkat. You just have a bad habit of suffocating everyone you love. You fall hard and fast.”
He shakes his head. He finds himself thinking about Kankri, his older brother — the reason he moved away from home as soon as he could.
“You are such an overbearing little brat,” Kankri often said.
When Karkat was fifteen, his brother had scoffed at him after a breakup. “Maybe stop acting like a clingy child in every relationship you have,” he huffed.
The nighttime wind carries a bitter chill. It digs into Karkat’s exposed skin and easily penetrates through the worn fabric of his old Alternia University pullover.
Three years ago, he found himself in one of the back rooms at Roxanne’s, a now-defunct club in the southern half of New Alternia Hills. He found himself craving physical intimacy, yet the woman he’d paid did nothing for him. She was nice — she was good, even — but it wasn’t enough. After a profuse and pricey apology, he left feeling more deflated than before. A few months later, he tried hiring a man. This, too, ended in disaster.
The icy metal railing has warmed beneath his touch. A few blocks away, he sees red and blue lights. Then, he hears the siren. A firetruck pulls out of the station and starts speeding down one of many narrow side streets.
The balcony door opens. He can’t hear it, but he feels it; it’s a gentle rumble, a tactile sensation akin to rolling a handful of marbles down a wooden slope. It closes. Then, there’s a voice — rough, hoarse, and thick with a borderline rhythmic twang. “Ain’t you cold?” A pale hand holds out a battered black throw blanket. “Getting cold inside, too. Looks like the heat’s dead.”
“It is,” Karkat frowns. He takes the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders. “Go back inside, Strider.”
“What?” Dave smirks. He leans forward and rests his wrists against the decorative bar that runs horizontally across the lower half of the railing. His right foot shakes; the toes curl tightly inward and remain that way even after the movement stops. “Looked to me like some choice manpain moments were happening out here. Am I welcome to join?”
“If I said ‘no’” — Karkat glances over his shoulder and towards Dave, — “would you actually leave?”
“Maybe. No promises.”
The nonplussed delivery of Dave’s statement draws a tired laugh from Karkat. “Fine. You can stay.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “So, what made you wake up?”
“The fact that it’s suddenly really fucking cold inside.”
“Cold?” Karkat laughs.
Dave counters with a good-natured smirk. “C’mon, asshole, I grew up in Houston. Anything colder than seventy is freezing to me.” He looks up, brows slightly furrowed, as he inquires further, “You really don’t think it’s cold?”
Karkat shrugs. According to his watch, tonight’s temperature bottoms out at thirty-eight degrees. It’s not exactly comfortable, but he couldn’t honestly call it frigid. “It’s chilly at best, Strider. What, are you suggesting we sleep together for warmth? Like wild dogs?” he laughs.
Dave, too, laughs, but the sound is nervous and evasive. “Look, it’s too cold out here for me. I’m going back to bed.” He doesn’t wait for an answer.
Karkat doesn’t provide one, either. After spending another ten minutes watching the few cars that pass down the sleepy streets, he trudges back inside.
As expected, it’s not terribly cold. According to the thermostat, the temperature has dropped to fifty-eight degrees. It’s chilly, but it’s far from unbearable. He tugs his sweatshirt down a bit and returns to bed. A low whine precedes the unpleasant sensation of his ass dropping directly to the floor. “You must be shitting me right now,” he mumbles.
Even Dave has taken notice. He peers around the left edge of the folding screen. “You okay there, dude?”
Karkat sighs. He turns on his phone flashlight long enough to realize that the hinges holding the rectangular support bar for the lower half of the mattress have snapped. Both seem to be made primarily of cheap, albeit decently hard, plastic with metal bolts. It’s the sort of mediocre quality he should expect from this complex, but it’s still disappointing. “Stupid fucking bed.” He gathers his pillow and blanket and trudges to his usual bed.
By now, Dave has rolled onto his back. He props himself up on his elbows and idly eyes Karkat over. “Guess we’re living like wild dogs, huh?” he smirks.
“Don’t rub it in, Strider. I will remove you from my apartment.”
Dave raises his wrists, putting his hands up in a show of faux surrender. Then, as he lowers himself onto his back, he tugs at the end of a thin rubber hose. In a single, swift motion, he folds the long end loop in half and rests the twin prongs beneath his nose. The loop’s lower half sits beneath his chin. “Nah, for real, I’d offer to turn this thing off if I could. I’m sure the sound’s annoying, right?”
“The vibrations it’s causing are more annoying. I barely hear it,” Karkat admits.
Normally, he’d sleep on his left side; unfortunately, doing so tonight would give him an eyeful of Dave Strider. So, instead, he rolls onto his right. “Now, go back to not bothering me until morning.” He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to distract himself from the warm body occupying his usual spot in the bed. Eventually, he manages to fall asleep. At some point, he finds himself awake enough to feel Dave mindlessly press his back against him.
-----
When Karkat awakes, he’s once again alone. Dave’s side of the bed has been neatly made; he’s even folded his blanket and left it atop his pillow. His supplies have been similarly tidied. Everything is back in a bag and ready to go.
“Shit,” Karkat sits up. According to his watch, it’s 10:00; he’s slept through an (admittedly pointless) interview for yet another call center job that he honestly doesn’t want. His eyes scan the room, eventually finding Dave sitting on the floor by the sofa bed. “For fuck’s sake. Come on, Strider. Is there something you do not know how to do?”
“Hm?” Dave lowers his glasses long enough to look up. He’s made a makeshift support for his back by leaning a sofa cushion against his wheelchair. “I was just looking to see if I could figure this out,” he shrugs. “You’ll have to call someone to fix this, though. The plastic’s snapped. I zip tied the leg to the frame, though. You’ll be able to at least close it for now. Not the best fix, but it’ll work.”
“Where did you get zip ties? I don’t own any.”
Dave jabs his thumb towards his wheelchair. “I keep some in my bag. They’re halfway decent fixes if you’re in a pickle.” He pushes aside the cushion and releases the chair’s brakes. One arm braces his torso upright; the other manipulates the chair until the footrests face him. The brakes get reactivated. “And I’m obviously not” — he lifts himself, first, onto the footrest, — “winning any tap dancing awards here. Not that great with in-depth programming, either. That was more my douchebag father’s domain.” He grabs onto the wheels and pulls himself up and back. The involuntary stiffening of his right leg gives him the final boost necessary to land on the seat cushion.
He smirks, and the smug confidence behind the expression creates a buzz of involuntary attraction at the base of Karkat’s skull. “You act like you’ve never seen another man with hobbies in your life.” This time, he lets his right leg slowly come to rest on its own over the next few seconds. “And you just sort of absorb some natural handyman skills when you replace your legs with the dictionary definition of a contraption.” He leans his right elbow on his knee and his chin upon his outstretched right palm. “Anywho, the rental company’s got a car for me. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
What Karkat wants to say is that he hasn’t entirely hated Dave’s presence. He wants to thank him for adding something other than another layer of nagging solitude to his apartment. Instead, he responds with a slow, tense nod. “How soon can you pick it up?”
Dave unzips his camera bag and peers inside, presumably double-checking to ensure everything is there. “Soon as I can pick it up, I s’pose.”
“I can…” Karkat rubs the back of his neck. For now, his hunger is being overridden by an unexpected sinking feeling in his stomach. As much as he hates to admit it, part of him hoped Dave’s rental would take another few days to arrive. “It’s only a few blocks away. I can walk you there.”
From Dave, there’s a snort of laughter and a wry smile. “Implying I can’t handle myself, hm?” Perhaps sensing Karkat’s rising anxiety, he quickly amends his statement, adding, “I’m joking, dude. I know that’s not what you’re saying.”
“Oh.” It’s all Karkat can manage to squeeze out.
Dave, too, pauses. He zips the bag back up and raps his knuckles against the table. “I’m not opposed. It’d be nice to have someone help me with all this shit.”
The reply lifts Karkat’s spirits more than he’d care to admit. “What should I take?”
“Oxygen concentrator’s a bitch and a half to carry. Grab that and the tote.” He heaves the camera equipment into his lap. “Look, don’t take this as me not enjoying my time here. Like I said,” he folds his arms atop the bag and smiles. It’s a surprisingly warm and genuine expression, and it quickly works its way beneath Karkat’s skin. It sears itself as an afterimage on his heart. “I really enjoy hanging out with you. But your place isn’t my place, y’know?”
“I understand,” Karkat says. And for once, he means it. He considers his apartment his kingdom. It’s one of the few places he can retreat to when the world becomes too much to handle. So, wordlessly, he unlocks the handle on the concentrator and snags the haphazardly packed tote bag by the front door.
The walk to the car rental lot is as silent as it is short. It takes a mere twenty minutes to arrive.
Only then does Dave break the tense conversational lull. “The white Acura over there’s mine. They said the trunk’s unlocked. If you don’t mind loading some of the stuff in, I’d really appreciate it. Otherwise, I’ve got to go sign some paperwork.”
“I…” Karkat bites his tongue. He breathes in and tugs at the tote bag’s strap over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind if you came back to my place some time, Strider. It’s been nice.”
“Really?” A small smile flashes across Dave’s face, highlighting the spattering of freckles across his pale cheeks. “Well, hey, I wouldn’t mind coming back. I’ll text you ‘bout it later. Cool?”
Karkat nods. As Dave departs, he does his best to suppress the fluttering feeling in his chest. After checking to make sure Dave is out of earshot, he falls back into his old habit of talking to himself.
“Get over yourself, dumbass.” He heaves the concentrator into the trunk first. “You’re acting like a stupid little boy.” He cushions the tote bag between the machine and the side wall of the trunk. “Grow the fuck up. It’s just a crush.” Normally, he’d slam the trunk closed; this time, he carefully latches it shut. Shortly thereafter, the car locks itself remotely.
He ignores the overwhelming voice in the back of his head urging him to stay and buries his hands in the pockets of his faded plaid sweatpants. “He’s probably had enough of me,” he reasons aloud.
Upon returning to his apartment, he confirms the assessment by checking his phone. Not a single text has been received. He discards the device on the still-broken pull-out bed and starts prepping breakfast. To cheer himself up, he makes a sizable serving of Belgian waffles, which he tops with fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and a drizzle of chocolate syrup. A dusting of confectioner’s sugar gives it a visually pleasing finish, and he reclaims his phone before sitting down to eat.
A wall of texts, all of them from Dave, greets him.
Wednesday, 15 December 2021
While he’d never admit as much to her face, Dave Strider truly misses his sister’s presence.
He will, however, freely admit that their relationship hasn’t always been so amicable. The two spent most of their early childhood bickering, ignoring one another, and being general nuisances. In fact, for the first few weeks after his accident, Rose had spent most of her visiting hours castigating him for every life choice he’d made to that point. She had (quite fairly) ripped into him for his unrestrained vanity, womanizing, and variable levels of bigotry.
But as the days wore on and reality set in, a sort of innate, hardwired urge arose between the siblings. While Dave remains skeptical of claims that “twin telepathy” or anything of the sort is possible, he can’t deny that Rose’s sudden protective streak was nothing short of abnormal. He’s asked about it before, and even she has few explanations. “I suppose I just didn’t want to lose my twin brother,” she usually says.
All of which is to say — in a lengthy and roundabout way, of course — that Dave is more than a bit excited to receive a text from his sister.
Text message chain between Dave and Rose:
Notes:
alas i have neglected so many adult duties to shit out this much fic, so the next few days may be kinda sparse. i must unfortunately make money to support my davekat addiction. pray 4 me. ratsquisher en pace or whatever it is. 😔 until then, if you wanna leave some comments, then... 👉👈
Chapter 9: Far Away From Memories [E]
Summary:
Chapter title from Muse's “Starlight”.
Notes:
Content warning for sex, drinking, and recreational drug use. (✿◡‿◡)
Chapter Text
Saturday, 18 December 2021
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Karkat’s friend group, affectionately known as “The Trolls”, has held an annual winter party for the past seven years. Initially dubbed by Terezi, its first host, the “Non-Specific Festivities of Winter Party”, its attendance has been fairly steady. The first NSFW Party was held in her dorm room; after college, she hosted the fête in her apartment. When she moved away in 2018, hosting duties fell upon Feferi. When she moved to Colorado in 2019, Kanaya became the master of ceremonies.
So, why not invite Dave to join?
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Now, as he sits in Dave’s rental car, he’s not so sure.
It’s not that he thinks his friends will necessarily dislike an additional guest. People have brought boyfriends, girlfriends, and even one-night stands to the party. No, the problem is entirely personal. The problem is the wild, insatiable pining that has settled firmly between Karkat’s legs and the slight buzz he’s already nursing.
The problem is…
Well, there are multiple problems, and they all tie back into Dave. It’s the way the black satin peak lapels of his custom-tailored red suit naturally draw attention to his face and shoulders. It’s how his crisply pressed button-down falls on his frame and seems to blend seamlessly into a black silk vest and matching tie. How he’s sleeked back his hair and shaved his face for what may be the first time since Karkat’s known him. It’s the way his polished white loafers somehow seem to tie into the outfit without standing out as the eyesores they should be.
“Hey!” Dave snaps his fingers in front of Karkat’s face. “What did I say ‘bout staring, pal?” When the light turns green, he adjusts his hold on the lever between his knees, tilting it to the right to urge the car forward. “Did I overdress?”
“Maybe a little,” Karkat admits.
Dave groans. “Yeah. ‘Course I did. Fuck.”
“No, no,” Karkat quickly reassures, “You look… good.”
“You look to me how the moon looks at the tides of the ocean,” his inner poet wants to say. Of course, such frivolous thoughts remain unspoken. He tries to distract himself by staring out the window.
Dave, in return, nods. “Cool. Good to hear. Rose made me this jacket to wear to her PhD ceremony.” When a car cuts him off, he shoves the lever straight down to engage the brakes. He instinctively leans back. “Something ‘bout the holidays makes everyone a worse driver,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine.” Karkat sinks deeper into his heated leather seat and falls silent.
After a few minutes, Dave turns on the radio. He flips through the stations until he lands on the international variety show, the only one not currently clogging airwaves with even more Christmas music.
Fifteen minutes later, as Dave parks the car, the second problem presents itself.
“Shit. I forgot,” Karkat buries his face in his hands.
“Hm?” Dave pulls the vehicle into a familiar crushed gravel driveway. “‘Sup? Need to go back and get something? I don’t mind.” His gaze then travels to the front of Kanaya’s home and its wraparound porch, access to which is guarded by exactly three concrete steps. “Ah. Fuck. My goddamn nemesis, huh?”
“I mean… We can just leave. I don’t have to be here,” Karkat lies. Admittedly, he’d feel as bad ditching this party as he would leaving Dave out. As far as he can tell, he’s cornered himself in an unwinnable situation. By the time he’s pulled himself out of his spiral, Dave is already waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t worry so damn much, Karkat. I’m a grown-ass man, dude. I can take care of myself.” He plants one hand on the concrete pavers and uses the other to shove himself forward. When he reaches the edge of his seat, he lowers himself to the ground. “Tilt the chair back and take it on the porch. It’s three steps. I can manage going down, it’s just a bitch going up.”
Unsure of anything else he can do, Karkat nods. The wheelchair is surprisingly light, and most of the weight is concentrated in the bag strung across the back.
Dave, meanwhile, lifts himself backwards up the steps. It takes him approximately six minutes to reach the top, admittedly less time than Karkat had anticipated. “Okay,” he pauses a minute to catch his breath. A few stray beads of sweat trail down the side of his face. “Bring the chair back. I don’t feel like dragging myself ‘round on my ass any more than necessary.”
Again, Karkat obeys. “Sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s fine,” Dave huffs. “Look, just…” After pulling himself into his usual seat, he rubs his hands over his face. “Don’t make it a big deal, okay? If I tell you to worry, then go ahead and let your anxiety run wild. Otherwise, you’re just stressing both of us out.” He stacks a few breaths and heaves a proportionally short sigh. After brushing some stray leaves from his pants, he straightens his tie. “So, what? I’m your sad little Victorian orphan or something?”
“I introduced you as a friend.”
The front door to Kanaya’s place always jams shut. Opening it requires a slight lift and a decent shoulder slam. But once those conditions are met, it seems to open itself. The interior of the house, long since renovated into a large open-concept living area, is like a familiar oasis. Whenever he couldn’t find a rental, Karkat would sleep on Kanaya’s sofa. This is his home away from home.
And Kanaya, like Sollux, has been one of his closest friends for as long as he can remember. As soon as the door opens, she turns around. A wide smile spreads across her face; jade green lipstick flows against rich, dark skin. “Karkat! I was beginning to think that you might have gotten lost.”
“Nope,” Karkat hands over his gift for the white elephant exchange. “We hit traffic on I-95.”
“Yeah, dumbass,” Sollux calls from the kitchen, “that tends to fucking happen.”
“I see the festive spirits of joy and kindness have left the room,” Kanaya laughs. Her eyes, as green and bright as an emerald, turn to Dave. “And I assume this is the dashing chauffeur you have told me so much about?”
“Dashing?” Dave smirks.
“What the fuck do you mean by ‘dashing’?” Karkat sputters.
“Oh, nothing,” Kanaya shakes Dave’s hand before setting aside Karkat’s gift. “David, right?”
“I prefer Dave.”
“Well, then, pleased to meet you.” She turns around and points out people in the crowd as she continues, “It seems my dearest friend is, as usual, socially inept and indisposed. So, allow me to introduce you. Feferi is visiting from Colorado. And we have Latula, Equius, Nepeta, Gamzee, Aradia, and Sollux. I am Kanaya, the homeowner and host. If you need anything, let me know. I will happily” — her gaze falls upon a cat trying to sneak into the kitchen. “Pardon me,” she says, her voice as calm and cool as usual, then: “just let me… WHO LET THE FUCKING CAT OUT?”
As Kanaya departs, Karkat fills her place. “It’ll get chaotic in here. My friends are… strange.” He buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans and flashes a smile that he hopes is more apologetic than severely constipated.
“Well, you brought a guy you’re being paid to hang out with to a Christmas party,” Dave points out, “I’m fairly certain that” —
“KARKAT THINKS YOU’RE HOT!” Sollux shouts.
“I’M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS INTO A BLOODY PULP!” Karkat counters. “Sorry, Dave, my friends are all incurable idiots. Did I also tell you that? Because they’re all FUCKING MORONS!”
Dave laughs, and the sound somehow manages to crawl deeper beneath Karkat’s skin.
“Fuck it. I’m getting a drink. It’s the only sane way to stand any of you douchebags.”
-----
Kanaya’s bonus room has always been the designated “safe spot”. Whenever someone needs to escape the hustle and bustle of an energetic party, they know to hide with her many carefully maintained plants. There’s even an air mattress for anyone too drunk to drive home. It’s where Karkat Vantas finds himself at approximately 9:30 p.m. He is a few steps above tipsy and a smaller hop below incoherently inebriated. His body thrums with warm energy. He can feel blood pulsing through his fingertips. The world is drenched in a pleasant haze. His usual inhibitions are gone; the alcohol and weed have dulled his anxiety.
Admittedly, he’s not entirely sure how it happened. He can’t quite remember everything that landed him here. If he pushes himself to the absolute limit, he can piece together some disjointed flashes of awareness.
Dave had been on the room’s air mattress. Apparently, he’d felt the need to “get away from the noise.” The soft glow of simulated sunlight made him seem almost ethereal — muscles and charisma and the aroma of vanilla. Pastel pink lips, lit by the warm red glow of a heat lamp, seemed to melt against his.
Now, pure pleasure sharpens enough of reality to bring the image into focus.
Dave’s shirt is fully open.
A tattoo of a flying crow, stylized to look like brushed black ink, spreads its wings across a pale chest. Its feathers cleverly hide a pair of scars on Dave’s breasts. Another scar, this one on his lower right side, is covered by a preening hawk. Pure muscle tapers off near his midsection before shifting to a softer, slightly chubbier stomach.
When Karkat leans in, round, warm lips press against his shoulder. Rough hands redirect his touch, moving his right hand further up. “Watch it,” he mumbles, “Keep your hands where I can feel them.”
“Does that go for everything?” Karkat snickers.
“Whatever makes you happy goes on down there. What makes me happy goes on up top.” Silken hair — fine, almost wraithlike, and pale — brushes against Karkat’s face. It’s surprisingly thick and plush, yet paradoxically thinner than expected. “Fuck,” Dave breathes. Again, he grabs Karkat’s right hand. “Higher up, idiot. You keep dropping down too far.”
“I guess it takes practice.” Karkat glances down. He wants to grab Dave’s hips; it’s his natural inclination. Doing otherwise requires conscious thought, an act of rebellion against what feels like his biological imperative. He wants to lead, to guide everything into the rightful place. Still, he obeys. He rubs his right thumb around Dave’s nipple; the fingers of his left hand trace a line down the side of his face.
A length of flexible tubing digs into his pelvis. It’s a strange sensation, but it’s not enough to deter him from plunging into a world of slick warmth.
Dave’s breath catches in his throat. His grip on Karkat’s hips tightens; he guides his movements easily.
“I thought you said you couldn’t feel it?”
“It’s… heh… It’s complicated.” Dave’s breath smells like a mix of mint and cheap beer as it rushes down the side of Karkat’s neck.
A memory — a snapshot from less than an hour ago — punches through the haze of weed and alcohol.
Dave throws his suit jacket on the floor. His right leg bounces slightly as he unbuttons his pants. “Just so we’re on the same page,” he drawls, his voice uncharacteristically nervous, “I never got bottom surgery. ‘Least for me, the risks outweigh the benefits. So…”
Karkat blinks as the memory slips away.
A hand presses against his chest. A low, rumbling moan, inaudible but easily felt, rises from Dave’s throat. He uses his right hand to push against the floor to rock his hips a few times. “Great perk of living with your sister for over a decade,” he pulls his right hand up, caressing Karkat’s side, “is that you learn how to keep yourself quiet when you’re getting dicked down.”
“You’re fucking disgusting,” Karkat laughs. Wet, wild warmth and an explosion of pleasure bursts through every fiber of his body.
And Dave reciprocates. His grip around Karkat tightens, pulling him in closer, before loosening slowly. He breathes out, shaky but pleased. “Fuck.” It’s less of a statement and more of an ecstatic sigh.
Karkat pulls himself free. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he recognizes that he’ll kick himself for this in the morning. But, for now, he enjoys it. He savors the bubbling, giddy feeling in his chest.
“So, what?” Dave laughs. His voice is breathy and coarse. “You like this all the time, or just when you get cross-faded at parties?”
“Depends.” Karkat rolls onto his side. He idly watches Dave’s chest rise and fall. His gaze sweeps down Dave’s arm, studying the countless layers of ink and trying to pick out a single detail. Idle fingers graze over silvery strands of pubic hair. “What’s with all the tattoos?”
“‘Dunno. Started as an attempt to cover some of the old skinhead shit I used to have. Ended up going overboard.”
Normally, such information would be shocking. Right now, Karkat’s brain is too sluggish to bother fully digesting what’s being said. Instead, he lets his thumb trace a line down Dave’s left leg. “Just so we’re clear, this doesn’t… mean anything, right?”
“Not if you don’t want it to,” Dave shrugs. He heaves himself into a sitting position and swats Karkat’s hand away. “Stop that. It’s freaky. Hands off what I can’t feel, please.” He grabs his leg bag and pulls it back to the front of his right thigh. He picks off a piece of medical tape from his lower pelvis, allowing his catheter tube to fall against his inner thigh. “We should probably clean up before anyone notices this, huh?”
Karkat nods. Somewhere, beneath the fog of intoxication and sexual gratification, he recognizes the truth in Dave’s statement. He stands and tosses Dave’s clothes to him. “I owe you my dick in your mouth later, I guess.” Now, he takes his own clothes from the empty propagating table.
“Oh, you most certainly fucking do.” For a moment, Dave’s cadence perfectly mirrors his sister’s. When he continues, it returns to normal, “But we’ll see how you feel when you’re sobered up, hm? Good to know you’re not too grossed out by… everything.”
“Meaning?” Karkat’s gaze lingers on a tattoo of a date adorning Dave’s left shoulder — December 26, 2006.
By now, he’s put his pants back on, much to Karkat’s disappointment. He seems prepared to explain something. His mouth hangs open, ready to speak. Instead, after a moment, he shakes his head. He lifts his left hip up long enough to tug his pants up further; then, he repeats the process on the right side. “Nothing.” His hair is messy, now; there’s no hiding what just happened.
Then again, Karkat isn’t entirely sure if he wants to hide it. His sober self may feel shame, but his intoxicated self is entirely unaware of the emotion. He finds himself studying Dave — how his muscles seem to undulate like the ocean as he moves.
There’s a thin layer of fat that gives him a softer, gentler look. He repeats the process from before — onto the footrest, then into the seat. When he’s done, he picks up his shirt. “C’mere,” he shoves his right arm into its sleeve. “I’m being lazy.” He pulls Karkat close enough for his right shoulder to lean against his thigh as he leans forward and wraps the garment around his back. “There.” He pushes off Karkat’s leg and falls back into place. His right leg bounces as he starts securing the buttons of his shirt. “God, Karkat, you reek of booze.”
“Yeah?” The initial jolt of energy is fading, and, try as he might, Karkat can’t resist the slow descent into a pleasant, groggy fog. “Might have had too much to drink,” he admits. “Not my fault Feferi’s gift to all of us was home-brewed moonshine.”
“Of course,” Dave smiles. It’s the same expression a parent uses to calm an over-excited child. “Look, no offense, but you might be a tad too blitzed right now for me to feel comfortable taking home. If you bust your head on a sidewalk or something, I physically cannot help you, y’know?” He rubs the back of his neck; his expression turns apologetic. “And while your friends are pretty damn nice, I’m not exactly comfortable sleeping here. At the very least, I don’t want anyone else fiddling with the oxygen concentrator. So…”
“You want me to sleep here?”
“Are you okay with that?” Dave grabs his gloves from his pockets and pulls them on. “I’ll come pick you up in the morning. Sound good?”
Part of Karkat wants to protest, but a larger part of him wants to lay down and sleep. He can feel his energy slipping through his fingers. “Yeah, fine. I’ll do that. Just make sure you pick me up.”
Dave nods. “You’re getting sleepy over there, huh?” A bemused smile flashes across his features. “Damn. This is like watching June after a night out.”
“I’m not that fucking bad,” Karkat’s whine turns into a yawn. His eyelids feel heavy. “Just… let me sleep it off for a while.”
-----
It is now 11:00 p.m.
Most of the party’s guests have left. From what Dave has gleaned, Feferi is staying overnight before returning to Colorado. She’s already set herself up in the second floor guest room. Sollux ended up getting about as drunk as Karkat before being ferried home by Aradia.
Dave is ready to leave. He’s started the car and is about to pull out of the driveway when he spots someone approaching. His instinctual spark of wariness is quickly defused by a familiar voice.
“I am sorry. I realize this looks quite threatening, but I wanted to thank you for making sure Karkat was safely asleep. He is a bit of an idiot.” She holds out a plastic grocery bag, through which Dave can barely see the outline of a plate of desserts. “As thanks, I have brought you some of the leftovers.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” Dave says, though he still takes the goodies. “I’m… uh… sorry I boned your best friend on your blow-up mattress.”
“You may be surprised to learn that this would not be the first time such a thing has happened at these parties,” Kanaya shrugs. As she turns to leave, a thought flits across Dave’s mind.
“Hey! Actually,” he rips a piece of paper from the notepad in the glovebox and scribbles his sister’s phone number on it. “I think you’d get along great with my sis. She’s dropping by in a few days, so feel free to text her.”
Kanaya holds the slip of paper like a relic. She squints at what Dave has written before taking out her phone. “You seem like a vaguely adept judge of character, so I may just try your suggestion. Thank you.”
“No prob,” Dave offers his usual, lazy three-finger salute as a parting gesture. “Now, back your ass up. I’d really hate to have to say I ran you over on the way out.”
Chapter 10: Whistling in the Dark
Summary:
Chapter title from Glenn Miller's “Serenade in Blue”.
Notes:
No chapter warnings this time. Just a short, fluffy little blurb before I throw Rose into the mix.
Chapter Text
Undated, massive group Pesterchum chat with “The Trolls”:
GROUP CHAT [I THINK KARKAT WENT SICKNASTY ON THE NEW GUY] STARTED
SOLLUX: did anyone else notice that karkat just straight up disappeared a few hours in?
SOLLUX: and the greenhouse door was locked?
SOLLUX: and that dave was also just? gone? also a few hours in?
SOLLUX: and when he came back it was pretty obvious he’d gone to pound town?
TAVROS: wHY DO I ALWAYS MISS THE INTERESTING SHIT?
TEREZI: JOIN THE FUCKING CLUB. BACK OF THE LINE.
TAVROS: bUT… i’M OUT OF THE LOOP. 😭
KANAYA: The Wild Speculation Is Not Necessary.
KANAYA: But, Yes, He Did Indeed “go sicknasty” On Dave.
KANAYA: That Is, Of Course, Assuming That We Both Share The Same Definition Of “Sicknasty” In This Context. Otherwise, It Might Not Be True.
VRISKA: Who exactly is this “New Guy”, and why should I care? 😒
SOLLUX: have you
SOLLUX: like
SOLLUX: not been reading ANY of this shit?? 😤😤
VRISKA: Well, unlike you loooooooosers, I have an adult job. I don’t have time to bother with this useless gossip.
VRISKA: …
VRISKA: But do tell.
FEFERI: I assume that “New Guy” is Dave? 380
FEFERI: My Lord! I thought they were glubbing roommates.
KANAYA: I Am Not Entirely Certain Of Where You Could Have Gotten Such An Impression, Feferi, But That Would Be More Than Slightly Incorrect.
TAVROS: fROM WHAT I HAVE GATHERED, yES. tHAT WOULD BE WRONG.
VRISKA: None of this is helping me figure out who this motherfucker issssssss.
KANAYA: Oh. My Apologies. “New Guy” Is Karkat’s Latest…
KANAYA: What Shall I Call Him? I Would Not Say That He Is Exactly A “Boyfriend” Quite Yet…
KANAYA: At Least, The Impression I Got After He Had Left For The Night Was Not That Of An Individual In A Committed Relationship.
VRISKA: He’s a boy toy. 😒
TAVROS: i… uH. dON’T THINK YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.
USER grimAuxiliatrix UPLOADED A FILE: Dave-Strider.png
VRISKA: He’s a GENERIC boy toy. 😒
LATULA: he is TOTALLY your type, terezi.
TEREZI: WELL! I WILL ASSUME FROM MY SISTER’S DESCRIPTION THAT HE IS MY TYPE.
DAVE: ok i’m not entirely sure i take offense to that necessarily but i would hesitate to call me “generic” in the typical sense of the word.
KANAYA: …
KANAYA: Sollux, Is What I Think Is Happening Actually Happening?
KANAYA: Am I Truly Beholding What I Think I Am Beholding?
KANAYA: DID YOU INVITE KARKAT’S BOY TOY TO THE FUCKING CHAT?
SOLLUX: i thought it’d be funny. 🤙🤙
DAVE: yeah no i totally agree.
DAVE: i’ve been incredibly entertained by whatever the fuck is happening in this chat.
DAVE: munching popcorn over here and printing this shit out to make myself a little zine of the weird shit y’all are saying.
TAVROS: hUH. sAME WHEELCHAIR BRAND?
DAVE: same wheelchair brand! 👍
VRISKA: Eeeeeeeew. The nerds are bonding.
KANAYA: Why Am I Friends With Any Of You?
DAVE: ok so i mean i don’t want to be rude to karkat’s friends because y’all were super lovely last night but
DAVE: like
DAVE: on a technicality
DAVE: seeing as i’ve known all of you for approximately 5.3 hours
DAVE: i wouldn’t exactly classify y’all as “friends”
DAVE: again no offense. 👍
TAVROS: nO, yEAH. tHAT’S A VERY VALID OPINION TO HAVE. i WOULD BE INCLINED TO AGREE.
SOLLUX: so is nobody gonna tell me if karkat shredded that man’s prostate or what?
VRISKA: I would also like to know, honestly.
VRISKA: I hate to say it, but I’m slightly invested at this point.
KANAYA: I Already Said That He Did.
SOLLUX: yeah but i don’t trust you. sorry.
DAVE: yeah we fucked in the greenhouse slash sunroom setup.
SOLLUX: i’ll trust that, though.
DAVE: cute plants by the way kanny.
DAVE: can i call you that?
KANAYA: No, You May Not Call Me That.
USER grimAuxiliatrix HAS LEFT THE CHAT
SOLLUX: cool that was literally all i wanted to know. peace out, motherfuckers. ✌️✌️
JUNE: wait hold on i just got here DAVE AND KARKAT DID WHAT?
DAVE: chill out pal it was just generic missionary sheesh.
USER twinArmageddons HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Undated group Pesterchum chat between Dave, Karkat, June, and Kanaya:
GROUP CHAT [I’M SORRY ALL YOUR FRIENDS KNOW WE HAD SEX] STARTED
DAVE: ok so we have good news and bad news!
DAVE: the good news is i’m still free to come and pick your probably hungover ass from kanaya’s house.
DAVE: the bad news is that you should read the chat title.
DAVE: sowwy 👉👈
KARKAT: DAVE, WHAT THE FUCK? HOW DID THEY EVEN FIGURE THAT OUT?
JUNE: dave told us.
DAVE: kanaya told them.
KANAYA: Both Dave And I Informed The Perverted Audience.
DAVE: and let’s be clear here dude you’re not very slick.
DAVE: it would’ve been less obvious if you’d just stuck a sign on my back that said “WOW! JUST HAD PRETTY BANGING SEX WITH KARKAT VANTAS!” which is what i’m sure a sign like that would say if you wrote it.
KANAYA: This Is Also Incredibly True.
KARKAT: AND WHY THE FUCK IS THIS A GROUP CHAT? THIS *DOES NOT* NEED TO BE A FUCKING GROUP CHAT.
KARKAT: KANAYA, YOU’RE IN THE SAME GODSDAMNED HOUSE.
JUNE: so is anyone going to tell me how and when this happened?
DAVE: maybe later boo.
USER turntechGodhead REMOVED USER ectoBiologist FROM THE CHAT
DAVE: godspeed soldier.
KARKAT: CAN YOU TAKE ANYTHING IN YOUR LIFE SERIOUSLY FOR FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, STRIDER?
DAVE: no clue.
DAVE: never tried.
DAVE: and today is
DAVE: not the day to try.
KANAYA: Well Then. When Do You Plan On Picking Up Your Inebriated Boyfriend?
KARKAT: WE *ARE NOT* BOYFRIENDS.
DAVE: yeah from what i’m getting here it’s more like a “friends with benefits” type of thing or maybe a “pound pals” deal.
KANAYA: … If Your Sister Is Even Half As Strange As You Are, I Am Not Sure That Speaking To Her Would Be A Wise Idea.
DAVE: oh shit hell nah rose is like totally fucked up but not in the same way as me.
DAVE: she’s more socially acceptable fucked up in general if that helps.
KARKAT: GODS ABOVE. NOW YOU’RE TRYING TO HOOK MY FRIENDS UP WITH YOUR RICH TWIN SISTER? WHAT THE FUCK?
DAVE: ok so anywho i’m thinking like 1:30ish i gotta get my old car towed back to my place so i can start working on it.
KANAYA: That Is An Acceptable Arrangement.
DAVE: cool 👍
KARKAT: NOBODY IS GOING TO ASK ME? MAYBE I HAD OTHER PLANS!
USER turntechGodhead HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Undated group Pesterchum chat between Dave, Rose, and Kanaya:
GROUP CHAT [YOU TWO BITCHES SHOULD TALK TO EACH OTHER] STARTED
DAVE: kanaya meet rose
DAVE: rose meet kanaya
DAVE: and bee tee dubs i had like really jamming sex with her best friend at her house so let’s all say “thanks kanaya”.
ROSE: How many times must I tell you to (a) stop trying to “get me together with another beautiful bimbo” and (b) stop discussing your sex life with me?
ROSE: Do you just conveniently forget that I am your TWIN SISTER whenever you’re horny, or what? 😤
DAVE: or what.
KANAYA: Oh! So He Is Just Like This All The Time?
KANAYA: My Most Sincere Apologies About Your Predicament. It Must Be Truly Exhausting To Exist As This Man’s Twin.
DAVE: hot fucking shit that was easy!
USER turntechGodhead HAS LEFT THE CHAT
Sunday, 19 December 2021
It’s been years since Karkat managed to party himself into such a state. Then again, it also feels as if he’s been having a lot of collegiate-level blunders lately.
He’s been too embarrassed to apologize to Kanaya. Deep down, he knows that he doesn’t have to apologize. Sollux has had sex in her sun room at least four times. His recent snafu is just one of many. Still, it’s uncharacteristically stupid — even for him — and the perfect fodder for the ever-growing pit in his stomach. Now, with his shame back in working order, he finds himself spiraling. Heedless of the light snow and bitter cold, he paces around on the front porch and anxiously picks at the frayed threads at fingertips of his gloves. A hole is already appearing on the left thumb.
Kanaya, of course, has already forgiven him. She’s said as much — more than once, too — but anxiety is a larger beast than explicit grace.
When he sees Dave’s car, he deems it less threatening than Kanaya’s mild disappointment. He bids her a terse farewell before scrambling into the vehicle.
“Sheesh,” Dave whistles. “Someone’s eager to leave, huh?” He fiddles with the controls for a moment before backing out of the driveway. Under his breath, he seems to mumble something about the “fucking inscrutable push-and-rock system.”
“Yeah, fucking someone in your best friend’s sun room is kind of embarassing,” Karkat huffs. “Maybe not for you, but I consider myself slightly more… refined.”
“Do you?” The edges of Dave’s lips flicker. He’s desperately holding back a smug grin. “Whatever you say, Karkat.” After a few more seconds, his resolve fails. A series of hoarse laughs shake his shoulders.
“At least someone is having fun.”
“Oh, I had plenty of fun last night, too,” Dave winks. “Anyhow, seeing as you’re still hung up on that, why not talk ‘bout something else? I assume you don’t drive?”
“I don’t have a license,” Karkat admits.
“Yeah, figured.” Dave’s fingers rap idly against the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change. “I didn’t get mine for a while, either. Different situation, though, right?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
Dave shrugs. “I won’t be free until Tuesday, but I’d… uh… I’d like you to meet my sister. If you want.”
“If she’s anything like you, I’m almost afraid to.” A wry smile underpins Karkat’s joke.
Dave responds with a snicker and a playful shove. “No, she’s my more civilized side.”
“You make it sound like you’re taking me home to your parents.”
“Kinda’ hard to do. Both of ‘em are dead.” When he catches another red light, Dave breathes a disgruntled sigh. “And it’s not that important. I just…” he pauses long enough for Karkat to realize he’s trying to think of an adequate explanation.
“You value her opinion,” he volunteers.
“Shit!” Dave nods vigorously, almost comically so, “Yeah! Exactly that. How’d you figure that out?”
“Good guess,” Karkat shrugs. “And thanks again for driving me home. Even if you did throw my ass under the bus.”
“I promise you, Karkat, everyone knew we had sex before that.” Dave’s tone is equal parts bemused and serious. “You’re not subtle, even if you think you might be.” His gaze flits across the GPS screen. “To be fair, I’m also about as subtle as a brick to the face.”
The arrival time is down to five minutes.
“So, what? You’ll meet Rose? I promise she doesn’t bite. If she does, blame me,” now, perhaps because he hasn’t gotten a solid answer yet, his smirk is slightly more bashful.
Not that Karkat was ever planning to refuse the offer. “Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“Great!” Dave’s shoulders relax; his smile softens. As he pulls into a free spot in front of Karkat’s apartment building, he takes a plain envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here. Open that when you get inside.” He won’t accept any sort of refusal. He presses it against Karkat’s chest until he takes it.
After clambering from the car, Karkat offers an appreciative wave. “See you around?”
“Yeah,” Dave reciprocates with a lazy three-finger salute, “‘course. See you ‘round, Karkat.”
As he leaves, Karkat idly opens the envelope. Inside, he finds $500. There’s also a gum wrapper folded into the shape of a crow.
Chapter 11: Our Lives Are This Moment
Summary:
Chapter title from Savatage's “Not What You See”.
Notes:
Chapter warnings for discussion of Dave's accident, a brief mention of past suicidal ideation, and Karkat's Self Loathing™.
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 21 December 2021
It’s impossible to deny that Rose Lalonde is related to Dave Strider.
She has the same arching nose and traces of a similarly lanky build beneath a fuller figure. She’s tall, at least halfway to six feet, and her eyes, though a bit redder than Dave’s, have the same flecks of gold. Her lips, though coated in bright pink lipstick, are the same general shape. Even her demeanor — that ineffable poise and confidence — matches. But her skin is tanner; her hair, slightly darker. A polished silver nostril stud matches a pair of snake bite rings. When she smiles, her teeth lack Dave’s fading nicotine stains.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Karkat,” she says, extending her hand. When the gesture is accepted, her grip clamps down firmly. “Dave has said… quite a bit regarding you, specifically, and your various endeavors.”
“Flattering,” Karkat rubs the back of his neck.
Something about Rose — that calm, pointed stare, perhaps — makes him squirm. And not in the same way as Dave. No, this is more nerves than libido. It’s as if she can stare directly through him, and he finds himself desperately searching for somewhere, anywhere, to hide from her gaze.
He blinks. “He’s aware that we’ve only known each other for, what, two weeks, right?” A nervous laugh punctuates his statement as he extricates his hand from her grip. When she steps back, he rushes inside. “Sorry for being late. Of fucking course the bus would be running behind today. All it takes is a thin sheet of ice to throw the entirety of New Alternia Hills into a collective apoplexy.”
Rose smirks, but she doesn’t laugh; a polite snicker suffices. “Yes, this city truly is peculiar.” She wanders to the kitchen and checks the oven. “Dave will be out shortly. He sincerely apologizes for being unable to pick you up as planned.”
“Yeah, about that…” When it was just him and Dave, Karkat felt comfortable sitting without asking. Now, with Rose hanging around, he finds himself awkwardly standing in the middle of the living room. “Is he okay? Not that it’s my business or anything.”
“Oh, he’s fine,” Rose’s reply is bright and upbeat, but there’s no smile on her face. She’s putting on airs, and her poker face isn’t as convincing as her brother’s. “He had a bit of a… hm…” After closing the oven, she turns around. Now, there’s a clearly forced smile. “I suppose it’s not my place to divulge information about his health, is it? In that case, the most I can say is that he had a minor medical episode.”
A new emotional combo rises in Karkat’s stomach: annoyed concern. “But… he’s okay?”
Her face falls. She rubs the decorative pocket flap of her pastel pink suit jacket between her fingers. “No thanks to me, yes. I regret that I have gotten… a bit too used to not having him around. It’s really quite convenient, if that makes sense.” A thoughtful sigh punctuates her statement. Then, as if a switch is flipped, her mood genuinely brightens. (Or, at least, it seems genuine.) “Ah! There he is!”
Today, Dave wears a black sweater beneath a white silk suit. He’s ditched his usual gloves. The only signs of a rough night are the aviator-style sunglasses that barely hide the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I can tell by your face” — he elbows Karkat in the hip as he makes his way to the fridge — “that Rose filled you in on everything. Hopefully not too in-depth.” Something about the phrase seems too well-worn, too bitter. The glare he levels at Rose is similarly cold.
Karkat figures it’s best to keep his mouth shut.
And it seems Rose comes to the same conclusion. “Alas, dinner will not be ready for another hour or so. It seems I misread the recipe. Or, seeing as you put it in, you did.”
As if nothing had happened before, Dave laughs. “Fuck you. My excuse is that I barely passed high school.” He pops open his beer. “So, anyhow,” he gestures to Rose, “this is my sister.” He nods to Karkat. “This is the guy who fucked me at a holiday party two days ago. Glad we could all meet each other here.”
“Yes, we’ve already done the salutations without you, Dave,” Rose smirks.
“Of course.” Dave’s right leg shakes; his toes curl inward. A trace of discomfort flashes across his face. “Shit.” He sets his beer on the floor and presses one hand against his shaking thigh; the other tucks under his knee and lifts the limb slightly upward. It’s enough to calm his muscles, and he snags his beer as he puts his leg back down. When he notices the concern on Karkat’s face, he offers little more than a dismissive shrug. “I thought you’d seen that before, dude.”
“I mean… yeah… but…” Here, he pauses. There’s really no tactful way to admit that he’s spent most of his time around Dave desperately suppressing every feeling he has for him. So, instead, he lies, “I just never noticed it before.”
Dave’s lips press together for a second; he spots the lie easily. Still, he says nothing about it. Instead, he continues, his voice no less casual, “So, apparently, you’re really not supposed to treat your spinal cord like a battering ram. Brains like communicating with the rest of the body, and the rest of the body gets a little bit fucky when that doesn’t happen.”
Karkat nods.
Rose, meanwhile, takes something from the oven’s lower rack. “At least the cheese bites are ready. I do hope you’re not lactose intolerant, Karkat. While we strive to be culturally inclusive, it seems our White genes did not spare us from an unhealthy love of cheese.” She bustles by with a platter of puffy pastries. Molten cheese is visible through the vents sliced into their tops. When Dave reaches for one, she smacks his hand. “I am not dealing with you crying all night about your burnt mouth. Wait at least six minutes to eat one, you petulant child.”
From Dave, there’s a displeased huff. “You’re not my mother.”
“And, yet, you often act as if I am.” She dumps the snacks onto a pastel blue ceramic plate on the coffee table. “Six minutes,” she repeats, wagging her finger in the most over-the-top matronly way possible.
Despite the playful banter, it’s obvious that the siblings care for each other.
The display stirs up a long-hidden rage in Karkat’s soul. It reminds him of the relationship he always craved with Kankri. The feeling of a bandage ripping off a raw scab buzzes at the base of his skull. When he sits in his usual armchair, he stares at his hands.
Rose’s voice eventually pulls him from his thoughts. “Your profile said you grew up in nearby Beforus. Do you have plans for the holidays?”
“I’m Hindu. We don’t celebrate Christmas,” Karkat bristles. Only half of his statement is a lie.
“I see…” Rose taps her chin; her bright pink fingernail polish matches her lipstick.
Dave, meanwhile, has found his way onto the sofa. His eyes are intently focused on the still-steaming platter of cheese bites.
Upon noticing, Rose claps her hands. “THREE MINUTES LEFT, DEAREST DUMBASS!”
A dramatic groan serves as Dave’s reply.
“I hope Dave has not been as much of a pain in the ass to you as he is for me,” Rose laughs. “He’s such a dramatic brat.”
“Well,” drawls Dave, “in my defense, I think I’m mildly entitled to being a little bratty.”
Rose purposefully ignores the comment. Instead, she tosses Dave a plastic drink stirrer from her pocket.
He catches it and begins absentmindedly nibbling on the end.
“See? It’s so very easy to distract him. Think of him as you would a cat.” There’s a dry, smart edge to Rose’s commentary. “Give him something to do, and he won’t bother you for a while.”
By now, Karkat figures he should at least try to start a conversation. He grabs whatever scraps are left of his sanity — the bits not currently consumed by his indignant rage — and throws them out as an offering. “You’re planning on staying until New Year’s, right?”
“Correct.” Rose checks her watch. “Dave, you can eat.”
No further instructions are needed. Dave immediately stretches his arm out and snatches up a handful of cheese bites. The ones that don’t go directly into his mouth are dropped onto his chest for later.
And Rose, much to Karkat’s annoyance, keeps needling him for answers. “You do have family in Beforus, though, don’t you?”
“My Dad and older brother. We don’t talk much.”
“I see. Well, then, it seems that might be a touchy subject.”
“Can we maybe not play twenty fucking questions with him, Rose?” Dave mumbles, his words only slightly muffled by the baked snacks in his mouth.
“Ah! Yes, my apologies.” Rose smiles, but something about the expression worms beneath Karkat’s skin. There’s a burning curiosity on those lips, and it’s far from satiated. “Shit! I forgot to mention our menu tonight. The main course is roasted duck breast with fingerling potatoes and mixed greens. Is that acceptable?”
Karkat nods.
“Great!” Rose’s gaze drifts to Dave long enough to see that he’s piled half the cheese bites on his chest. “God fucking dammit, Dave. Put some of those back.”
Despite putting on a convincingly childish pout, Dave obeys.
And so it continues for what feels like an eternity. Friendly jabs are exchanged, and each is taken with a grain of salt. There’s no shouting, no fighting. Not a single serious accusation of poor character or incompetence is exchanged. It’s the sort of convivial relationship Karkat had always seen on television. His only other reference point, Latula and Terezi, somehow pales to the bond between Dave and Rose. And that knowledge feels like a knife sliding ever deeper into the pit of his stomach.
-----
By the time dinner has concluded, Karkat’s rage has bored a massive hole in his soul. It’s become a gaping chasm, a howling specter that haunts his mind. Everything is a grating, aching reminder of a life he always wanted.
Rose remains blissfully unaware of it all.
But Dave notices.
Somehow, he notices.
When dinner is over, he invites Karkat to his room.
Though initially hesitant, Karkat eventually relents. If nothing else, he’s curious to see what Dave’s room looks like.
In most respects, it’s fairly normal. The walls are painted a strangely calming shade of deep red. A few record album covers hang on the walls. There’s not much furniture or clutter, but there’s plenty of space to move between everything. The double bed is covered in faded red bedclothes. Through an open door, he can see the sizable bathroom, complete with alternating gray and red checkered tiles on the floor.
It takes more than a brief glance to see what isn’t as typical for a thirty-year-old man’s room. Half of the dresser is occupied by a collection of medicine bottles. An oxygen concentrator sits by the bed, its tubing neatly coiled and set atop the machine.
Dave closes the door as he enters, trailing behind Karkat. “You had at least half a dozen chances to start some asinine rant about inconsequential bullshit, and you took exactly zero of them.” He parks himself in front of a low, plush sofa. After transferring onto it and laying down, he grabs a nearby acoustic guitar. His skin is just a few shades off of the inlaid pearl pick guard. “So,” he deftly starts tuning the instrument as he says, “What’s eating you, Karkat?”
“Nothing.” It’s a lie — a very bad lie.
“I’ve heard better lies from drunk college students. You’re not fooling me,” Dave’s gaze briefly peers over his tinted shades. “C’mon. I ain’t ‘bout to judge.” A few more plucks on the lowest note are all it takes for him to deem the instrument tuned.
“I…” Karkat frowns.
He’s never been good at talking about himself. Even when his father sent him to therapists, he spent most of his time talking about anything but his life. He discussed gossip and constantly dodged anything about himself.
“Let’s try this.” Dave clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is like oil — clear, sleek, and smooth. It lacks the usual bravado and gravel. “I know you’re just the guy my sister paid to hang out with my pathetic ass, but I guess I’ve taken a shine to you.” He idly taps his fingers against the guitar’s cherrywood body, forming a steady waltz — plunk, plunk, plunk. “And, well, not to get too sappy with you, but… I genuinely do care ‘bout you. And you’re pretty obviously not peachy at the moment. So, ‘sup?”
Something about the sudden sincerity melts Karkat’s usual wall of ice. “I don’t know… I guess…” he trudges over to a free spot at the end of the sofa and sits. “My mother died giving birth to me. My older brother blames me for it. And… maybe seeing you and Rose just pissed me off, if that makes any fucking sense.” Here, he stops and shakes his head. A low, cynical laugh rumbles in his throat. “It doesn’t. It just sounds like I’m angry that people are happy.”
“Actually…” Dave starts idly strumming the guitar. It’s all second nature to him. His left hand slides up and down its neck, picking out seemingly random configurations of notes, while his right plucks at the strings. His little finger creates a steady beat, while the rest of his fingers work on other melodies. “I get it.”
“You do?” Karkat’s brows furrow. He stares at his hands.
“I… hm…” He chews on his lip as he plays an idle arpeggio. He stops long enough to remove his glasses and set them on the back of the sofa. “It doesn’t happen anymore, but I used to get so pissed just seeing people doing their shit. Walking around and living their lives. It pissed me the hell off. It reminded me that I’d never get that. Sound familiar?”
“I’m pretty sure your situation is more than slightly different from mine, Strider.”
“Is it?” Dave raises his left brow. “I’d say it’s ‘bout even. We both wanted something we couldn’t have, right? Only difference is the specifics.”
Karkat nods. While he can’t bring himself to fully agree with Dave’s statement, it manages to calm some of his frayed nerves. “Do you still feel like that?”
“Not really.” A nonchalant shrug precedes a mindless bassline. “I don’t much care ‘bout it anymore. And, hey,” a wry smile works its way onto Dave’s face, “you can always borrow Rose as a big sister. I don’t mind. I’m sure she won’t, either.”
Karkat wants to punch back. Every fiber of him screams for rebellion. He’s been burned before, but something about this moment seems different. So, after a moment, he nods. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
“Yeah, well,” Dave stops playing long enough to point at a cracked photo that’s mostly obscured by a bookshelf. “If you’re curious ‘bout what I look like on two legs, there’s an old picture back there.”
Karkat nods. He trots over to the photo in question.
The Dave of fifteen years ago isn’t significantly different from the one he knows. His face is rounder and smoother; his jaw isn’t as defined. He still has the same muscular heft, but it carries throughout his body. One long leg is planted on the ground, while the other leans against an empty concrete planter. A lit cigarette hangs in his mouth.
“So…” Karkat turns around and trudges back to the sofa. As he sits, he wrings his hands together. “What actually happened? You don’t have to tell me, obviously, but…”
He doesn’t need to say anything else.
“I flipped over the handlebars first,” Dave muses, his voice cold and calculating. He’s keeping himself mentally separated as much as he can. “Snapped my head back when I hit the ground the first time. There’s the neck injury. Bike landed on me and crushed two vertebrae in my back. Bone fragments partially severed some nerves and went straight through others.” His brows furrow. “Stopped breathing immediately after that first hit. Skidded ‘cross the street, slammed into a traffic pole, and just sort of…” His brows twitch. “I just assumed I’d die there, really. Wasn’t able to breathe, so no words were coming out. My drunk friends split immediately. I was just there, dying, for three minutes ‘til a homeowner opened her door. I passed out ‘round then. No idea what happened after.” Here, he pauses. He pushes himself into a sitting position and sets aside the guitar. “This is where most people want me to stop, by the way.” It’s neither a condemnation nor a demand; it’s a statement.
“Say however much you’re comfortable with, I guess,” Karkat shrugs.
Dave nods. He lifts himself into his wheelchair and leaves long enough to retrieve an old, dented digital camera. After powering it on, he starts flipping through its contents. “Mom took videos and photos. Everyone assumed I’d be dead by the end of winter. Guess it was her morbid way of remembering me, seeing as my father held all of his photos hostage. Anyhow…” he stops and hands the camera over.
Karkat finds himself facing a photo of a thoroughly broken body. Dave’s face is buried beneath swollen bruising and surgical sutures. A tube is shoved down his throat. His stomach churns as he hands the camera back.
“Yeah. Sorry. Should’ve warned you.” His right thumb massages his chin for a moment. “They put me in a coma for a few days. Wanted to see if the brain swelling would go down. It did. That was my first step. Everything after that was just tiny steps. Breathing, swallowing, moving. Learning how to take care of myself.” He flips through a few more files and offers out the camera.
Hesitantly, Karkat accepts.
This time, it’s a video. Two medical workers hold Dave upright at the edge of a medical bed. A loud, sputtering hiss pushes and pulls at his lungs; each inhale forces his shoulders inward. His brows are furrowed as he shakily moves his right hand forward an inch. The accomplishment is met with a round of cheers and a pained smile from Dave.
Karkat returns the camera. “I… No offense, but I don’t want to see any more of those.”
“Yeah,” Dave throws the device back into a pile at the far side of the room, carelessly demonstrating how it got its dented body. “I don’t much like it, either. Those were the worst two years of my life.”
“But you had Rose, right?”
Here, Dave laughs. “No, honestly, it took a few weeks for her to warm up to me. She was pissed, too. We’d both grown up as only children. Suddenly sharing a single mother didn’t settle well with either of us.” He throws his right arm over the back of his wheelchair, stretching out a stiff abdomen, before settling back down. “She told me she wanted me dead more than a few times. But, eventually, we both softened up a little.” His eyes wander as he tries to recall a memory. “I think it was ‘round mid-January. Another failed attempt to get me off that damn breathing machine. I begged her to kill me, to pull the plug.” He leans his elbows on his knees and runs his fingers over his eyes. “She refused. And things just slowly turned ‘round from there.” He sits up and returns to the sofa. “I’m glad she did, by the way.”
“You are?”
“Well,” Dave plucks out a few more idle notes on his guitar, “I’m talking to you now, ain’t I? I…” His cheeks burn pink. “I’d call meeting you worth it.”
Try as he might, Karkat can’t suppress a grin. “Gods above, that’s the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard. Did you make all of that up just for that?”
“Nah, the story’s true. I guess I just find something else every day that makes me go, ‘Damn! I sure am glad my twin sister didn’t suffocate me to death by medical proxy back then.’”
Somewhere, a car door closes.
Both men freeze.
Through the window at the back of Dave’s room, Karkat can faintly make out the front of a gray Subaru. “Huh.”
“Huh? C’mon, dude, be a little more specific. It’s easier for you to see what’s happening.”
“Kanaya’s car is here?”
“Oh. Great!” Dave’s tone is almost freakishly upbeat. “I’ve been trying to find a way to get Rose to get that stick out of her ass. Your friend seemed compatible. I apologize in advance for any awkwardness this may cause.”
“Oh, you fucking better,” Karkat grumbles.
“If it helps, I figured you didn’t have much to do later. We can always hang out here and watch movies or something. Pretend we’re dumbass kids.”
Try as he might, Karkat can’t reject the idea. “Yeah, actually. That sounds fun. You don’t mind if I stay?”
“That’s what the guest sofa’s for,” Dave smiles.
Chapter 12: As a Lover and a Friend
Summary:
Chapter title from The Eagles' “Peaceful Easy Feeling”.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 22 December 2021
Karkat wakes in a room that is most certainly not his own, and it takes him a solid minute to remember what happened. The air smells like hospital disinfectant, vinyl records, and coffee.
Dave is still asleep.
The machine he’s using differs from what he’d brought to Karkat’s apartment. The portion under his nose is thicker. The pressure is higher. It whines and wheezes with each breath, forcing Dave’s chest to rise and fall. Now, Karkat can see how the faint lines on Dave’s forehead are forming; his brows are deeply furrowed.
It’s still fairly early, somewhere around 6:00, but he can faintly hear someone moving in the kitchen. Through the window, he can still see Kanaya’s car.
After throwing on a sweatshirt, he trudges into the main living area.
Rose is busy cleaning. When she hears Dave’s door close, she looks up. A smirk — one remarkably similar to Dave’s — crosses her face. “Of course it wouldn’t be Dave. He’s never awake this early.”
“Kanaya never is, either.” Karkat wanders over to the kitchen bar and sits.
“Good to know.” Rose pulls a pan from a lower cabinet. All the essential items are sensibly stored at or below waist height. “Did you sleep well? I’ll prepare you an omelette. Any requests?”
“Sure. And I don’t really care.”
Rose nods. Unlike Dave, she preps all the ingredients before she begins. Onions, scallions, bell peppers, and mushrooms are pulled from the fridge and chopped as she continues, saying, “Did you realize you’re wearing my brother’s sweatshirt?”
“What?” Suddenly, Karkat realizes his top is slightly tighter than he’d like it to be (though not entirely uncomfortable). When he looks down, he doesn’t recognize the band logo staring back at him. “Fuck.”
From Rose, there’s a snort of laughter. ”Well, while it’s just us, I’d like to thank you. Dave has said nothing but splendid things about you. Or, rather, he’s been about as complimentary as he can be.” When one ingredient is diced, it’s dumped into an empty bowl. Each is added to the same container, one after the other. “And that brings me to the next issue…” She finishes cutting the mushrooms before turning around.
Now, her gaze is cold. She idly runs her fingers along the flat face of the knife’s blade. “I failed to protect him once, and I refuse to let such a thing occur again. So, be forewarned that anything you do to hurt him will rebound on you.” A polite smile clashes with the finely honed edge of her voice. “Is that understood?”
Karkat nods. He doesn’t dare say anything.
“Splendid!” Warmth returns to Rose’s voice. She turns around, dumps the mushrooms into the bowl, and shakes the contents to mix them. Afterwards, she starts preparing the omelette. “Anyhow… I suppose I should also thank you for introducing Dave to Kanaya, for he subsequently introduced her to me. She’s quite lovely.”
“She is,” Karkat raps his knuckles against the countertop. In the back of his mind, he wonders if he’s starting to pick up some of Dave’s habits. He then reassures himself he isn’t. He can’t be; his impromptu beat is far less rhythmic and pleasing. “Last night, Dave said you hadn’t always been so fucking chummy. I find that pretty hard to swallow.”
“Oh, no,” Rose sighs. By now, the oil is hot enough to add two eggs. She cracks them against the edge of the counter before opening them fully above the pan. “He’s right. We clashed terribly at the beginning. It was truly something to behold. We may as well have been sworn enemies. But I guess our constant proximity eventually forced us to reconcile our differences.”
“You spent a lot of time with him?”
“Well, his — our — father kicked him out after the crash. He always was a douchebag.” Rose mixes the fillings into the omelette. The oil in the pan fizzles and pops. “Mother essentially had to take Dave in. Otherwise, he would’ve been turned over to the state. I wasn’t very fond of the choice at the time, but I’ve come to see it as a blessing. After seeing past our differences, it turned out to be a beneficial arrangement for both parties.”
“It did?” Karkat yawns.
Rose nods. “We were both deeply bitter teens, albeit for different reasons. We mutually confided in each other. I suppose I also softened some.” She slips the omelette from the pan and onto an awaiting plate. She serves it and turns back around. Now, another difference arises: She washes everything immediately.
“How do you have so much money, anyhow?” Karkat bites into his breakfast. It’s simple and delicious, much like his father’s cooking.
“Hm?” Rose looks over her shoulder. A wry grin tugs at her lips. “Karkat, dear, what’s my last name?”
“Lalonde. It’s fucking…” Realization flashes across Karkat’s mind like lightning. “Fuck. You own Lalonde Publishing, don’t you?”
“Precisely!” Rose finishes her tidying and sits at the bar. She smells like cinnamon, nutmeg, and pressed flowers. She idly flips through her phone. Eventually, she sets it on the counter and slides it to Karkat, saying, “We really did become best friends over those two years, Dave and I.”
The photo on the screen is more hopeful than what Karkat had seen on Dave’s camera. Time hasn’t changed either sibling much. Aside from Rose’s slightly fuller figure, they’re still essentially the same. The younger Rose is smiling and leaning against the back of a hospital-issue wheelchair. Dave, meanwhile, is smirking. His right arm is in a sling; a bandage is wrapped around his neck. But he looks more cheerful. There’s a spark of energy and hope in his eyes.
“Still…” her tone falls. “I regret that it happened at all.” She sighs. Her brows are furrowed. “Maybe if I’d been more attentive earlier, he wouldn’t have felt the need to be so reckless.”
“I’m not sure he would agree with that.” Karkat downs another forkful of omelette.
“Perhaps not.” Rose shakes her head. “Anyhow,” again, her tone brightens. She and Dave both have the ability to switch their outward mood at whim. “I understand that you and Kanaya are quite close.”
“We’ve known each other since preschool, yeah.”
“Great! Then you could… perhaps… give me some advice?” There’s a hopeful smile on her face. The curvature of her lips matches Dave’s.
It’s hard to resist.
So, Karkat obliges. He spends the next hour or so chatting with Rose. He regales her with tales of his adventures with Kanaya. He tells her about their middle school LARP group and its disproportionate drama. He reminisces about forays into the woods behind his childhood home — a landscape long since erased by another cookie-cutter apartment complex.
By 8:00, when Dave emerges from his room, the formerly tense air has turned to something warmer and more inviting.
His hair is slightly messier, albeit more uniform in color. Rose must have dyed it; the silvery roots are hidden beneath bottle blond. His posture is looser, more hunched, as he offers a lazy wave. He’s wearing Karkat’s red sweater, perhaps in retaliation, and it dwarfs his otherwise brawny frame.
Nothing needs to be said. Rose makes another omelette, this one loaded with ham, mushrooms, and jalapeños, and serves it without comment.
Eventually, when he’s done eating and downing a handful of assorted pills, Dave stretches his arms above his head. The early morning bleariness is gone; he’s back to his usual self. “Weather’s nice today,” he says, speaking simultaneously to Karkat and nobody in particular. “I was going to drive ‘round to some galleries, maybe drop by the art museum. You want with?” He wiggles his fingers as he pulls on his gloves.
“You’re my ride home, so I assume so.” Karkat hops off the barstool and follows Dave to the garage. “Can we swap our shirts back, though?”
Dave laughs. The sound slides easily under Karkat’s skin and begins to fester immediately. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d ask.”
-----
Apparently, Dave either was or is an active part of the city’s art scene. For three hours, he drags Karkat to various galleries. He chats with artists like old friends, but there’s usually a layer of distance between them. Some are visibly uncomfortable; others simply don’t seem interested in a genuine friendship. A few are more enthusiastic, even noting Dave’s personal preferences and aesthetic tastes.
Faces pass by as a rotating carousel of sculptors, painters, photographers, and textile weavers.
Karkat stays silent for the most part. He’s never been comfortable rubbing elbows with the upper-crust.
Every time Dave dismissively introduces him as a “boyfriend” or “friend”, his stomach twists into a confusing knot of warmth and bitter disdain. Deep down, he wants to be those things. But, for a reason he can’t quite place, he can’t bring himself to admit as much aloud.
-----
According to Karkat’s watch, it’s 11:30.
He stands in the middle of a white-walled gallery. According to the signage, it’s dedicated to Art Nouveau objects. Furniture, paintings, and sculptures are adorned with tangled webs of naturalistic, vine-like curves. Visually, it’s beautiful. But a bubbling sense of inadequacy fills his stomach. He’s never studied such things. He’s always been more intrigued by writing and theater. So, whenever Dave discusses something, Karkat merely acts as if he knows what is being said. He nods and hums in agreement, even as the pit in his chest gapes ever wider.
Finally, mercifully, Dave shoves himself upright. “You look ‘bout ready to puke,” he says, and the gallery is empty enough for his voice — wispy and hoarse as it is — to echo. “You okay there, pal?”
“Fine,” Karkat lies.
The slight flicker at the edges of Dave’s lips betray his doubt, but he says nothing. Instead, he shifts his position. He rests the heel of his right palm against his weakly bouncing knee until it falls still. “Weird to think that everyone who had a hand in making this shit is dead, y’know?” He folds his arms across his chest and leans deeper into the backrest of his chair. “All this time, this energy. All of it went into these things, shit just ‘bout nobody really cares ‘bout, and all that’s left of them is this.” He rubs his left hand over his mouth and squeezes out a weak cough. “That’s why I like it, I guess. It’s like looking back, seeing the work of people you’ll never know.”
Karkat nods slowly. In some ways, he understands. He sees what Dave is saying; he sees the vision. But trying to think about things in such a way — as a continuous march of life and death — makes his head spin.
“You hungry?” Dave unlocks the brakes of his chair. “I’m getting hungry. There’s a fancy place across the skywalk or a café downstairs. You pick, I’ll pay.”
Despite knowing that the bill is on Dave’s, Karkat habitually picks the cheaper option. “Café.”
“Cool.”
Karkat’s attempts to use the walk to the café as an opportunity to clear his head fail miserably. Instead of relaxing, he finds himself staring at Dave. His gaze lingers on his shoulders and jawline. Half of his mind thinks about the party and desperately wants to feel Dave’s lips against his neck again; the other half chides the first for being so stupid. From what he’s seen, Dave has plenty of options. Why, then, would his final pick be Karkat Vantas?
By the time he reaches the café proper, the only thing preventing him from completely losing it is a combination of shame and nagging hunger.
The glass-fronted displays show off a decent spread of warm meals. Two pizzas — one cheese, one pepperoni — occupy the center spot. Flanking them is a lineup of soups, some stir-fried rice, a meatball sub, and a burger.
Dave opts for the burger and a slice of apple pie.
Karkat gets the meatball sub and a bottle of ginger ale.
After paying, Dave does what he does best: He talks. His voice slowly reels Karkat back from the edge of the chasm that’s been eating at his mind all day. “Honestly, I’m just scouting this place out. Got hired to get new footage and photos for them. Gotta say, I’m impressed by the accessibility.” After selecting a table, he sets his tray on top and pulls a bottle of water from his bag. “I’ve gotten jobs before and had to turn ‘em down because, and I’m not sure if you noticed this, I cannot use stairs. It’s astounding that it happens, but it sure fucking does.” He peels off his gloves and sets them beside the tray. “Kind of annoying. Mostly pisses me off. Not really relevant to this case, though, so…”
After downing some of his meal, Karkat opens his mouth. He intends to continue Dave’s conversation — as a normal person would. Instead, his anxiety grabs hold of his tongue and twists it until he blurts out what he’s been thinking all day: “Why are you still hanging out with me, Strider?”
“Hm?” Dave looks up from the burger he’s gracelessly demolishing. He raises a single finger in the air as he wipes his mouth on some napkins and sets aside his meal. When he’s done, he uses the same hand to start counting off his points. “Well, for starters, I’m assuming Rose is still paying you. Second, as we’ve established, my friends have all moved out of here. Third, I guess I just like being around you. Does that work?”
“Why?” Karkat demands.
A confused laugh precedes Dave’s reply. “The fuck do you mean ‘why’? You want an entire essay or something? I dunno, dude. I guess I just like your personality.”
“I’m an abrasive asshole, Strider.”
“Yeah?” Dave shrugs. “I like that ‘bout you. Most people act like I’ll crack under the slightest pressure. You don’t.” He picks up his burger and takes another bite, though this one is more civilized than its predecessors. “Look, dude, it ain’t rocket science. I get feeling down ‘bout yourself. Truly, I do. I’m a thirty-year-old man pissing in a bag for the rest of my life, for fuck’s sake. But loosen up a little. Some people really like abrasive personalities.”
“I…” Karkat’s brows furrow. He eats to keep himself from saying something unfathomably stupid. The void consuming his thoughts is shrinking, but it’s not entirely gone.
Dave, meanwhile, finishes his burger. Then, he folds his arms atop the table and cocks his head to the side. “Hey,” he snaps his fingers.
When Karkat looks up, he finds himself staring directly into Dave’s eyes. Flecks of gold float in a sea of hazel that borders on burgundy.
He’s clipped his bifocals to the collar of his sweatshirt. And, like last night, he drops his usual bravado. His accent thickens. “I promise you, from the bottom of my bitter goddamn heart, I would not be sticking around if I hated you. I have enough on my plate as is. I won’t hang out with folks I hate just to play nice. I stopped doing that years ago.”
A mild, comforting warmth starts to wrap around Karkat’s chest. Still, he keeps eating.
Dave raps his knuckles against the table. The edges of his lips quirk into a faint but reassuring smile. “Hell, so far, you’ve only really pissed me off once. That’s pretty damn good, ain’t it?”
Karkat’s inner pessimist rears its head. “I assure you, Strider, it will be so much more than that eventually.”
“‘Course it will. That’s kind of how people work, dude.” Pale brows twist into something resembling bemused confusion. “In the words of a great philosopher, ‘Nobody’s perfect, you live and you learn it.’” Here, he pauses. “Ah, fuck, nah. That’s Hannah Montana, ain’t it?”
Despite his best efforts, Karkat finds himself laughing. The last vestiges of doubt slip away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“You’ve got a lot to pick from,” Dave shrugs. His smile widens, and the usual veneer of vague indifference slips back into his voice as he continues, saying, “By the by, do you have to be back at your place today? Not trying to pressure you or anything, but I’d honestly feel kinda’ awkward with Kanaya hanging around.”
“Why? She’s a perfectly friendly person.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know her that well. And I’d like to think I know you better than her.”
“True,” Karkat concedes. “I don’t have to be anywhere anytime soon. The job hunt is about as fucking abysmal as you’d expect.”
“One of the few perks of freelancing shit that you can’t fake, I guess.” Dave cleans his hands on one of the few remaining unused napkins before repositioning himself. “You might’ve told me before, but I forgot. What’d you do before this?”
“I waited tables at a fucking shithole local diner,” Karkat frowns. Of all the jobs he’s had, he’d rank his last among the worst. “The bosses sucked, the customers were mostly entitled old fucks, and just handling the food made me want to puke.”
“Sheldon’s Inn? Yeah. I went there once after we moved here. Must be review boosted constantly by boomers. Gave me the worst indigestion I’ve had in my life.”
Karkat shakes his head. “Sorry you were fooled by the cleanliness. It’s a disgusting cesspool of shit.”
“Don’t have to tell me ‘bout it.”
By now, Karkat has finished his meal. The only thing left is a single slice of pie.
As soon as he takes a bite, Dave’s face lights up. “Damn. That’s pretty good.” He shoves the plate closer to the center of the table. “Try some,” he says, though it’s more of a command than a statement. As if to sweeten the deal, he slides a second fork to Karkat.
Normally, such an offer would be met with an outright refusal. Couples sharing food at tables has, until now, been something that Karkat has always found detestable. Now, the combination of Dave’s reaction and the glistening pie filling overpowers his instincts. “Fuck,” he grumbles, snatching up the fork, “Fine. I’ll try it.”
And it turns out that Dave isn’t exaggerating. It’s about as close as one can get to the perfect pie. The cinnamon-laced outer crust is flaky and crisp, with just the tiniest bit of give near the center. The filling is perfectly baked. It’s neither too dry nor too watery, and it naturally melts away in Karkat’s mouth.
“Holy fuck.”
“That was my thought,” Dave grins. “You want your own slice?”
Karkat nods eagerly.
“Sure! I’ll grab some for Rose, too. Hell, I should probably get some for Kanaya.” Dave laughs, and the sound reaches deep into Karkat’s mind. It massages the rough edges that so often dominate his thoughts, rubbing them away until they’re smooth and bearable. It’s like a song that he knows only vaguely, and he finds himself desperately wanting to learn it all.
Notes:
I beta nothing, so let me know if you see anything wonky. 👍 Check the first chapter to see a playlist for the fic.
Chapter 13: Just a Part You Have to Play
Summary:
Chapter title from “I Could Talk to You All Night” from The Outsiders musical. I'm aware the music taste here is all over the place, and I do not care.
Notes:
Content warnings for Kankri, so typical ableism, bullshit, and condescending attitude (begins with the "BLOCK THIS BASTARD" texting thread). and yeah. so there's a playlist now. welcome back, the "comedy" half of dramedy (mostly). and css fuckery.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, 23 December 2021
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Sollux:
-----
Group Pesterchum chat between Sollux and “The Trolls”:
GROUP CHAT [THE PLOT THICKENS] STARTED
SOLLUX: come and get your tea, kids. ☕️☕️
SOLLUX: i went to drop shit off at kk’s apartment.
SOLLUX: and he wasn’t home. 👀👀
DAVE: of course he ain’t home you nerd he’s in my room right now.
SOLLUX: my sick gossip! what the fuck, dude? 😭😭
VRISKA: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
VRISKA: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!
VRISKA: Get rolled, you fucking dork. 🤣
JUNE: omg! i’m not late to the sick nasty gossip for once. 🥳
DAVE: oh hey wassup nerd?
JUNE: your dick, apparently. :B
DAVE: touché. 👍 🍆
USER turntechGodhead ADDED USER carcinoGeneticist TO THE CHAT
DAVE: 🤙
KARKAT: GODS FUCKING DAMMIT, SOLLUX. I WILL BEAT YOUR ASS SO HARD YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO WALK STRAIGHT FOR A YEAR, YOU INSUFFERABLE WASTE OF SPACE.
SOLLUX: hey. woah. that’s playing dirty.
USER twinArmageddons REMOVED USER carcinoGeneticist FROM THE CHAT
SOLLUX: but! but! that’s not all of the drama! 🫣🫣
SOLLUX: there’s more!
USER grimAuxiliatrix ADDED USER tentacleTherapist TO THE CHAT
ROSE: If, by “more”, you mean to say that Kanaya is also not at her usual place of residence, then I shall elucidate further. I can also verify the statement.
ROSE: Kanaya is in my room.
USER twinArmageddons REMOVED USER tentacleTherapist FROM THE CHAT
SOLLUX: everyone is ruining my fun today.
SOLLUX: 🥺🥺
USER turntechGodhead ADDED USER carcinoGeneticist TO THE CHAT
KARKAT: I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD I CAN NAME OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD — WHICH IS, BY THE WAY, A FAIR FUCKING AMOUNT — I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET THIS, SOLLUX.
KARKAT: FUCK! FOR GOOD MEASURE, I’LL THROW SOME RISHIS IN, TOO.
KANAYA: 👀
USER twinArmageddons REMOVED USER carcinoGeneticist FROM THE CHAT
DAVE: yo!
DAVE: reel it back there buckaroo.
DAVE: i wanna know what this rishi shit is.
USER turntechGodhead ADDED USER carcinoGeneticist TO THE CHAT
DAVE: hey karkles
DAVE: can i call you that?
KARKAT: NO, YOU MOST CERTAINLY MAY NOT.
DAVE: cool anyhoe what’s a rishi?
TAVROS: i, uH, tHINK IT’S SOMETHING TO DO WITH HINDUISM?
KARKAT: DO YOU KNOW WHAT A BODHISATTVA IS?
DAVE: i’m a basic white man my dude.
DAVE: a basic white man who also flunked high school.
DAVE: so no.
KARKAT: …
KARKAT: OKAY… SO THE CLOSEST I CAN THINK OF THAT YOU MIGHT UNDERSTAND IS THE CONCEPT OF A “SAINT”.
SOLLUX: great! all figured out! get your ass out of here.
USER twinArmageddons REMOVED USER carcinoGeneticist FROM THE CHAT
ARADIA: what the fuck is happening here? 0_0
JUNE: i’m not dave’s #1 friend with benefits any more. 😥
SOLLUX: dave and karkat. rose and kanaya. that’s what’s happening. got it?
ARADIA: sure?
TEREZI: CAN YOU PEOPLE CHILL FOR FIVE MINUTES? MY SCREEN READER IS GOING APESHIT.
TAVROS: wELL… i AM NOT REALLY, uH, tHE ONE INVOLVED HERE. sO…
TEREZI: AW, COME ON, MAN! LIVE A LITTLE!
USER gallowsCalibrator ADDED USER carcinoGeneticist TO THE CHAT
KARKAT: SOLLUX GODSDAMNED CAPTOR, YOU FUCKING DOLT.
USER twinArmageddons HAS BANNED USER carcinoGeneticist FROM THE CHAT
VRISKA: Sheesh. It’s Mr. Noooooooo Fun Zone here. 🙄
EQUIUS: I am detecting some STRONG — as the kids say — “cancel culture” in this chat room.
NEPETA: 🐱🍿
NEPETA. i’m just here for the purr-etty catty drama!
DAVE: pretty good shit i must admit.
NEPETA: oh! guy from the christmas party! 👋
USER gallowsCalibrator ADDED USER tentacleTherapist TO THE CHAT
TEREZI: 🍿
KANAYA: Is The Drama Still Ongoing? Is Everyone Present Continuing To Gossip, Or Have We All Mostly Grown Bored Of Sollux’s Ongoing Antics.
VRISKA: Speak for yourself. I’m pretty entertained by this.
JUNE: honestly, you can’t even really see the tea.
JUNE: so much bull shit has happened that it’s buried up there. way at the top.
KANAYA: Vriska, I Was Not Asking For Your Opinion.
SOLLUX: well, if you fucking dingbats had shut up for five minutes, we wouldn’t have this problem.
ROSE: I freely admit that I don’t fully understand the dynamic of this friend group, but it seems that asking everyone to “shut up for five minutes” is quite a tall order.
ROSE: Anyhow, Kanaya and I have things to do.
USER tentacleTherapist HAS LEFT THE CHAT
JUNE: welp.
DAVE: it seems this has gone all flip-turnways huh?
SOLLUX: this is pointless. all of you are idiots. 😤😤
TEREZI: YEAH? YOU JUST FIGURED THAT OUT? 😒
TAVROS: i THOUGHT THAT MUCH WAS OBVIOUS.
VRISKA: You’re all idiots.
VRISKA: I’m not, though. 😌
KANAYA: Oh, Yes, You Are.
USER grimAuxiliatrix HAS LEFT THE CHAT
TAVROS. i’M WITH KANAYA ON THIS ONE. sORRY.
SOLLUX: you’re all impossible. nobody appreciates me. 😤😤
ARADIA: i do. usually.
USER twinArmageddons HAS CLOSED THE CHAT.
-----
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Kankri:
-----
As far as Karkat can tell, Rose and Kanaya are getting along well — perhaps too well. They’ve quickly become inseparable. Formerly two-person plans became three-person engagements. And those quickly became four-person meetings, as Dave begged Karkat to tag along.
“I barely know Kanaya,” he reasoned, “This entire thing is awkward as fuck, totally my fault, and not something I’m prepared to handle.”
Admittedly, at this point, Karkat can’t think of many reasons he’d turn down a chance to tag along with Dave. Even if he wasn’t being paid, he finds himself enjoying their time together more and more. Not that he’d ever admit as much. His logical, pragmatic side still insists that this is a wholly transactional affair. He’s spent so much time with Dave that he’s grown accustomed to his presence; it means nothing, of course.
Absolutely nothing.
But, now, as he lounges on a cheap beanbag chair in Dave’s studio, he finds himself wondering if it’s something more.
He watches as moonlight filters through the window and casts beams of silver against Dave’s hair. Pale fingers move with practiced precision, easily bending and molding a lump of clay into something more. It grows tall, squishes flat, and then flares outward. Slowly, it becomes something resembling a stout vase with a small opening at the top. Tattooed muscles ripple as toned arms follow well-memorized paths. Vaguely, through the haze of ink, he can make out some shapes — an eagle, a shield, a sword, and a hawk.
“What’re you making, Strider?” Karkat peers into his can of cheap Carapacian; it’s empty. It tasted like shit, but it’s done its job. He’s pleasantly buzzed; his face is warm. “Vase?”
Dave shrugs, but the way his jaw is set suggests otherwise. He knows what he’s doing. A mix of dry and wet clay is smeared across his shirt and pants. And, after a moment of thought, he turns off the spinning wheel. He opens a drawer and pulls out a fettling knife, which he promptly uses to cut a few small, precise holds near the vessel’s midsection.
Karkat remains silent. He watches closely, unable to pull his eyes away.
Dave’s movements are confident. He works with assured speed; he’s done this before. He’s done it all enough to slice into carefully sculpted clay without fear. After each slot is cut, he jabs the knife’s fine tip into the center. A slight twist and a pull frees each circle from its place.
Eventually, as if Karkat’s question finally registered, Dave pauses. He sets aside the knife and wipes his hands on a nearby towel. It does little; he still smears clay over the rubberized pushrims of his wheelchair when he turns around. “Sorry. Really zeroed in there.” He rolls his right sleeve back up, idly staring at some wet clay on the back of his forearm. “Teapot. I hope to finish it before Rose goes back to Chicago, but I’ll mail it to her if it ain’t.”
“You’re good at it,” Karkat says. His mind and tongue, dulled by alcohol, spends a minute or so groping for the right words. When he finds them, he blurts them out, “Pottery, I mean. You’re good at it.”
“I’ve been dabbling in it for almost a decade now,” Dave shrugs. He sticks a hand under a clean section of sweatshirt to twist the cap off his bottled water. After drinking, he leaves it open and sets it near the back of the worktable. “I hope I’m at least half decent at it.”
“Fuck you, Strider. You’re too modest.”
Dave raises his brows and adjusts his glasses. He wheels over, closer to Karkat, and parks himself about a foot away.
For once, Karkat is at natural eye-level with Dave. He’s not drunk, not yet, but he’s tipsy enough to let his eyes soak in what’s in front of him. A lazy smile tugs at his usually taciturn expression.
“Here,” Dave reaches his hand out and snags the empty beer can. “You don’t need to be holding an empty can all night, you dork.” He sets it on the nearby shelf, likely making a mental note to retrieve it later. After setting it down, he flexes his fingers and rolls his wrists. A look of mild discomfort flashes across his face. He hisses something under his breath before shaking his head. “Let me finish this. I’ll be back.”
With that said, he turns back around and picks up an unattached spout. He uses a different blade, this one more closely resembling a small paring knife, to trim the edge. The edge is then used to score the surface around the holes from earlier. A glob of slick, mud-like slip is applied around the area before he carefully joins the two pieces. When he’s confident of the joint’s stability, he uses a wet sponge to smooth away any rough edges. It’s an intricate and seemingly tedious process that takes him just a handful of minutes.
Karkat finds himself entranced.
The only thing that pulls him back to reality is a sharp hiss. “Ow! Fuck!” The blade clatters onto the table. Dave’s brows furrow. As a thin line of blood seeps from his right thumb, he pointedly looks away. “Fuck.” His expression shifts to a look of pure, visceral discomfort.
In the furthest reaches of his mind, Karkat remembers seeing something like this. His one summer spent as a camp counselor surfaces. He remembers how he used to react to even the mildest scrapes. He may not have the same artistic talents as Dave, but he knows what to do when someone fears the sight of their own blood.
“Hey!” he raises his voice slightly, enough to make Dave look at him. “Keep looking at me. You seem to have just about fucking everything in that bag, so” — he doesn’t need to finish.
“Front pocket, far left inner slot.” When he’s nervous, Dave’s right hand trembles. He forces a smile and a nervous laugh. “You… uh… God, I look like such an idiot. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, y’know? I’ve been poked by enough needles. It’s just…”
“You’re fine.” Karkat finds the bandages easily. The designated spot is filled with an array of wound care options, including skin glue and plastic zip stitches. There’s enough disinfectant to supply a small classroom for a semester. He falls back on his old training. “Do you mind if I help?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Dave chews on his lip. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” Karkat wipes off the wound and applies a dab of disinfectant. When he sees Dave’s eyes wandering back to the still-bleeding cut, he lets forth a sharp whistle. “Back here, Strider. Don’t freak yourself out all over again.”
Dave nods. “I’m fine with other people’s blood,” he explains, though he doesn’t need to. “I just… I can’t handle mine. It reminds me too much of the crash.” He looks down as he presses the thumb and forefinger of his left hand against his brow. “And, heh, that ain’t exactly something that I want to remember, y’know?”
“That makes sense,” Karkat concedes. He unwraps an adhesive bandage — generic brand, judging by the flimsy paper cover — and winds it around Dave’s thumb. When he’s done, he steps back. “There. You’re fine.”
Another nod. After a few seconds of recovery, Dave hesitantly glances at his bandaged digit. His anxiety subsides like an ocean wave: slow, sure, and without hesitation. Eventually, when he’s returned to his usual state of feigned disinterest, he backs up, putting a few feet of distance between himself and Karkat. “Thanks. You didn’t need to do that.”
“I know I didn’t dumbass.” Karkat takes off the zip-up sweatshirt he’s borrowed from Dave’s closet and lays it on the floor as a cushion before sitting. “I used to hate seeing my own blood, too. But I don’t have any legitimate excuse beyond thinking it was gross.”
“Really?” Dave idly massages his right thumb against his left wrist. “I’d say that’s a decent excuse. How’d you get over it?”
“Working as a summer camp counselor for one year. I somehow got the rowdiest, most accident-prone bunch of prepubescent little shitheels on the planet. You’d think they wanted me dead with how often I ended up in stupid situations.”
“Maybe they did.” A smirk pulls at the left edge of Dave’s lips. “I used to offer cheap videography for children’s events. Stopped doing that after realizing the little hellions are constant safety nightmares for me.” He flexes his fingers and folds his arms atop his knees. As he leans forward, he breathes a hoarse yawn. “Doesn’t matter how many times you ask ‘em nicely to maybe chill out with the pushing and shoving. They’ll keep doing it. And their dedication to behaving themselves is totally dependent on how shitty the parents are.”
Karkat laughs. “Kids are just safety hazards in general. If they’re not doing shit that could kill them, they’re doing something that could kill someone else.”
“Fucking amazing,” quips Dave, “I managed to do something that hit both targets at the same time.” Using a clean inch of sweatshirt fabric, he wipes off the display on his watch. “It’s getting late. I need to clean this place up. If you want to head to bed, I’ll be there in ‘bout an hour.”
Part of Karkat wants to refuse the offer, but his increasingly heavy eyelids say otherwise. Reluctantly, he stands and tosses the borrowed sweatshirt over his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll get out of your hair. But… uh…” he rubs the back of his neck. “If you want me to stay longer, you’ll need to take me back to my place long enough to pick up some shit. I can’t keep borrowing your clothes.”
By now, Dave has started wiping down his worktable. He stops long enough to look up and reply: “Sure. I can do that. I have a feeling Kanaya ain’t going home before Christmas, so I’ll take you shopping for something to give my sis. Might come ‘cross a little rude otherwise, y’know?”
“I hate admitting you’re right about anything, but…” Karkat shakes his head and waves. “Good night, Strider.”
This time, Dave doesn’t look up from his work. He does, however, respond with a slight smile. “Yeah. ‘Night, Karkat.”
Notes:
Fuck it. Updating today. IDK if there will be an update tomorrow because I have no schedule but WHEEEEEE.
Chapter 14: Thrown It Away for a Song
Summary:
Chapter title from Kris Kristofferson's “Breakdown (A Long Way From Home)”.
Notes:
No chapter warnings. UwU
Chapter Text
Friday, 24 December 2021
The initial plan was to buy Rose’s gift and leave.
New Alternia Hills Centre is, by virtue of its status as the only remaining shopping mall in the city, ready to bust at the seams. Last minute shoppers form massive lines to buy the latest tech. People argue bitterly over the rapidly dwindling stock of toys and games. In the more popular spots, it’s like a wave; movement is mandatory. The alternative is being trampled beneath glassy-eyed consumers. It’s the last place Karkat would normally want to be.
Yet, for some reason, he finds himself feeling less anxious than usual. His mind is doing a convincing job of persuading him that the uncharacteristic calm isn’t related to Dave’s presence, but a tiny scrap of him knows it to be true.
As for the plan, well, the weather has been unseasonably warm, and the company is good.
Karkat finds himself sitting at the edge of a concrete planter, the center of which is occupied by a tinsel-covered ornamental pine tree. He warms his hands around a cup of steaming hot chocolate and watches as a kitschy miniature steam train trundles down the brick pathway. Like everything else, it’s blasting ear-grating Christmas music.
Nearby, Dave stares intently at the gift he’d chosen for Rose: a hideous and borderline nightmarish garden gnome. Flakes of red stain its faux stone hat, and its wide-eyed expression makes it look more like a wizardly crackhead than a friendly visitor. After a few minutes, he smirks. “Fuck, this thing’s ugly.” He flips it over and peels off the $20 price tag. “Ain’t even real concrete or anything. She’ll love it.”
“Will she?”
Karkat can’t say with any confidence that he knows anything about Rose’s decorating style. From what he’s seen, she has fairly classical tastes. Her fashion sense, at least, borders on something closer to typical upper-middle-class sensibilities than whatever this gnome would be.
“Look,” Dave says as he sets the gnome on his lap and folds his arms atop its head. “This ain’t a serious gift. We don’t do those the first time ‘round in our house. Makes you seem too formal. Just trust me. She’ll hate this thing so much that she’ll paradoxically adore it.”
“If you say so.” Without his usual veil of constant anger holding him back, Karkat allows a small smile onto his face. “It’s nice seeing siblings getting along and not trying to fucking murder each other.”
“Is your brother that bad?” Dave’s voice is gentle, though the usual curtain of larger-than-life confidence is still there. “I mean… I’ve met some real dicks. He can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, he’s definitely that fucking bad,” Karkat sighs. “He’s a manipulative douchebag with a savior complex.”
“He’d get along with some of the worst nurses I know, then,” Dave smirks.
“Probably.” Burying his hands in his pockets, Karkat tries to push down the rising anger in his throat. His fingers close around a gift he’d picked up while Dave wasn’t looking. In truth, it’s a cheap trinket he’d spotted at one of the seasonal outdoor booths. He had planned on handing it over when they got to the car. Now, he sees it as an opportunity to steer the discussion away from his least favorite subject.
He clears his throat and winds his fingers around the black nylon string. “Not to be weird,” he opens, and the comment draws a bemused smirk from Dave. He pauses to think.
“I saw something I thought you’d like,” is what he wants to say. But it sounds too personal, too friendly. Even now, after being told explicitly that Dave considers him a friend, he can’t see himself as anything other than a paid companion. So, he settles on something less sincere: “I felt like I owed you something for all those tips you keep giving me.”
“Aw, shit,” Dave rubs the back of his neck. “C’mon, dude, you didn’t need to do that.”
“Yeah, well,” Karkat pulls out a plain necklace. The cherry red rubber object at the end of its nylon length is molded to resemble a plain river stone. “The vendor said it’s a ‘chew necklace’,” he explains, “and I figured it’s probably better for your teeth than plastic straws and cheap gum.”
“Huh.” Dave’s subdued reply clashes with the look of wide-eyed intrigue on his face. He takes the necklace into his hands like a priceless treasure. When he lays the bauble in his palm, it stands out against the faded black leather of his glove like a rare gem. “Didn’t even know they made such an animal.”
“It’s a necklace?”
Dave laughs. “You’ve never heard that saying before?” He idly wraps the price tag around his right index finger and pulls, handily separating the white paper from the nylon before tucking the small bit of trash in his pocket. After one final look, he slips it on and tucks it beneath his black peacoat. “Well, damn, Karkat. That was actually real sweet of you.”
A flood of warmth tickles just beneath Karkat’s cheeks.
And Dave, blissfully unaware of how comforting his statement was, keeps going, “Like I said, you really didn’t need to do that. But it’s a damn good gift. I’d say it makes me wonder what Rose got me, but it’s almost always a new jacket.”
“Does she modify them herself?” Karkat asks, thinking back to the slits and side vents he’s seen on most of Dave’s clothes.
“The stuff I get for the holidays is all Lalonde original shit. She’s always dabbled in sewing and knitting. I don’t understand any of it, but what she makes is generally easier for me to wear than what I’d get at the store.”
As if sensing Karkat’s mild confusion, Dave pulls at the lower edge of his coat. There’s a roughly four-inch flap against his hip that lets the fabric fall more naturally over his legs. “Most clothing is made for, well, folks on two legs. Jackets are probably the biggest pain in my ass to find. Baggy sweatshirts and blankets are always an option, but that ain’t always what I want to wear. Sometimes I want to look like something a little nicer than ‘guy in a wheelchair and a cheap pullover’, y’know?” A sarcastic smirk and air quotes barely hide the sincerity beneath Dave’s statement.
“Finding anything nice if you’re not a godsdamned beanpole feels about the same,” Karkat laments. He’s always been on the bigger side, and most of his childhood was spent in generic graphic t-shirts and ill-fitting hand-me-downs.
“Same fucking boat, then.” Dave sticks the gnome back into the paper bag by his side. His movements highlight the care put into Rose’s tailoring. The side slits are more than fashionable; they give the jacket more room to move as he stretches. The gap between the red-hemmed edging also keeps the fabric away from the spokes of Dave’s chair. “I’m hungry. You?”
“I could eat.”
Nodding, Dave pulls his phone from his pocket. “This’ll sound real cheap-ass, but there’s a nice sale at the Mexican place a few doors down.” He saves a coupon before holding the gnome-stuffed bag out, adding, “Anyhow, I don’t want to carry this accursed little man. You take him.”
“Ugh,” Karkat feigns offense, “Why me?”
“That little bastard’s probably cursed, and I’ve had enough shit go wrong in my life. You take whatever bad energy it’s putting off.” Dave’s expression is serious, but his tone is blatantly playful. A barely concealed laugh rumbles beneath his words.
And, after a few facetious tuts, Karkat snatches up the bag. “Fine. I’ll take it, but I’m blaming you if I drop dead tonight.”
-----
Group Pesterchum chat between Karkat and company:
GROUP CHAT [JOYOUS FESTIVITIES TO THE TROLLS (I GUESS)] STARTED
ARADIA: 0_0
KARKAT: IF YOU NEVER GOT YOUR GIFT FROM ME, BOTHER ME IN ABOUT A WEEK. I’M BEING PAID TO STAY AT STRIDER’S HOUSE.
NEPETA: are you purr-haps housesitting for him? 😻
SOLLUX: no, they’re probably fucking. 😏😏
KANAYA: As Far As I Am Aware, The Two Of Them Are Just Chatting. But They May Be Doing Other Activities. They Left Earlier To Go Shopping, And I Obviously Cannot Vouch For Their Actions Without Being There To Witness Them.
KANAYA: Not That I Would Want To, If Sollux Is Correct.
TEREZI: I STILL HAVEN’T GOTTEN ANY SORT OF GIFT FROM YOU, KK.
TEREZI: BUT I’LL JUST ASSUME IT’S BECAUSE THE POSTAL SYSTEM IS STRUGGLING. 👍
KARKAT: AND YOU’D BE CORRECT.
JUNE: i didn’t get anything. 😢
KARKAT: WE COVERED THIS, YOU FUCKING DORK. IT’S STUCK IN CUSTOMS. IT’LL GET HERE WHEN IT GETS HERE.
KARKAT: I’M LEAVING THE CHAT OPEN. FEEL FREE TO CHAT AMONGST YOURSELVES.
-----
Christmas never meant much in the Vantas household. For the most part, everyone kept to themselves. Peace was and still is kept through distance. Karkat will send his father a festive greeting, but that’s about as far as he’ll ever go. Seeing something different — something more like what he knows from cheerful Hallmark films — is as jarring as it is bittersweet.
Dave has already explained what to expect. Gifts are exchanged after dinner on Christmas Eve. The meal served is, as promised, a mouth-watering spiral-cut ham with a spread of broiled vegetables, fried asparagus, and mashed potatoes.
The gifts are handed out with little fanfare. From Dave, Rose receives a box of luxurious fabrics and a handmade teapot. Kanaya gives her a pair of custom-engraved knitting needles. When presented with Karkat’s gift, she laughs and claims that it shall be displayed prominently in her office at Lalonde Press’s corporate headquarters.
Kanaya, whose present from Karkat is still presumably sitting in her mailbox, receives a $500 gift card and an apologetic discussion regarding Rose’s uncertainty about what she’d want.
Dave, meanwhile, receives a bright red plaid mackinaw jacket. Its gold-threaded seams perfectly complement his build by drawing a casual onlooker’s gaze towards his shoulders. The accent color matches bronzed buttons and a small “RL” crest on the right edge of the jacket’s collar.
Nothing that Karkat has come to expect — arguments, fights, and physical confrontations — ever happens. Instead, after a few hours of chatting, everyone goes their separate ways. Rose and Kanaya retire to her room.
Dave invites Karkat to the den-turned-office at the house’s northwestern corner. Now, clad in his new jacket and showing the smallest hints of his apple cider consumption, he hands over a box. The gold and black wrapping job is atrocious, but it works. And Dave seems to know as much; he’s quick to interject before Karkat starts opening the gift.
“I’m ass at wrapping gifts,” he says, shrugging, “Rose is better at it than me. You’d think I’d be good at it, but I just get m’self wrapped up in the tape.”
Karkat nods.
The entire day has been uncomfortably idyllic. He’s spent the past twenty-four hours waiting for some sort of bomb to drop, and it’s yet to materialize. Now, even as he stares at the gift in his lap, he can’t quite shake the feeling that something will inevitably go wrong. Still, he opens the package.
From a loose bundle of newspaper, he pulls a lumpy ceramic bowl. The inside surface is coated in a clear stain that reveals its earthenware base. The outside is bright red. Two black stripes — one at the top, one at the bottom — break up what would be an otherwise eye-gouging color scheme. He recognizes it immediately, but he says nothing; he lets Dave explain.
“It’s the bowl you made a few days ago. Turns out it was perfectly serviceable, so I tossed it in the kiln with Rose’s teapot.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Stupid gift, I know. But a lot of people I’ve shown my pottery stuff to like taking home whatever they make.”
Karkat finds himself thinking about a lumpy, misshapen, sky blue vase that often sat at the center of June’s dining table.
“You don’t have to keep it, by the way. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it and use it for something. Just wanted to give you a chance to claim it. You made it, after all.”
There’s an almost sickeningly sweet feeling massaging the back of Karkat’s skull. At least for now, it tames the anxiety that’s been resting there for hours. After a few seconds of thought, he manages to scrape together enough mental resources to respond to the gift. “Thanks. I’ll have to put this out somewhere in my apartment.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend eating out of it. Sort of ran out of food-safe glaze on Rose’s teapot.” A sheepish smile punctuates Dave’s statement. “Sorry ‘bout that, dude.”
“It’s fine.” Karkat sets the bowl on a nearby table.
Dave pulls a battered guitar box from beneath a pile of seemingly forgotten paperwork. Again, he starts tuning it by ear. “Rose said Kanaya’s heading back to her place after tomorrow, so you’re welcome to do the same.” He tunes the lowest note before continuing: “Go to your place, that is. ‘Less you and Kanaya are that tight.”
There’s a surprisingly large part of Karkat that wants to stay, but enough of his logical mind still wants to say otherwise. “Yeah, no offense, but I should probably tidy the place up at least. And I’ve been getting emails out my godsdamned asshole from the complex’s mail room.”
Dave nods. “Understandable.” He tunes the next string. “You’re welcome to come back, though. I mean… Rose has already invited Kanaya back for New Year’s, and I won’t be doing much ‘til after that.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed.”
A wry smirk flashes across Dave’s lips. “Works for me.” He stops long enough to chug some water before continuing his idle work. “Rose’s been pretty obviously crushing on your friend. So, hey, I figured you’d be fun to have ‘round.” After plucking a few random notes, his brows furrow. “Not that your presence is necessarily predicated on Kanaya’s. And not that I’m implying anything between us,” he adds. “Just… thought it’d be fun.”
Karkat nods.
Admittedly, even if Dave is using him to make Kanaya’s visits less awkward, he wouldn’t mind. At this point, despite being unable to admit it upfront, an ever-growing part of him wants to spend more time with Dave.
“Not sure what’s happening tomorrow. Rose and I’d go and see movies sometimes, but there ain’t anything out worth seeing right now. Hell, a nice day at home sounds pretty fucking solid.” A melodic whine strains from the guitar strings as Dave’s fingers slide down the instrument’s neck. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”
“You’re thirty,” Karkat quips. “You still have approximately twenty years before you can claim that.”
Dave’s laugh blends into the buzzing hum of the guitar’s metal strings. It’s a different build than before. The front is stained a deep, rich brown — almost black — save for a marbled white pick guard. His movements are a rapturously captivating mix of instinct and expertise. He’s practiced enough to know where his fingers should be without so much as a glance. Yet, at the same time, it’s not a known song; he’s spinning out his own riff.
And, at least for now, Karkat lets himself relax. He sinks deeper into the faded leather armchair in the corner of the office and lets Dave’s music coil itself around his brain. Each note thrums against his mind and cushions him from the barrage of negativity that usually swarms through his head. For the first time in years, that nagging sense of self-hatred is gone. In its place is pure, meandering musical expression.
Chapter 15: ⏪️: K. 626.III.c
Summary:
The chapter title this time refers to the “Rex Tremendae” section of Mozart's Requiem, Köchel catalog number (K.) 626 (part ‘c’ of the Sequentia section). You can also listen to the full composition. This chapter has multiple warnings.
Notes:
This is a flashback sequence. The first section carries multiple warnings for (both vague and moderate) descriptions of vehicular accidents, medical procedures, and references to euthanasia. The second comes with multiple warnings for mentions of bullying (including racism and fatphobia) and Karkat-typical self-loathing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 26 December 2006
After fifteen years of dodging his father’s fists, Dave Strider had zero qualms about going to jail. By his estimates, jail was a picnic compared to his home life. He and his gang of misfits had been stealing motorcycles for the past two years. They abused their privilege to get away with wrist slaps and week-long prison sentences. To Dave, it was fun. It was a lucrative source of wild and seemingly harmless thrills. More importantly, it never stirred up the same genuine fear as the smell of alcohol on his father’s breath.
Down the street, at the corner of Marshall and Sixth, the Wartons had bought their son a turbo-charged Yamasaki.
Dave had seen it speeding down the city’s main thoroughfare at midnight. The high-gloss red body beckoned him like a bottle of beer calls to an alcoholic. He didn’t just want to ride it; he needed to ride it.
So, he did what he always did. He broke into the garage.
It wasn’t hard. He’d taught himself to pick locks years ago, having been caught outside the locked apartment door too many times. By fifteen, it was second nature. A few deft motions were all it took for the rusty padlock to fall away. The bike inside seemed ready for him. The key was still in the ignition. The vinyl cover was yet to be replaced.
He walked it through the garage’s wide side door and slipped into the night. And for good measure, he replaced the lock. He’d be back soon, after all, and he liked the Wartons. Were it not for his impulses, he’d have left them alone altogether. But, as his adolescent mind reasoned, it wasn’t his fault that they’d bought their son the most kick-ass motorcycle he’d ever seen.
Once he was out of earshot, a good three blocks away, he started up the motor. He cruised around for a bit, waiting for his usual gang to arrive. When they did, he received all the praise he craved.
The consensus was unanimous: This was his most remarkable steal yet. And as long as it was replaced by sunrise, nobody would know a thing.
Of all the misfits, Dave’s favorite was Amos. Despite a two-year age gap, he’d taken it upon himself to become the kid’s mentor. And Amos was, like everyone else, in awe of the latest theft.
“Holy shit, Dave,” Amos said, green eyes wide with wonder. “Where the hell’d you get that?”
“Waltons’ house.” Dave smirked and lit a cigarette. “They never lock their back gate. Way too trusting.”
Gus, in comparison, was his least favorite. He always pushed for more, and Dave was usually stupid enough to listen. So, naturally, when he started his usual taunts, they easily reached their mark. “Why bother being quiet, dumbass? Just break in and take it.”
“Unlike you, I’d rather have options.” When Dave went to grab his cigarette, a stray ember burned the back of his hand. He hissed as he shook off the smoldering tobacco. “Can’t hit the same house twice if they catch you once.”
“Whatever you think,” Gus shrugged before speeding off.
And a part of Dave — a logical, pragmatic side that he often buried beneath countless layers of hyper-masculine bravado — knew it was a stupid idea to give chase. But, like most of his decisions, his final choice was driven by an obsessive need to prove himself.
He’d learned early on that speed and control don’t often mix, especially on standard bikes. But he blindly trusted what he was riding. He figured that anything with a turbo option was built for racing. When he surpassed his rival, he did what he’d done hundreds of times before — he leaned back and lifted the front wheel off the ground. He ignored the bitterly cold wind that stung every exposed inch of skin as he pushed the machine to its limit.
And, admittedly, he succeeded — for a glorious fraction of a second, he felt like a god. He managed to put the front wheel back down before he saw the light turn red. He saw the bright glow of headlights to his left, and he had two choices: assured death by speeding car, or probable death by stupidity.
He chose the latter.
He did what he’d been told again and again to never do, regardless of the situation: He slammed the brakes.
Gravity took over. As the bike ground to a halt, forward momentum pulled him onward. The world turned upside-down. A sickening crunch rang through the base of his skull as he made his first impact against rough asphalt. For a few seconds, his terror was overwritten by a morbid fascination with his own weightlessness.
His helmet kept him alive and conscious long enough to see the glow of half a dozen motorcycle headlamps scatter into the night. As he skidded to a stop, he felt something warm and wet dripping down his neck. A smear of blood on the inside of his visor made the streetlights look like crimson spirit orbs.
The car he’d been dodging sped off — the driver was either unaware of or unconcerned by the unfolding accident.
In the few seconds it took for him to realize what had happened, Dave Strider realized he was completely and irrevocably fucked.
His inability to feel anything but a stabbing pain between his shoulder blades paled in comparison to his body’s refusal to breathe or move.
Half a minute passed, but it felt like an eternity.
By now, Dave was struck by the fact that nobody was coming back. His “friends” had abandoned him. He was doomed to die alone, sprawled out on his back at the edge of a suburban duplex’s front lawn.
A full minute passed.
He managed to force himself to gulp down a few shallow breaths. Instinct drove him to stay alive, but logic begged him to do otherwise.
“What would you have if you stayed?” he asked himself.
“An abusive father, an alcoholic mother, and a sister who hates your guts,” was his answer.
Two and a half minutes later, he could feel his mind going numb. Darkness ate at the edges of his vision. Blood from his broken nose was starting to pool in his mouth. By now, he’d grown accustomed to the bitter, metallic taste.
Eventually, the darkness won. And Dave Strider found himself baffled by what he was certain would be his last thought: “I’m not ready to die.”
For the next ten days, he entered a world of vivid dreams.
He saw himself as the captain of a small fishing boat. Between long stretches of peaceful nothingness, during which he played guitar or admired the strangely omnipresent sunset, he found himself engulfed in massive waves and howling winds. He could smell the brine of the ocean — a place he’d been to only twice before. He felt the sting of cold winds and hail against his face.
Sometimes, as darkness shrouded the wildly pitching vessel, he heard other sounds — his mother’s sobs, hissing hospital machinery, and grating medical alarms. They were always nearby, but he could never find the source. After a while, the intrusions grew more frequent.
Dave began tracking the passage of time by noting each of these events — “ghosts”, as he started calling them. He quickly grew accustomed to the phantasmic beeping of invisible medical equipment. But, when he heard anything more than a few words of someone else’s voice, he etched a tally mark into the decorative wood paneling that lined his bedroom wall.
The first: His father’s voice ripped through the air as a rogue wave slammed him against the back of the bridge area. “You dragged me down here to see this? And you want me to pay for it? I’m not taking that fucking thing. You take it. I don’t have a use for it anymore, do I? No, fuck you. And fuck that thing. It’s not my problem anymore.”
The second was accompanied by the taste of blood and a dull ache at the back of his throat. He didn’t recognize these voices. Most were muttering medical jargon he didn’t understand; one, a woman’s, pushed to the forefront. “You’re okay, kid. It’s just some bleeding. Happens all the time in ER settings. We’ll get you patched up in no time.”
By now, Dave had confirmed his suspicion that the boat was an illusion. Yet no matter how hard he clung to each flash of reality, it eventually slipped through his fingers.
Twelve: His sister was somewhere nearby. “You know what?” she mused, her voice dripping in bitter resentment, “This suits you, David. It really does, you reprehensible pervert. If only they’d found you a few minutes later. Then I wouldn’t have to babysit you while Mother drinks herself to death, hm?”
After some unknown amount of time, the intrusions became more vivid. He could smell medical disinfectant and — rarely — feel another person touching him. A dull pain began to radiate outward from between his shoulder blades.
Nineteen: A warm hand brushed hair out of his face. “You look like shit, Dave,” Rose said, her voice softer than before. “It’s no fun being a bitch to you when you can’t talk back. Don’t misunderstand my words, of course. I still think that you’re a repugnant creep, but…” She sighed. “Don’t die. At least for our mother’s sake.”
Twenty-three: A bored voice, one Dave had yet to hear, read off what he could only assume to be his current situation. “David Ellison Strider, fifteen, heavy smoker. Admitted December twenty-sixth with closed head trauma and multiple spinal fractures. One seizure reported in the past twenty-four hours. Currently trached, ventilator dependent, and non-responsive. Did I miss anything?” Another voice, this one older and deeper, mumbled something. To this, the original voice responded with a groan. “I never got the medication list, Hazama. That’s not my fault!”
Twenty-seven: A cold thumb pried open each eyelid, and he briefly caught two glimpses of a bright flash of light. He heard the weary voice of a female doctor, and he had heard her before. Of the ever-changing rotation of voices, she was his favorite; she took the time to break things down into concepts that he could understand. “Well, that’s new. We’ve got some pupillary reactions going on. Someone should probably call his mother. This ain’t gonna be pretty, kid, but it looks like you’ll make it.”
The dull pain grew into something more — a burning, stabbing agony that engulfed his every movement. Once, amid a raging storm, Dave stood at the ship’s stern and stared at the churning seas. He jumped, desperate to escape, but the waves only washed him back aboard.
Thirty-two: The kind nurse from before returned. She rubbed some sort of moisturizer on his face and hummed a pop song he didn’t recognize. She smelled like persimmons and lavender. Again, he saw two bright flashes. “You’re in bad shape, kid. You sure did do a number on yourself. Your mom’s right, though. You’re a fighter.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the ship stopped. Dave stumbled from his berth. Where he expected to see water, he saw, instead, a sterile hospital room. The blurred face of a middle-aged doctor hovered above him. His form mercifully blocked the unbearably bright overhead lighting. Somewhere nearby, Dave could hear his mother sobbing as the doctor spoke with practiced precision: “Is your name David Ellison Strider? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
One blink.
“Do you know where you are?”
Two.
“You’re at the Texas Medical Center. Do you understand what that means?”
One.
“Do you know why you are here?”
One.
“Do you understand the extent of your injuries?”
Two.
And the distant sobbing became a heartwrenching wail.
“You have sustained multiple spinal fractures. We’re currently unsure of how much permanent damage has been done. Do you understand what this means?”
Two.
“There is, by all medical standards, a zero percent chance that you will walk again. Do you understand?”
After a long pause, Dave blinked once.
“It is very likely that you will not move anything below your shoulders again. With practice, you may be able to breathe on your own for short periods. You will require lifelong care and assistance. Do you understand?”
Another pause.
Slowly, Dave realized the ache in his throat came from the same hissing tube that’s forcing air into his lungs.
He blinked once.
“Per your mother’s wishes, we are putting your fate in your hands. Please listen carefully to what I’m about to say, as this is very important.” The doctor moved, and Dave found himself unable to shield his eyes from the blindingly bright spotlight pointed at his face.
He squeezed his eyes shut and listened.
“We can continue providing medical care and hope that you will recover more function. I cannot promise that you will ever live an independent life, but you will live. You also have the option to cease all care. We will discontinue all medical interventions, provide anything necessary to make you comfortable, and you will die of natural causes in approximately two hours. Do you understand what I have said?”
One.
“Then it’s your choice. Dave Strider, do you want to die?”
A wild, insatiable urge to see more — an illogical and hitherto unprecedented inability to leave without knowing that the world could be kinder and softer — drove Dave’s decision.
He blinked twice.
Friday, 5 January 2007
By the age of ten, Karkat Vantas had learned that a sizable circle of friends was no match for a rural school’s dedicated underbelly of bigots. When he wasn’t in class or with friends, he spent most of his time dodging every social interaction he could. Keeping his head down worked better than asking for help. In fact, asking for help was a near-guaranteed ass-beating.
The end of the first week back from the holidays was no different.
While others compared gifts and excitedly discussed cheerful family dinners, he pigeonholed himself in the back of the class and read a book. It didn’t really matter which book he read; all that really mattered was that people were less likely to bother him when he looked busy. At the end of the day, as he trudged down the bus loop, he amused himself by running through some of the insults slung his way. For the most part, they all had something to do with him being vaguely overweight. A few implied that he would go home and eat domestic animals. Though he’d long since learned to shrug them off, he still found the comments annoying.
But, as he always reminded himself, he had a built-in buffer to end every miserable day on a high note.
After barely catching the bus home, he plopped himself beside Kanaya. She was, as always, more than happy to listen to his complaints. And he, in return, would listen to hers. Despite being the same age, she was a grade ahead of him; while he had turned down the offer to skip a grade, she eagerly accepted. (Or, rather, her parents accepted the offer for her.)
“I heard that your asshole brother was not in town over the holidays,” she said, her tone bright, “That must have been quite exciting.”
As he settled into his seat, Karkat pulled off his sweatshirt and stuck a finger through a new hole in the elbow. “It was honestly a real damned treat. I wish the bastard would stay away every holiday.”
Kanaya smirked. From her bag, she produced an emergency sewing kit. She took Karkat’s sweatshirt without asking. “Maybe we could arrange such a thing.” A mischievous grin spread across her face as she began sewing. “I have suggested to my parents that we invite you over for the holidays next year. They do not seem opposed.”
“You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“It is really not a problem. Besides, you know that they love having you over. For some unknown reason, they think that you are a very polite young man.”
The two shared a laugh at the preposterous idea.
“Where the fuck did they get that idea?”
“Perhaps they have confused you with Tavros,” Kanaya smirked.
Karkat, meanwhile, rummaged through his bag. He pulled his thoroughly crushed and dented metal lunchbox from its depths. The front bore the Lalonde Press logo; apparently, a customer had given it to his father as part of a bartering deal for a small catering job. A few solid smacks to the crumpled lid freed the slightly rusted clasps. “I’ve got leftovers from lunch,” he said, offering out a half-filled plastic container of date bites, “I was too busy hiding from those assholes on the junior lacrosse team to finish it all.”
“Ah, no, thank you,” Kanaya began, though her eyes zeroed in on the snacks. After a few seconds, she breathed a dramatic sigh. “Oh, what the hell? Yes, thank you. I will take a few.”
Karkat surreptitiously passed over a handful. He’d already been reprimanded by the music teacher for arriving a minute late to class; being told off by the bus driver for breaking the “no sharing food” policy was, therefore, not part of his ideal daily agenda. “Baba made these for Kankri, but the asshole is too busy with his new girlfriend to visit. Not that I care. More for me.”
“I cannot believe I am telling you to thank Kankri, but he should be commended for his absence. It seems his refusal to return home from college came with more than a few perks.” Kanaya popped one of the desserts into her mouth and grinned. “You really must ask your father to send me his recipe.”
“I’ll ask, but you know the bastard’s usually too busy at work.” After finishing off the last few date bites, Karkat shoved the now-empty container back into his lunchbox. Instead of putting it back into his bag, he tied one of the loose straps around the faded blue handle. “What about your cousin? Wasn’t she supposed to visit from that fancy-ass boarding school?”
“Porrim?” Kanaya finished off her repair job and deftly wove the loose tail into her handiwork. Instead of cutting the remaining length of thread, she separated it from the garment with a quick tug. “I am not entirely sure of what happened, but it seems she missed her flight. That is fine. She does not get along well with my mother, anyhow.” She pulled at the faded black fabric a few times before holding up the freshly patched garment. “There,” she proudly announced, “that should be good as new.”
“Thanks.” As the bus slowed to a stop, Karkat reclaimed his sweatshirt. “Shit. My stop. I’ll see you next week?”
“Of course.” For the briefest of moments, Kanaya let her guard drop. She flashed a goofy grin and two thumbs up before quickly returning to her usual state of carefully refined calm.
Notes:
This was originally planned to be more fluff, but Satan won. Sorry, y'all.¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯
Chapter 16: I've Found Brightness
Summary:
Chapter title from the official English translation of Youmi Kimura's “Always With Me (いつも何度でも)”, from Spirited Away. There doesn't seem to be a "plain" cut of this song on YouTube, so the link leads to a live performance. The playlist has the original soundtrack version.
Notes:
There is a single chapter warning because Dave and Karkat smoke a lil doobie-doo. Heeho. Sowwy for the last chapter. Have some fluff. (づ￣ ³￣)づ
Chapter Text
Saturday, 25 December 2021
It’s currently 5:00 a.m., and it seems that Karkat Vantas isn’t the only person in the Strider-Lalonde household with poor sleeping habits. When an unknown force rudely rips him from his dreams, he finds Dave’s bed empty.
After an hour of unsuccessful attempts at returning to sleep, he throws on his trusty windbreaker and heads into an empty living area. Figuring that Dave can handle whatever he’s doing on his own, he prepares himself some tea and a toaster waffle. As he cleans up his mess, he notices a light on near the garage.
He follows it.
And it leads him to Dave. Or, rather, as much of Dave as he can see. Most of him is buried behind the crumpled hood of his old car, which is parked beneath a temporary tent. Muttered curses are muffled beneath a thick wall of twisted metal.
“It’s a little cold for this, isn’t it?”
“FUCK!” Dave bolts upright, slamming his head against the open car hood. A wheeze of pain rises as a puff of condensation from his lips. One hand rubs the back of his head; the other steadies himself against his wheelchair. “For fuck’s sake, Karkat! Give a man some warning if he’s working on a car. Goddamn. What, you’re trying to kill me for real this time?” His words are harsh, but his tone is more annoyed than genuinely pissed.
“Sorry.” Karkat takes another sip of tea and eyes the car over.
The front portion is still mangled, but most of the plastic and fiberglass shrapnel has been trimmed away. It now rests in a haphazard pile on a blue tarp nearby. Being unfamiliar with cars, Karkat can only say it looks bad. Dave, however, obviously sees some scrap of potential.
“So… uh…” Dave unlocks the brakes on his chair and wheels to the side of the car. When he pushes some stray hairs out of his face, he smears oil across his forehead. “The fuck are you doing up? Don’t know if you noticed it, but it’s pretty damn early to be up on a holiday.”
“You, first,” Karkat shrugs.
“Fifteenth anniversary of my crash is tomorrow.” Dave tugs at a rope around his neck. He catches the familiar rubber pendant at the end and starts idly gnawing on it when he’s not speaking. “Guess I’m just thinking about what could’ve been.”
“Oh.” Karkat blinks. “I’m sorry.”
“Aw, fuck, please don’t say that.” Furrowed brows and a look of general annoyance accompany Dave’s statement. “I get that shit enough. That’s…” He pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes a hoarse sigh. “I didn’t say it for that reason. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” He flexes his fingers. “Let’s go inside. It’s too cold for this shit.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes past Karkat and punches the button to automatically open the door. When it’s done, a subdued smirk crosses his face. “Idiots first.”
With a succinct and classic “fuck you,” Karkat complies. He steps inside and makes his way to the sofa.
Dave follows. He peels off his jacket and gloves, leaving both in a pile by the back door. Apparently, neither had any holes in them; both his hands and his undershirt are perfectly clean.
“I… uh… I wasn’t apologizing about the accident,” Karkat lies.
Dave hits back immediately. “Nope. Bad excuse.” His statement is sharp but indifferent. He fishes a bottle of water from the fridge before parking himself by the sofa. “You’re a bad liar, Karkat. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No?”
Dave laughs. He rubs his thumb over his right brow, briefly hiding the scar, as he explains, “Your eyebrows twitch when you’re lying. Pretty obvious tell, y’know.”
“I… How the hell did you notice that?”
“Grew up reading my drunkard father’s mood. Got pretty good at pinpointing emotions,” Dave shrugs. He pops open the water bottle and drinks greedily. When he’s done, he sets it on the floor before continuing, “Okay, so, let’s start with some ground rules. I don’t want you to say the words ‘I’m sorry’ ‘bout any of this, got it?”
Karkat nods.
“Great.” Dave keeps himself far enough away to be out of arm’s reach but close enough for his knock-off Old Spice to fill Karkat’s nose. “I’ll be real honest here. I’m not great with feelings. I’m good at seeing them in others. I’m just not good at seeing them in myself, if that makes sense.”
Again, Karkat nods. It feels almost rude to interrupt Dave with any sort of verbal interjection.
“I’m happy like I am, for starters. Took me too fucking long to get to this point, but…” Dave’s brows furrow. When he folds his arms, his fingers seem to impulsively pick at the fabric of his shirt sleeves. “It’s officially half my life now, right? I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine with it. It’s…” he closes his eyes and tilts his head forward. His left forefinger rubs against the side of his nose. “It just pisses me off sometimes,” he finally admits, his voice surprisingly small.
It’s enough to catch Karkat off-guard. “What?”
“I… Shit, man. Sometimes I just want to be goddamn normal, y’know?” A crooked, bitter smile works its way onto Dave’s face. “I don’t give a damn ‘bout walking. That’s gone as hell. Took that shit out back and shot it like it was a rabid dog, threw the corpse in a river, and watched it float into the ocean. Don’t matter much to me. But the fucking pity… God, I fucking hate it!” He buries his face in his hands and breathes as long of a sigh as he can.
“It’s this constant, godawful stare, y’know? Everyone looks at you like, ‘Fuck you! Your life must be so awful down there.’ And, hey, maybe if you put five fucking minutes into making life a little easier for people like me, it wouldn’t be!” A cold, short laugh punctuates the statement before devolving into a series of dry, wheezing coughs.
Karkat bites his lip.
Dave shoves himself upright. His eyes dodge Karkat’s gaze. He idly tugs at his necklace and rubs it between his fingers. “I… It’d just be nice to have one fucking day where everything’s just… normal. Where I’m normal. Where I get treated like I’m normal. And not, y’know, ‘dude in a wheelchair’. If any of that makes sense.”
“It does.”
The reply seems too short. It’s too impersonal. Karkat finds himself grasping wildly for something more to say, but he can’t find anything.
Fortunately, Dave seems satisfied with the answer. After downing more water, he gestures for Karkat to follow him. “C’mon, I don’t want to wake up Rose and Kanaya. The garage door’s closed, and the heat’s on.” As with most doors in the house, this one has an automatic button. He slaps it and nods for Karkat to go ahead; he follows closely behind.
Despite the bare interior, the space is surprisingly warm. A dusty workbench is covered in seemingly new deliveries of assorted car parts. They’re all grouped beneath handwritten signs — “interior”, “engine”, and “bodywork”. A cheap sofa, the sort of plain modernist fare one would expect from IKEA, is shoved in the corner. After entering, Dave wheels over and removes a small stack of empty cardboard boxes from its faded teal cushions.
“They totaled the car,” he explains, “I took it back. No rule saying I can’t. Rose is paying for a rental. I checked it over real good. No actual frame damage, just an assload of bodywork and engine fixes. It’ll be pricey, but…” He shrugs as he tosses the last box aside. He moves to the workbench and pulls open a lower drawer. A small bag of dried weed is pried from beneath a pile of rusting wrenches. The drawer above yields a sealed pack of rolling paper and a dented metal lighter. “My back is killing me. You want some?”
“I mean…” Karkat frowns. Unsure of what to do with himself, he sits on the sofa. It has far too much give than it should; the bottom frame is probably starting to rot. “Yes, but are you supposed to be doing it?”
Dave laughs, and a tinge of bitterness stains the sound. “I’m not s’posed to do a lot of shit, dude.” He dusts off a small spot on the workbench, upon which he quickly rolls two joints. “There’s only so many restrictions you can tolerate, y’know?” He sticks the other in his breast pocket as he returns to the sofa, He transfers to the cushions before handing the joint to Karkat. One cushion of space is intentionally left between the two men.
“So…?” Karkat lets Dave light his joint before pressing it to his lips. “That would be ‘no’?”
“Yep,” Dave smirks. He keeps his in his mouth long enough to draw a few short inhales. A faint, audible wheezing starts to rise from his chest. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than usual. It’s the difference between rolling river stones against his palm versus a tumbler of crushed gravel. “It’s Christmas. Let me have some fun, huh?”
“I implore you to notice that I have done absolutely nothing to stop you from whatever bullshit you’re doing now.” On the next inhale, Karkat stares at a flickering overhead light. The harsh white glow buzzes and pops. “I’m not your mother.”
“God, I hope not. That’d be some freaky incest shit.” Dave’s next inhale stops suddenly. His cheeks burn pink. “Ah… Ignore that last bit. Heh.”
“Done.”
The sofa shakes as Dave’s right leg starts bouncing. He tucks one hand under his knee and lifts until the movement stops.
“Does it hurt?” Karkat asks, his mind increasingly muddled by a layer of pleasantly fuzzy bliss.
Dave presses his joint to his lips and breathes in before answering, “Like cramps from hell, yeah.”
As his mind grapples with increasingly fleeting thoughts, Karkat’s brows furrow. He opens his mouth to speak.
Dave interrupts, seemingly reading his mind, “Like I said, dude,” he shrugs and holds his joint between his teeth as he repositions himself. “You’re, like, not supposed to snap your spine. It’s surprisingly bad for you. My pain scale’s totally fucked. It’s just kind of there. You get used to it.”
“I’m” — Karkat instinctually begins.
“Don’t say it.”
Karkat falls silent.
Dave plucks his joint from his mouth and flicks some of the stray ashes into a firebrick red bowl, likely one of his creations. The clear coat at the bottom is caked with old tobacco and nicotine stains. “Is what it is. I can’t change it. You can’t change it. And as much as she wishes she could, Rose can’t change it, neither.” The pulsating glow of burning weed casts a scintillating reflection against the lenses of his glasses, and the ever-shifting image hides his eyes from view. “Look, let’s just talk ‘bout something else.”
Even with a buzz, a pit of self-loathing begins to form in Karkat’s throat. He turns to the side, so that he’s facing Dave, and pulls his knees to his chest. Idly, he notes that he can see his big toe through a hole in his left sock.
As always, Dave notices. He mirrors Karkat’s body language. He shifts his weight around as he pulls his legs onto the sofa and manually straightens them out. His shoulders rest against Karkat’s knees; the earthy smell of his shampoo fills Karkat’s nostrils. “It’s fine, Karkat. Relax.”
“I feel like I’m constantly shoving my fucking foot in my mouth…”
“Most people do ‘round me,” Dave’s laugh is coarser than usual. “I have that effect.”
“Mm-hm.” The darkness that hangs at the edges of Karkat’s mind begins to close in. His formerly cheerful mood starts to sour.
And a rough hand against his cheek stops the spiral. When it withdraws, Karkat finds himself craving more.
“C’mon, dude, don’t be so damn hard on yourself.” Dave’s voice is soft and reassuring. It acts as a tether that slowly pulls Karkat back from the edge of emotional oblivion. “We don’t have to really talk ‘bout anything, really. I’m fine just relaxing out here. But…” He rubs his chin and stacks a few breaths. Reluctantly, he extinguishes his unfinished joint. After rolling the ashy end between his right thumb and forefinger, he drops it in the bowl. “Remind me that’s there for later.”
“Can’t handle your weed?” Karkat goads.
Dave responds with a playful pout. “Fuck off.” He pulls off his glasses and rests them on the back of the sofa; they balance surprisingly well against the backboard and the brick wall. “You’re a halfway decent pillow, by the way.”
“A promising fucking career path,” Karkat smirks. “Can I keep smoking, or is that going to bother you?”
“You’re fine.” Dave waves a dismissive hand in the air. A wheezing yawn passes through his lips.
“We can go back to your room.” As the weed hits, Karkat’s eyelids grow heavy. The world spins slightly.
“Nah. It’s fine.” Dave folds his arms across his chest. “A quick nap out here won’t kill me. And it sounds to me like you’re handling your shit ‘bout as well as a first-timer.”
“Fuck off,” Karkat mumbles.
A low laugh serves as Dave’s reply.
Karkat breathes in Dave’s scent. His hands idly rest against muscular shoulders. When he notices a knot, he mindlessly massages it.
Dave responds with a pleased sigh. Slowly, his tension dissipates.
Time extends, but it also contracts. The rolling warmth of Dave’s muscles beneath his touch is like fire under Karkat’s skin. His nose focuses on a mix of motor oil, coffee, and old vinyl records. He lets his fingers run through soft hair and laughs when Dave responds by punching him in the knee.
“This sofa sucks, you idiot. Don’t start any foreplay out here,” he mumbles.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Reluctantly, Karkat folds his arms across his chest. When Dave yawns, he does the same. A few minutes later, he hears a sputtering snore. And seeing no reason to do otherwise, Karkat lets himself slip into a blissful, bubbling rest.
-----
The next time Karkat awakes, he hears a not-too-distant argument. (According to his watch, it’s 10:12 a.m.)
“Y’know what?” Dave snaps, his voice colder than Karkat has ever heard, “I can’t fucking stand you sometimes, Rose. For fuck’s sake. God, you’re a control freak.”
“And you’re not? Is that what you’re implying?” Rose’s retort is no less bitter, but there’s a palpable sense of concern running beneath the anger. Where Dave is cold rage, Rose is warm. “Newflash, Dave, we have the same parents. We’re both incurable control freaks.”
“I’ve noticed.” A drawer rattles open. “And, hey, newsflash for you, Rose, this is my house now. You signed it over to me before you left to set up some fucking unnecessary new company hub in Chicago. You’re my guest, not my mother. Act like it.”
“Sometimes, I wonder why I bother wasting any of my energy on you.”
Hard rubber soles stomp across a hardwood floor. A door slams shut.
The garage door automatically swings open. Dave enters. When he notices Karkat, he softens slightly. “Shit. Did you hear that?”
Seeing no reason to lie, Karkat nods.
“Sorry.” Dave grabs a scarf from a nearby wall hanger. “I’m taking a walk to cool off. I’ll rip her goddamn head off if I don’t.” He snags the half-spent joint from the bowl and stuffs it in his pocket before turning to leave. “You can come with me, if you’d like.”
The last place Karkat wants to be is in a tense atmosphere in a house that isn’t his own. He stands, buries his hands in his pockets, and follows Dave closely. He meanders behind him for twenty minutes before a single word is said.
Dave lights the last half of his joint as he parks himself beneath an overhang in a micropark. He breathes in a few times, expels a few puffs of smoke, and rubs the bridge of his nose. A low growl rises from his throat. “Shit. Now I feel like a dick.”
Karkat sits on the nearby bench. He folds his hands and leans his elbows on his knees. When he looks at Dave, he raises a brow. He doesn’t feel comfortable offering a verbal invitation to speak, but he’s more than happy to listen.
Somehow, Dave understands. “Nobody gets along perfectly, right?” He pulls out his necklace pendant and rubs it between his palms. He’s not wearing gloves; he probably forgot them. “I know she means well, but…” He stares at the ground. “I got used to not having her ‘round. And part of it sucked. But, damn, I really loved not having someone pestering me like I was a child.”
Nicotine-stained teeth chew on red rubber. Pale fingers comb through dyed blond hair. “Should I be smoking this thing? Hell, nah. I’ll probably be huffing my inhaler like a cokehead later. But at this point, damn near everything’s bad for me.” Dave shrugs and plucks his joint from his mouth. He flicks some of the stray ash onto a clear piece of asphalt. “Sorry. Probably ain’t exactly a festive mood here, huh? I’m, like, the ultimate king of buzzkills.”
“Honestly,” Karkat stares at his palms, “it’s still better than what I’m used to.”
Dave responds with a sharp whistle. “Not gonna’ ask, then.” The fingers of his right hand are shaking. He switches to his left hand to grab his joint. “I should probably apologize to her when I get back.”
Karkat peels off his gloves and hands them to Dave. “You need them more than I do,” is his excuse.
And Dave doesn’t argue. He slips on the cheap knitted gloves with an appreciative nod. “I have one hell of an anger problem, I guess,” he muses. When he notices Karkat’s confusion, a resigned smile tugs at his lips. “Don’t show it much, do I?” He pushes against the locked wheels of his chair to reposition himself. “I keep shit bottled up tight, I guess. It’s fine ‘til it ain’t.”
“Same,” Karkat admits.
“You’re a smidge more obvious ‘bout it, though.” It’s a neutral statement. If anyone other than Dave had said it, Karkat would be pissed. “Anywho,” he presses the joint to his lips and breathes in a few times. When he talks again, each word is accompanied by a puff of smoke. “We should leave when I’m done smoking this. Don’t feel like ending the day in jail.”
“I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t arrest you, Strider.”
“Privilege only works for so long.” As the last of the joint burns out, Dave stubs it against the ground. He grinds it against the pavement until it’s cool enough to deposit in his jacket pocket. Then, he unlocks his chair’s brakes. He moves to push himself ahead, only to stop at the last minute. Before continuing, he peels off the gloves and offers them back to Karkat, saying, “I’ll ruin these if I keep ‘em. Thanks for the loan, though.”
Karkat accepts them hesitantly. Part of him wants to push for Dave to keep them, but there’s still some tension in the air. For now, he pockets the items and nods. “Any time, Dave.” Immediately after speaking, he slams his mouth shut.
“You do know my first name!” Dave claps his hands together before doubling over in laughter. “Holy shit, Karkat! I’ve just assumed you didn’t know my first name this whole time.”
“I’ve been addressing you politely, you know. Like an adult.” Karkat’s argument is as indignant as it is illogical. His father may have hammered the importance of last names into his skull, but even he will often call friends by their first names.
And Dave senses as much. When he pushes himself upright, there’s a wry smirk on his face. “Sure. Whatever. You can keep calling me that, y’know. It is my name.”
“It feels too informal,” Karkat lies.
Truthfully, he’s used Dave’s last name as a defensive measure. By using a formal salutation, he pigeonholed himself in a more professional role. He could dismiss any feelings as a natural consequence of cordial relations. Now…
“If that’s what makes you comfortable, go for it. But my name is Dave, so…” A blasé shrug punctuates the statement. “Think ‘bout it, I guess?”
“I will,” is all Karkat manages to force out of his mouth.
Chapter 17: A Stallion Rises
Summary:
Chapter title from “Somebody Super Like You (Beef Construction Song)” from Phantom of the Paradise, credited to the in-universe band The Undead.
Notes:
No chapter warnings again. ~~~///(^v^)\\\~~~
Chapter Text
Sunday, 26 December 2021
Where some would balk at being mostly (or, in some cases, completely) naked in front of their sister, Dave Strider’s born-and-bred sense of puritanical shame has long since been abandoned. He is not, however, eager about the possibility that Karkat might happen upon the scene. Fortunately for him, Rose has taken care of that issue.
“It wasn’t actually that hard, you know,” she chides as she rolls Dave onto his side, “Just use words, beloved dumbass, like an adult. ‘Hello, Karkat, Dave and I must attend to some potentially unpleasant healthcare concerns. Would you mind taking a walk for approximately an hour?’”
“It was that easy?” Dave winces as Rose stretches his left leg far enough past its usual range of motion to tug at his stiff muscles. “Ow! Fuck! C’mon, Rosey, my hip flexors don’t work like that anymore.”
“Well, if you had stretched them as prescribed,” Rose hums. One hand holds Dave’s left thigh; the other pushes his lower leg forward.
“Yeah, whatever. I get — OW! Fuck! Are you trying to kill me?” A stabbing pain shoots up Dave’s right side. He doesn’t need to look down to know it’s a spasm. “C’mon, Rosey, I apologized real nice yesterday. You said we were even.”
“I said I accepted your apology. You interpreted the statement as you saw fit.” Mercifully, the stretching stops. Rose pulls Dave’s leg back into a neutral position before starting her usual inspection. “I appreciate your candor, though. It’s a splendid showing of personal growth.”
“Yeah, well,” Dave winces as disinfectant stings a wound between his shoulder blades. “Y’know, Rosey, it feels like you enjoy torturing me sometimes.”
“Hm,” she hums, “It is, indeed, a bit of a catharsis at times.” Plastic bottles rattle on a rolling cart. A bandage is spread across a stinging wound. “You look fine. Roll back over.” Rose’s footsteps recede slightly. “You could teach Karkat how to do these things, you know. Then you’d save money on nursing care.”
“Okay, so,” Dave throws his left elbow back, generating enough force to flop into a somewhat comfortable supine position. “Brilliant suggestion. Splendiferous , might I say,” he emphasizes his sarcastic point with an intentionally bad imitation of his sister’s less twangy intonation, “but I don’t think we’re even close enough to the friendship level that makes ‘checking my ass for pressure sores’ an even remotely sane thing to ask.”
“And how would you know that?” Rose raises a brow. It’s a devastating mirror image of Dave’s usual taunt.
And he hits back by rolling his eyes. “Have we forgotten that the last time I took your relationship advice, I ended up snorting lines of cocaine off a Houston dorm room bedframe?”
Rose opens her mouth to respond. Shortly thereafter, she concedes defeat. “Fuck you, Dave. Sit up.” She sets a chunky machine on the bedside table. “You could at least get him to do cough assist. We own the fucking machine, remember?”
Dave pushes himself into a loose upright position. “Well, yeah, but…” His reply is interrupted by a shrill beep and a wheezing hiss. Even now, years later, the grating sound is enough to make him shudder. Anxiety drives him to raise his voice as he continues, “Hacking up your week-old mucosal secretions ain’t exactly romantic, Rosey. I mean… Maybe to you it is. You’ve probably developed some sort of Freudian caregiving fetish, huh? And” — his rambling is cut off by a succinct command.
“Exhale.”
Dave sighs.
“Close enough.” Before any more stupid commentary can be said, Rose presses a form-fitting mask over Dave’s mouth and nose. “You know the drill, dearest thorn in my side. Five… four… three… two… one…” The persistent hiss switches to a rattling wheeze.
“Fuck,” Dave groans. The technical definition of full capacity pushes his lungs far beyond what he’s used to. The exhale takes too long; his chest feels too tight, and the sensation persists until he’s finished exhaling.
“Sorry.” For the first time this morning, Rose’s tone is sincere. “I know you hate this.” The wheeze becomes a hiss. “Inhale. Five… four… three… two… one…”
The rattling in Dave’s chest rises up his throat, thick and scratchy and uniquely uncomfortable. After the exhale, he holds his hand up.
Rose gives him a paper towel.
He hacks up the mix of wet and dry secretions, shuddering when he’s done. “Ugh… Fuck…”
A warm hand massages between his shoulder blades.
“Yeah… I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not quite ready for him to see this yet. This…” He rubs the side of his nose before spitting into the towel again. “I don’t even like you seeing me like this, y’know? He is the last person I’d want here.”
“Understood.” Thankfully, she doesn’t push the issue. Instead, she studies the machine’s digital display. Pink-hued acrylic nails clack against the plastic shell as she waits out the five-minute rest period. “One more cycle?”
“No,” Dave grumbles, though he knows his input is entirely useless.
“It’s three cycles minimum, dear. You know that.”
“Yeah.” Dave wads up the soiled paper towel and tosses it in the nearby trash can. “Sorry ‘bout yesterday, by the way.”
“It’s fine. And you were entirely right. I certainly overstepped. It’s just that…” her gaze drops to the floor. “I care about you, Dave. You’re the last scrap of our family left.”
“Works both ways,” Dave shrugs. He, too, stares at anything other than Rose.
Neither sibling has ever been particularly forthcoming about their emotions.
And, after a solid minute of awkward silence, Rose clears her throat. “Well,” she says, her tone aggressively chipper, “That’s enough therapy speak for the day.”
“For the fucking month, more like it,” Dave smirks.
-----
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Sollux:
-----
Group Pesterchum chat between Karkat, Sollux, and Dave:
GROUP CHAT [PLEASE DON’T BE AWKWARD] STARTED
KARKAT: I’M OPENING THE FLOOR NOW SO EVERYONE CAN CHAT WITHOUT HAVING TO LOOK EACH OTHER IN THE FACE FIRST.
KARKAT: BECAUSE LET’S BE HONEST, EVERYONE, WE’RE ALL SOCIALLY AWKWARD LOSERS.
SOLLUX: i don’t know about you, but i’m the most socially competent person here. 👌👌
SOLLUX: you will not find a single person with more social competence than i.
DAVE: yeah i think that’s just a you problem kv.
DAVE: because i’m also pretty fucking solid with those social skills. you will not find a single person more solid than me.
DAVE: hey there’s another nickname for you. try kv on for size.
KARKAT: DEAR GODS ABOVE. IT’S LIKE HAVING UNBRIDLED STUPIDITY IN STEREO. 😭
SOLLUX: idk. i’ve usually just called the bastard “kk”. 🤷♂️🤷♂️
DAVE: yeah but he actually seems to “like” that moniker so it ain’t as fun to use.
KARKAT: DID YOU JUST STEAL MY FUCKING TYPING QUIRK, STRIDER?
DAVE: what?
DAVE: the stupid “air quotes for emphasis” thing?
DAVE: did you
DAVE: think you
DAVE: invented that? 😂
SOLLUX: this guy’s pretty fun, kv. 😃😃
KARKAT: I NEVER GAVE EITHER OF YOU CHUCKLEFUCKS EXPRESS PERMISSION TO CALL ME BY THAT ASININE NICKNAME. CEASE AND DESIST.
SOLLUX: or what? you’ll call tz on us? 😆😆
DAVE: (hey wait i’m not in the loop on this joke yo.)
SOLLUX: (she’s kv’s ex from high school. and also a lawyer.)
DAVE: (cool.)
DAVE: hey kv did you notice there’s a water stain on the ceiling that looks like a dick?
USER turntechGodhead UPLOADED A FILE: dick-shaped-ceiling-stain.jpg
SOLLUX: woah. it does kind of look like a dick… 🤔🤔
KARKAT: I NEED TO STOP BEING SO FUCKING NICE TO PEOPLE. THIS IS GOING TO BE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE, ISN’T IT?
DAVE: yeah probs for you.
SOLLUX: totally. 🤙🤙
DAVE: wait what if i just did some phonics and made kv into kev?
USER carcinoGeneticist HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
-----
Smith’s is smaller than Bolton’s, but it has about as many seats. The fact that most of them are empty when Karkat enters is mildly disquieting. The fact that the accessible entrance is around back is another strike, though Dave assures the place “can’t be that bad.” Whether or not that’s true is still yet to be seen.
Sollux has already taken a seat at one of the freestanding tables. One chair has been cleared away, and Dave is quick to claim his seat. To Karkat’s mild amusement, his long-time friend greets the group’s unexpected newcomer first. “Bitching tie, my man,” Sollux lisps, “Karkat did tell you it’s a casual event, though, right?”
(And, admittedly, Dave’s bright red paisley tie is pretty bitching.)
“Yeah, well,” Dave shrugs and swaps out his glasses to read the menu, “Figured I’d dress nice, anyhow.”
“Hello to you, too, jackass,” Karkat plops into the final available seat. He doesn’t bother opening the menu. He’d checked the bar’s offerings on the drive up, and he’s already selected a gravy-smothered turkey burger. The photos online looked nice enough, and he was mildly put off by the rest of the menu’s beef-heavy spread. “Glad to see everyone gets along, at least.”
“Sol and I were pretty chummy while you were passed out at the Christmas party, actually,” Dave points out; his grin only widens when he notices Karkat squirming.
Sollux, of course, is quick to join the firing squad. “Yeah, man, we’re best buds.”
“Move over, KV. I’m Sol’s favorite bitch now,” Dave snickers.
Karkat groans. “This was a mistake,” he grumbles.
“We’re just kidding! But, yeah, we get along well,” Sollux reassures. “You already know what you’re getting, KK?”
“Smothered turkey burger.” Out of the corner of his eye, Karkat notices a waitress carrying a tottering tray of mixed drinks to one of the few crowded tables. He ducks just in time to dodge the edge. “I might’ve picked the wrong place.”
Finally, the two other men at the table have differing opinions.
“I’d give it a shot,” Dave suggests.
Sollux, meanwhile, nods eagerly. “It’s a fucking dump.” Upon noticing the dissenting conclusion, he hops to Karkat’s side. “Is there something you know that we don’t, Dave?”
“Can’t be any worse than where Karkat used to work.”
Despite his best efforts, a whoop of laughter pushes through Karkat’s defenses.
“Not to change the subject,” Sollux sets aside his menu, “but to change the topic… Any idea when Bolton’s will be open again?”
“Obviously not tonight,” Karkat tuts. “I’d guess a few weeks. But what the hell do I know?”
“If it’s a grease fire, it’ll be a few months.” Dave folds his arms across his chest. “I did insurance estimates for a while. That sort of shit takes at least a few weeks to work out on paper. Hate to be the bad guy, but,” he clicks his tongue, “that’s just how the dice roll.”
“For fuck’s sake. Is there a job you haven’t had?”
“Is this, like, Family Feud or something?” Sollux smirks. “I’m calling pole dancer.”
Dave counters with a waggling brow. “Not yet, but some people are into it.”
“Can you two perverts maybe agree to axe the sex talk at the dinner table? It’s worse than a middle school summer camp with you morons.” Despite his harsh words, Karkat can’t help but feel pleased that everything is going well.
When the waiter finally drops by, everyone places their order.
Dave idly spins the rotating portion of the ring on his left index finger. “So, what, the two of you know each other from school?”
“High school,” volunteers Sollux. “But we were in the same summer programs as kids.”
“And it was fucking miserable.”
A wry smirk tugs at the left side of Dave’s face, but there’s a faint hint of something else under the surface.
“What about you?” Sollux asks Dave. “You were probably super fucking popular, right?”
A loose shrug precedes Dave’s reply. “Not really, no.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, I don’t talk to any of my friends from then. Probably best for all of us.”
Sollux, in his usual way, breezes over the subtleties of Dave’s reply. Or, more likely, he smooths over the rough edges to keep the conversation going. “People don’t always stick around. That’s chill.”
The drinks arrive, accompanied by unpleasantly dry bread rolls.
All three men stare uncertainly at the omen of meals to come.
And Dave is the first to speak. “Y’know, Sol, you might’ve been right. I think KV screwed the pooch on this recommendation.”
-----
To Karkat’s relief, the rest of the night went as well as the opening moments. The food, however, left a very literal bad taste in his mouth. While Dave generously tipped the server, he was sure to suggest that Smith’s swap out its chef.
Now, as he sits in Dave’s rental car, he scrolls through his phone. “There’s really not that much still open. Fuck.”
“Lucky for you,” Dave pulls out his phone, “there’s one place still open.” He types out a message and sends it on its way.
“Elaborate, Strider?”
“Aw, shit,” Dave smirks, “I was hoping you’d stick with my first name.” He gives Karkat a playful shove. “If you don’t mind staying another night, Rose can make some damn good microwave meals.”
“Really? That’s your idea of a decent dinner?”
“You’ve seen my cooking, KV.” Dave lowers his glasses long enough to level a facetiously pointed glare at his passenger. “Do you actually want to let me decide our gourmet menu?”
“I…” A few seconds of thought is enough for Karkat to realize he’s lost this argument. He raises his hands in a show of faux surrender and shakes his head. “Fuck. I hate to say it, but you have a point.”
“So?” Dave starts the car. “Trade one more night at my place for a halfway decent meal?”
“Sure,” Karkat sighs, trying his best to sound at least vaguely reluctant. “You twisted my arm. I’ll stay another night.”
Chapter 18: Memories That We Never Made
Summary:
Chapter title from the English translation of Tokiko Kato's “Once In a While, Talk of the Old Days (時には昔の話を)”, from Porco Rosso.
Notes:
The chapter starts off spicy, but never goes the distance. ...(*￣０￣)ノ I made the executive decision to not have an explicit tag here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 27 December 2021
It doesn’t seem to matter how many times Karkat tries to convince himself otherwise; there’s a part of him that desperately — almost obsessively — wants a man he met under a month ago. And as much as he hates to admit it, he wants something more than a casual friendship. He wants to feel Dave’s body beneath his.
So, in retrospect, falling asleep in Dave’s bed while watching one of the umpteen Fast and Furious movies was probably not his best decision. Letting himself persuade Dave into staying in bed longer was a poorly conceived plan. Toying with his hair and chest was a downright idiotic course of action. And climbing on top of him was his worst idea yet.
On a logical level, Karkat wants anything but this. He wants to pocket his money, pay his loans, and leave. Just a year of acting interested could have gotten him everything he needed and more, but he’s never been particularly good at letting go of his emotions.
Now, he finds himself staring at a smirking face that’s as irresistible as it is infuriating. Yellowed teeth and a crooked grin effortlessly reel him into a trap he can’t escape.
“You’re a fast learner,” Dave mumbles. “Took June a few tries to keep her hands above the waist.”
Karkat swallows. He blinks. There’s a small part of him that feels viscerally repulsed by what he’s doing. It’s something entirely new — a nagging, whining voice that chides him for being as manipulative as his older brother.
“He’ll pay you more if he thinks you care,” it says.
“Fuck,” Karkat closes his eyes and breathes in.
Dave’s breath smells like coffee.
“How much do you think he’ll tip for this one?”
“Fuck.” Karkat opens his eyes. “I… Sorry. Shit.” He rolls over and buries his face in his hands. “I can’t do it.” After what feels like an eternity of spiraling, he grabs his underwear and pulls it back on. Then, he sits at the edge of the bed.
He expects anger.
He expects indignation.
Instead, Dave counters with a resigned sigh. The bed shifts as he pushes himself into a sitting position and rests a hand on Karkat’s shoulder. “I get it,” he says, and the tiny shred of disappointment in his voice is like a knife in Karkat’s stomach, “I’m not everyone’s… thing, if that makes sense. You were drunk as a skunk the first time ‘round, and you’re pretty damn sober now, so…”
“That’s not it,” Karkat snaps. “I really, truly hate admitting that I like you, Strider. I do.”
“Hm?” The bed shifts again. Dave drops out and into his chair. Under-oiled hinges squeak as he throws on a pair of pants. “Gimme a minute.”
And Karkat waits.
As promised, Dave pushes into view soon thereafter. His ratty sweatpants cover his lower half, but the mottled sunlight still highlights the scars covering his bare torso. “If it’s, like, a sexual thing… I mean…” he rubs the back of his neck. “Some people are into it. I don’t really think that’s an issue. ‘Long as you respect me, I really don’t care what knocks your rocks.”
“I…” Karkat’s brows furrow. “What the fuck are you talking about, Strider?”
“While Rose was in college, I learned pretty quick that there’s an entire subset that’s really, really into wheelchair sex.” Dave shrugs. “Takes all kinds, I guess?”
Part of Karkat is charmed by Dave’s ability to see the best in an inherently bizarre situation. At the same time, he finds himself wondering how he could have ever considered using the man in front of him as a pump-and-dump piggy bank. “That’s… fascinating. But it wasn’t the issue?”
“No?” Dave raises a brow and folds his arms across his chest. The action stretches the round scar on the side of his lower abdomen. “Well, you don’t seem to be in a huge hurry to leave, so we have time to hash this shit out.”
After a moment of thought, Karkat does what he does best: He blurts out his thoughts with all the grace of a dying goldfish. “I feel like I’m using you.”
“For money?” A pause. “So… you don’t actually like me?”
“Ugh. Fuck.” Karkat runs his fingers through his hair. “No, I do like you.”
“But you feel like you’re sugar daddy-ing me?” Infuriatingly, Dave’s face is twisted into a bemused smirk. “I dunno, man, that’s kind of flattering to me. But most of your pay is from Rose.”
“But you give me tips.”
“That’s chump change, Karkat. But, hey, let’s entertain this weird little thought of yours.” Pale fingers rap against black rubberized pushrims. “Assuming you did like me, what makes it so bad for me to pay you after some ball-busting?”
“Please,” Karkat grumbles, “do not call it that.”
“Rocket riding?” Somehow, Dave maintains his usual look of indifference. “Whatever. Point is, what makes it so bad?”
“I’m fairly fucking certain it qualifies as prostitution, first of all.”
“Yeah?” A hint of mild surprise flashes across Dave’s face. Then, he laughs. “And who’s calling the cops on us? ‘Yeah, officer, we gotta arrest these two horny gays. They’re consensually fucking. It’s tragic.’ See where the issue is?”
“I wasn’t implying that you would call the cops,” Karkat sighs. “Can you take anything seriously, Dave?”
“Hm?”
In the brief second their eyes meet, Karkat feels like he’s on another planet. Then, as quickly as it started, it stops.
“Fine. I’ll step back the jokes. Look,” Dave rubs his hands over his knees, “You said you wanted to pay your loans, right?”
“Right.”
“And how much are they?”
“I am not letting you pay my student loans,” Karkat snaps.
“But how much are they?”
“Twenty fucking thousand dollars.”
Dave whistles. “Holy shit. Sure am glad I flunked out.” Folding his hands behind his head pushes out his chest in the most rage-inducingly casual way possible. “Well, how ‘bout this? We both know Rose has an assload of money.”
Again, Karkat interjects: “I’m not letting your sister pay off my loans, either.”
“Technically, she’d be doing that if we paid you the normal way. It’d just take longer.”
Karkat blinks.
“And I’m not saying she pays them. I’m suggesting a loan. If my math’s right, you’d have to tolerate my bitter ass for a year. She pays that chunk of change, you hang out with me for a year. No strings attached. Loan’s paid off when you’re done, and you can leave the second it’s through if you’re sick of me.”
Karkat opens his mouth to say something, but no words come to mind.
Dave, meanwhile, keeps talking. “Unorthodox idea, I know. But, hey, this all seems like the fucking stupidest way I’ve ever met someone, so I’d call it fair game.”
And, in some ways, he’s right. Nothing about their initial meeting was remotely normal. And, somehow, his pretzel logic sounds just sane enough to smooth over the cracks that have formed in Karkat’s conscience. At the very least, he won’t feel like he’s being paid a salary.
Of course, he can’t admit as much upfront. He has to make Dave work for some of his praise. “Were you ever a car salesman?” he quips.
Dave laughs. “Nah, never tried that. But I’ve been told I’d be a halfway decent one.” He snags his usual gloves from the bedside table and pulls them on. “Anyhow, mood’s kind of dead. I’ll talk to Rose ‘bout this stupid plan and keep you updated.”
-----
Admittedly, despite the fiasco this morning, Karkat can’t bring himself to say he wants to go home. Even as he stares out the window at his apartment complex, he finds himself feeling strangely empty. Normally, he’s more than happy to go home.
Today, it just feels…
Dave raps his knuckles against the steering wheel, forming a beat to a song only he can hear. His posture is as casual as ever, but something — something Karkat can’t quite place — is wrong. His breathing is faster and shallower than usual. When he notices the extra attention, he pauses. “‘Sup?”
“Are you okay, Strider?”
“Chest feels a little tight,” he shrugs. “Happens. You want help or not? We can’t stick ‘round here for too long.” As if to elaborate, Dave gestures to the warning sign to the right. “Ten minute parking and all.”
A small voice in the back of Karkat’s head tells him to push the issue, but an even larger part of him says to keep his nose clean. Instead, he responds to the question at hand. “Sure. Why the fuck not?”
Dave acquiesces without debate. The car pulls back out and circles the block once more. This time, he pulls into the surprisingly dingy parking garage out back.
Despite being finished this year, the lights rarely work. The “guaranteed comfort of air conditioning” usually streams directly out the drafty side paneling. Trash is already accumulating in the corners, and the persistent smell of weed has settled in the northeast corner of the uppermost level. It is, in every way, a perfect reflection of the building’s management.
And Dave notices immediately. “Damn. Are property managers usually this shitty?”
“It depends,” is Karkat’s honest answer. He’s had decent property managers before. Kindly older folks seem to be his best bet, but there have been exceptions.
Dave nods as he pulls the handbrake, and the second peculiarity emerges. “Hate to do this to you, dude, but can you get my chair? I’ll put it together. Just hand me the parts.”
Karkat raises a brow.
Dave responds with a shrug. “I’m feeling lazy,” he says, his tone excessively flat, “I think I’m entitled to that sometimes, right?” It’s a poor excuse, but something about the way his gaze keeps dodging Karkat’s begs for silence.
So, against his better judgment, Karkat complies. He exits the car and snags his overstuffed gym bag before approaching the driver’s side. Thinking back to what he’s seen before, he grabs the main seat first. The wheels follow.
Dave assembles everything with his usual sense of practiced speed. He transfers just as easily. “Y’know,” he smirks, “now that I’m thinking ‘bout it, you really only have one bag. The hell do you need me for?” His casual attitude is back. The only sign that something could potentially be wrong is his breathing, and Karkat quickly assumes that’s part of the day’s bitter chill.
After all, Dave hasn’t told him to worry.
“Moral support,” he jests.
“What? I’m your emotional support animal now?” Dave elbows Karkat in the knee. “If that’s the case, I should unionize. You’re a shit boss.”
“How so?” Karkat feigns offense.
“Well, first of all, you ain’t paying me shit.”
“That’s because you’re paying me, dumbass!” Karkat rolls his eyes and tugs at the strap over his shoulder. He starts walking to the lobby door, watching Dave out of the corner of his eye.
The slight incline forces him to switch how he pushes his chair. His arms and hands move in a tighter loop, one that traces back and forth along a roughly ten-inch-long section of the pushrims. Even on the backswing, his hands rarely leave the rubberized surface. At some point, Dave inches ahead. He punches the automatic door button and waves Karkat inside before following.
A series of hoarse, painful coughs precedes his entrance.
“Damn,” Karkat glances over his shoulder. “Seriously, Dave, are you okay? You sound like you’re dying of tuberculosis back there.”
“Perfectly dandy,” Dave says. When he rubs a gloved hand over his mouth, he pauses. His brows furrow. “Hey… uh… I think I’ve gotta go.”
“You sure?” Karkat’s heart drops. He can’t tell if it’s because he’s worried for Dave or afraid of being alone again.
“Yeah.” Dave gulps down a few breaths. “I…” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“Do what you have to,” Karkat shrugs.
“Thanks.” From Dave, there’s an appreciative and slightly uncomfortable half-smile. “I’ll send you a message when I get home. Sound good?”
“That works with me.” Unconsciously imitating what he’s seen Dave do dozens of times, Karkat waves his free hand dismissively. “Go. I’m just checking the mail room and cleaning up my place.”
Before leaving, Dave shoots back with a wry smirk. “Don’t envy you there, bud,” he quips.
And Karkat finds himself clinging to the sarcastic parting words like they’re the only thing tethering him to reality.
-----
By 11:00 p.m., Karkat has yet to hear from Dave.
He reassures himself that everything is fine. He’s prone to anxiety, after all. Surely, Dave is busy. He and his sister are probably enjoying time together. They’ve been hosting guests for a week. They’re entitled to a break.
He stays busy by taking stock of what he’s accomplished. The mail room will finally stop pestering him, and he’s shredded all his usual spam. He’s dusted the entire apartment and made his bed with clean sheets. He even cleaned off the tacky fake monstera plant that came with the rental. All his busywork manages to keep him from snapping until approximately 11:30 p.m., when he gets an alert from his mobile Pesterchum app.
Group Pesterchum chat between Dave, Rose, June, and Karkat:
GROUP CHAT [DON’T FLIP YOUR SHIT] STARTED
ROSE: …
ROSE: Well, now, this is entirely my fault. Silly me for assuming that my sibling would take a single thing in his life seriously. How incredibly foolish of me!
ROSE: Change the name, Dave.
USER turntechGodhead CHANGED THE CHAT NAME TO [BLOOD CLOTS AIN’T KAWAII DESU]
ROSE: NOT what I meant.
ROSE: Whatever. I’m sure Karkat is worrying himself to near-fatal levels, anyhow. Seeing as my brother is a pathological moron, it seems I must be the bearer of medical news.
DAVE: see this is why i told you not to tell him.
DAVE: he’s freaking the fuck out now.
DAVE: and that’ll freak june out
DAVE: and then june’ll freak me out
DAVE: and i’ll freak you out
DAVE: now we’re all freaking the fuck out for absolutely zero goddamn reason.
DAVE: you see the issue now right?
KARKAT: SHUT UP, STRIDER. YOU’RE NOT HELPING.
ROSE: Silence, dumbass.
DAVE: 🫡
ROSE: Good. Allow me to explicate.
ROSE: Firstly, Dave apologizes for not texting you, Karkat. I’m sure you’ll see the reasoning in a moment. He returned home safely at approximately 11:00 a.m., although I’m unsure how he managed to do so.
ROSE: At approximately 11:15 a.m., I was forced to drag him to Waylon Virgil Memorial for acute dyspnea.
DAVE: hit the vape too hard. 😔
DAVE: and use human words rose nobody fucking knows what dipshitea is.
ROSE: I WILL block you, Dave. Shut up.
DAVE: 🫡
KARKAT: NONE OF THIS IS HELPING MY ANXIETY, AND BOTH OF YOU ARE ACTING LIKE CATTY BITCHES.
JUNE: lol. that’s kinda just how they are. 🤷♀️
ROSE: AS I WAS SAYING, extensive testing revealed a considerable pulmonary embolism. He is currently under observation in Waylon Virgil Memorial’s pulmonary department. Visitation hours ended roughly two hours ago, at 9:30 p.m., so don’t worry yourself. Everything is handled.
ROSE: Karkat, if you’d like to visit tomorrow, I can pick you up at 10.
JUNE: gotcha. well, thanks for the up date. i’m going back to bed. 👍
KARKAT: THAT’S IT? I DON’T KNOW WHAT ANY OF THAT TECHNICAL JARGON MEANT!
ROSE: Despite being a concerning medical complication, this isn’t something that should be too worrisome. It’s a fairly routine issue. I suggest you go to bed and wait for an update tomorrow. We won’t know much tonight.
JUNE: don’t worry about it, karkat. snzzzzzzzz.
ROSE: Yes! Splendid! Follow June’s lead. (I can’t believe I just said that.)
DAVE: oh my god
DAVE: neither of you are helping.
DAVE: get out.
USER turntechGodhead REMOVED USER tentacleTherapist FROM THE CHAT
USER turntechGodhead REMOVED USER ectoBiologist FROM THE CHAT
DAVE: sorry about that yo.
DAVE: they’re both idiots
DAVE: and they forget not everyone’s like been around all this for long enough to know what’s up. so uh…
KARKAT: Could you maybe explain any of the bullshit Rose said in terms that the average human being can understand?
DAVE: woah
DAVE: where’d the caps lock go?
KARKAT: This seemed more appropriate for a serious situation. Is that really the hill you’re willing to die on, Strider?
KARKAT: …
KARKAT: I have mild dyslexia. The caps lock just makes it easier for me to proofread what I typed. I’m already a raging jackass; there’s no need to add “takes ten minutes to spellcheck his texts” to my resumé.
DAVE: oh!
KARKAT: “oh!”
KARKAT: What the flying, gurgling fuck does that mean?
DAVE: just like oh it makes sense.
DAVE: anywho…
DAVE: hold on lemme read the stupid medical speak rose sent
DAVE: that i explicitly told her not to send.
DAVE: ok. wow. holy elite lingo on a latin lexology unicycle batman. that was dense.
KARKAT: You have one minute before I get pissed off enough to switch back to caps lock.
DAVE: sweet baby christ chill for a minute.
DAVE: let’s work top to bottom.
DAVE: you’ve lived in the area your whole life so imma assume you know that waylon virgil’s one of the big fancy primo hospitals.
KARKAT: Yes.
DAVE: dyspnea is breathing issues
DAVE: got home and started hacking up a lung. potentially literally. dunno the specifics. got real loopy for a hot mo.
DAVE: acute means sudden. forgot that one. my b.
DAVE: pulmonary embolism is a blood clot in your lung which is kinda like a problem just fyi.
KARKAT: All of this sounds pretty fucking worrisome.
DAVE: it’s not.
DAVE: i mean it is.
DAVE: but it’s also not.
KARKAT: FUCK IT. CAPS LOCK IS BACK. ALL OF YOU ARE SNIVELING, INFURIATING MORONS. I’VE SPOKEN TO TODDLERS WITH BETTER COMMUNICATION SKILLS.
DAVE: yeah sorry. i’d do a video call but i look like shit right now.
DAVE: look lemme just put it together in order in plainspeak ok. gimme a minute.
DAVE: had trouble breathing on the way home. got inside and started hacking up blood. not great of course. so rose carted my ass to the hospital.
DAVE: they poked me with a shitload of needles
DAVE: stuck me in some machines
DAVE: then threw their hands in the air and went
DAVE: sweet tits we’ve got a winner! it’s a pulmonary embolism!
DAVE: then the nice doctors shoved a fancy little grabber thing up an artery in my crotch and pulled out the clot. but they’re not that nice because they said i couldn’t keep it and put it in a jar like a pickled punk. 😔
DAVE: and now i’m on mandatory 48-hour bedrest with blood thinners for the next three to six months.
KARKAT: BUT YOU’RE FINE NOW, RIGHT?
DAVE: yeah totes. 👍
DAVE: kinda groggy and pissed that they sliced through my favorite sweatpants but whatevs
DAVE: they do what they gotta do.
KARKAT: IN OTHER WORDS, I CAN GO TO SLEEP WITHOUT WORRYING YOU’LL DROP DEAD OVERNIGHT?
DAVE: statistically yeah. we ballin.
DAVE: i should’ve just said yes. 🤦♂️
KARKAT: YES, YOU IGNORAMUS. BUT THIS ENTIRE FIASCO HAS GIVEN ME A MIGRAINE OF THE DUMBEST PROPORTIONS. I’M GOING TO BED, ANYHOW. DON’T DIE WHILE I’M ASLEEP.
DAVE: i’ll try my best. 🫡
DAVE: if the reaper comes i’ll be all
DAVE: oh no man you can’t take me now i’ve got a bro pact going so go find someone else.
DAVE: or something to that effect.
KARKAT: WHATEVER, NERD.
KARKAT: … SEE YOU AROUND?
DAVE: you bet your ass.
USER turntechGodhead HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Notes:
thanks for all the nice comments and stuff. if you wanna follow my tumblr for some unknown reason, go ahead. send a photo of cheese to my ask box IDK. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Chapter 19: Dragonfly Out in the Sun
Summary:
Chapter title from Muse's “Feeling Good”.
Notes:
No chapter warnings for this little chapter. ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 29 December 2021
In theory, Karkat should be thrilled to finally secure an interview. It’s been over a month since he’s had a job, and at least three weeks since a single potential employer has even bothered to send anything other than a stock rejection letter. When he first took Rose’s offer, he was dreaming of this moment.
Now, as he stares at his watch, he feels a sinking sense of disappointment.
That nagging voice of selfish pragmatism, which has plagued him for as long as he can remember, rises in the back of his head. “You’re being too sentimental,” it says. “Take your money, cut your losses, and stick to the original fucking plan, idiot.” And as much as his heart wants to deny those words, they’re not entirely untrue.
It seemed so straightforward. On paper, Dave came across as a bitter, nasty bastard. By Karkat’s estimates, it would be easy to see him as little more than a casual client. At most, maybe they’d hang out infrequently when he paid off his loans.
But things are never so simple, are they?
Sighing, Karkat unlocks his phone and sends a text.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Dave:
-----
The one thing Karkat can consistently pride himself in is his ability to convince others that he’s more competent than he really is. Despite his naturally abrasive personality, he’s always had a knack for interviews. They’re short enough; he can suppress his natural cynicism for as long as it takes to persuade potential employers that he’s anything but bitter. Of course, once they’re over, his usual anxiety kicks in.
As he waits for the bus, he finds himself wondering if he did well.
He needs the job.
Every day without a “real” job eats into Rose’s pay and stretches out his plan. Knowing what he does now, every additional hour is just another potential point of failure.
“Then again,” his emotions ask, “is failure really that bad?”
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
For now, the spiral stops.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Dave:
Thursday, 30 December 2021
Where Karkat assumed he’d feel warmth, he feels little more than a dull sense of annoyance. The email staring back at him may be congratulatory in mood, but the contents fill him with a mix of shame and dread. After leaving his last job, he swore to never return to customer service.
Then again, it’s not as if the world has ever listened to his pleas for mercy.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Position Offer, Flex Cashier
After thorough review, the GrubCrafts team has selected you to join our team of Grubbers! Your position is valid for location #612 only. Respond to this email to confirm your interest in the position, and we’ll set up an onboarding session for you.
Please see the details below to learn more about your role as a Cashier Grubber!
As a part-time position, you will not receive any benefits. However, after working with GrubCrafts for a year or more, we will compensate you 15₵ for every dollar spent on gas! 🆒
Assuming you meet your team leader’s expectations and show promise as an employee, you are guaranteed at least six hours of work per week. The longer you work for GrubCrafts, the more hours you’ll get. So be sure to show off how eager you are to be on our team!
Your compensation will begin at $7.25 per hour, and you’ll have opportunities to earn bonuses on holidays.
We look forward to hearing from you!
Nothing about the offer is particularly tantalizing. It’s the same sort of minimum-wage, dead-end job Karkat has spent the past four years trying to escape. Unfortunately, it also seems to be the only thing people will hire him to do. So, reluctantly, he sends a response.
He’s immediately greeted by a similarly bog-standard reply. This time, it implores him to click through a series of links. Each takes him to a lengthy legalese document to sign. When he’s done, he’s directed to a scheduling page. Only one onboarding date is available for the next ten days: tomorrow.
After a moment of thought, he closes the window. Another automated email cheerfully informs him that the document processing site has “saved his spot for later”, and that he can “return at any time.” He slides aside the email window and opens his messenger app. At first, he considers messaging Kanaya.
She’s his closest friend, after all. They’ve been together through just about everything. Unfortunately, he’s also keenly aware of her inability to dole out halfway decent relationship advice. He starts running down the list, and only Nepeta offers any sort of hope. However, she also happens to be an ex who has on multiple — usually drunk — occasions admitted to still harboring some feelings for him.
With great reluctance, he’s forced to go straight to the person at the source of his problems.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Dave:
Chapter 20: Dream Each Other's Smile
Summary:
Chapter title from Paul Williams' “Faust” from the greatest movie ever made, Phantom of the Paradise.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday, 31 December 2021
In some ways, Karkat can’t exactly say he’s surprised by how things have transpired. He’s always had a nasty habit of falling for people with all the grace and speed of a pigeon shot out of the air. Where others grow fond like time-worn river stones, his passion has always been more spontaneous. It’s like a wildfire — a sudden spark that turns to a raging inferno. And like a wildfire, it always seems to leave him burned. At least that’s what he tells himself as he sits across the table from Dave.
“You’ll always get burned.” He repeats the mantra again and again, but it does little to stymie his wandering gaze or quiet the thrumming thump of his heartbeat in his ears.
His eyes trace Dave’s sharp, sloping jawline. They’re led to his shoulders — broad, muscular, and increasingly irresistible. He finds himself thinking about the feeling of Dave’s skin beneath his fingers. Fifteen years’ worth of taut muscle beneath a thin layer of fat. Tight knots that melt beneath his touch like butter in a hot pan. And lower, below the line he’s always so tempted to cross, is skin that’s engrossingly soft.
“You’ll always get burned,” he reminds himself as he tunes back into the conversation.
When Dave and Rose laugh together, it’s easy to see that they’re related. Now that they’re side-by-side, it’s even more apparent. They have similar facial structures, though Dave’s is slightly more angular. They have the same smattering of freckles across their nasal bridges and the same round eyes. At times, particularly when one is ribbing the other, they even sound similar.
“Karkat!” Kanaya’s voice rises above the fray. “I heard about your job offer. While I understand it is not what you were hoping for, I am still incredibly proud of you. I knew you would find something quickly.” She smiles, and it’s the same expression that’s calmed the constant fire in Karkat’s chest for over two decades.
“Yeah, well,” he huffs, trying to act like her words haven’t given him a much-needed boost, “it sure as fuck won’t be using that child psychology degree, now, will it?”
“Ah! It depends!” Rose’s comment is accompanied by a wide smirk. “Let’s be honest. Customers are generally not the brightest of people. I see little difference between the average slack-jawed consumer and a babbling toddler.”
A snort of laughter forces its way through Karkat’s defenses. “You’re not wrong.”
“Customer service is a step above unemployment and a step below waterboarding,” Dave quips. “I could write my own goddamn book ‘bout the shit I saw, and I only did that sort of shit for… hm…” his brows furrow as his fingers count off unknown numbers. After a few seconds, he reaches a conclusion. “‘Bout three years total.” He knocks the topmost knuckles of his right hand against his highball glass, currently filled with one of Kanaya’s irresistible mocktails, as he continues: “A big chunk of the public is just existing. Ain’t much happening between their ears. Nothing wrong with that, but having to see it all the time is exhausting.”
“Alas,” Kanaya sighs, “I never had to work a retail job. I feel as though I am missing some of the context in this discussion.”
Rose is quick to reassure her guest. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss much. As a Dave-assigned ‘nepo baby’ of sorts” — she emphasizes her point with air quotes — “I also dodged the dreaded customer service period. Of course, I still encounter such preposterous types whenever I engage with the public.”
“Dave-assigned?” An intentionally overdone scoff escapes Dave. “No, sweetie, you are a nepo baby. You’re, like, the textbook definition of a nepo baby.”
“Mayhaps.” The edges of Rose’s lips quirk slightly upward. Then, she turns her attention to Karkat. It seems that a needling gaze is a genetic trait. “In any case, congratulations. Even if it’s not the job you would like, it’s extra money in your pocket.”
“I suppose.” When Karkat finds himself moving to rap his knuckles against the table, he stops. Instead, he downs another hefty gulp of cheap beer. It slides down his throat like motor oil, and it tastes about the same. “I guess I’ll have to bust open my old Book of Sins again. I’ll be sure to scribe in every mind-bogglingly stupid infraction I see.”
A throaty whoop of laughter comes from Dave.
Kanaya jumps at the sudden interjection. After taking a second to regain her composure, she takes a sip of her wine. “Rose, the dinner was lovely.”
A tinge of pink spreads across Rose’s face.
Dave, meanwhile, shoots Karkat a sideways glance. He doesn’t need to say anything.
Karkat rises from his seat. “Thanks for the meal, Lalonde. I concur with Kanaya. It was delicious.” Instinct drives him to carefully fold his napkin and place it beside his empty plate.
“Yeah, the meal was fucking balling, sis,” Dave smirks as he turns away from the table. The act is preceded by an increasingly familiar click. “But I’m kind of full right now, so…”
A dramatic, well-rehearsed sigh precedes Rose’s reply. “Yes, Dave, I will summon you for dessert.”
“Love how you say ‘summon’,” a pale hand beckons for Karkat to follow as Dave finishes his thought. “Really makes it sound like you’re doing fucked up blood magic to bring me back from the dead. Maybe you did. I’d never know.”
Try as he might, Karkat can’t help but snicker at the commentary.
Not surprisingly, Dave leads the way to the converted studio space. However, the latest work seems to be focused on something other than a vase or bowl. On the flat side of the workbench is the rough outline of something. Judging by the elaborate sketch pinned to a strip of cork along the wall, the vague mass should eventually become an owl.
Now, in the isolation of the warm back room, Karkat finally notices the traces of fatigue.
Dave’s breathing is shallower and faster. He moves slower, as if he’s conserving his energy. He stacks breaths more frequently, and faint shadows hang beneath his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is coarser and quieter than usual. “You okay hanging out back here for a while?” He pauses to catch his breath. “I mean… I obviously love Rose. She’s my sister. And Kanaya’s pretty fucking great. It was just…” he runs his fingers through his hair and approaches what appears to be a fridge. When he opens the door, the object reveals itself to be a well-stocked kiln.
“Tiring?” Karkat offers.
“Yeah!” A subdued smile pulls at Dave’s lips. “Exactly that.” He plucks a honeypot-shaped vase from the kiln and takes it to the clear side of the workbench. From the drawer, he pulls several small jars of various glazes and paints. Opening a flat wooden box at the back of the workspace reveals a dazzling selection of brushes. After picking out three — one that’s wide and flat, one that’s rounded, and one with a fan-like arrangement of bristles — he nods to the well-worn beanbag chair in the corner. “You know the drill. Sit wherever. You can always go back out, too. I’m fine back here.” He unscrews the cover on a large jar of water.
Karkat may not be drunk, but he’s tipsy enough to let a few scraps of truth fall from his lips. “Seeing as I came to hang out with you, that’d be pretty fucking stupid.” He folds his arms across his chest as he drops into the beanbag. “Besides, I’ve never actually seen you paint anything.”
“Ain’t that interesting, really,” Dave shrugs. His right hand snags a clean washcloth from the stack; the left swirls the flat brush in the jar of water. When he’s done, he wipes it against the towel. “Just like painting a canvas.” He pops open a jar; according to the hastily scribbled label, it’s “True Celadon”.
“Newsflash, dumbass! I haven’t done that since I was in middle school.” Karkat scans the floor around him. A dusty, black stress ball has wedged itself between the beanbag and the shelf behind him. After prying it free and dusting it off, he tosses it idly between his hands.
“So… you don’t like art all that much?” Dave turns his head long enough to shoot a raised brow at his conversational partner. “That’s what your profile said, at least. Also claimed that you had an interest in animal welfare and cooking, so…”
“Art’s nice, I guess.” Karkat’s gaze lands on the white logo stamped onto the stress ball. The abstract shapes bear no obvious relevance to the medical supply company named underneath. “I just don’t really get it all the time.”
A laugh — a sound tinged with a mood Karkat can’t quite place — rumbles at the back of Dave’s throat. “There’s not always something to get,” he shrugs. After turning the vase a few times, he dunks his brush into the glaze and starts painting. “Sometimes, it’s just nice to look at.”
“But…” Karkat’s brows furrow. “It should have a meaning, right?”
“Not necessarily.” A tiny smile flashes across Dave’s face. As much as he’s trying to hide it, he’s genuinely enjoying this conversation. “Look, I know the teachers and textbooks say you need a point, but you don’t always.” After covering the lower two inches of the vessel in paint, he points to the shelf of assorted pottery. “None of that shit has a meaning, right?”
“How would I fucking know? You made them.”
“M’kay.” Dave manually spins the wheel around a few times. He squints as he examines the object before him. “And I’m telling you they don’t have a meaning. Ain’t a single thought in those things beyond making a pretty vase or cup or what have you.”
“And why would that matter to me?”
“Well,” Dave draws out the vowel; his smile grows, “Would you say those aren’t art? I made them. I painted them. I fired them. So, it’s art, right?”
“Sure.” Upon catching the stress ball, Karkat switches to rolling it between his palms. He wants to think of this discussion as a pointless waste of time, but the thinly veiled excitement in Dave’s voice is quickly reeling him into a web. “But that’s because you made it, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But what if it’s a drawing?” Dave points to the complex sketch hanging behind the workbench. “I didn’t make the paper or the pencil. So, what? That ain’t art, right?”
“I…” Karkat’s brows furrow deeper; he feels as if they’re becoming a solid monobrow of confusion. “But you drew the picture, Strider. Gods above, you’re making me feel like I’m back in college.”
“Ha! As if!” Dave stops adding more paint as he reaches the halfway point on the vase. After rinsing off the brush, he pulls out another bottle of pigment - “Seafoam Green”. He turns it sideways and rolls it across the workbench as he continues: “I’m too stupid for that shit, KV.”
For once, Karkat feels inclined to disagree with a self-deprecating statement. “Actually… I’m not that sure you are, Strider. You’re saying some pretty fucking intelligent shit right now.”
“Am I?” There’s a vague hint of genuine confusion in Dave’s voice. “Don’t know much ‘bout anything other than art and music, really. I did some coding, but I never got to the same level as my father. That man could program anything and loved computers more than his own children.” After righting the container of glaze, he pops off the top and peers inside. He must be pleased with the results, as he sets it on the table and starts painting the upper half of the vase.
“Not that it matters all that much,” he adds. “Just a little thought exercise. Rose and I liked doing it when we were kids. Real great way to annoy Mother.”
With the cerebral part of the conversation concluded, Karkat resumes tossing the stress ball around. “I can see why. That bullshit made me think too much.”
“You mean at all?” Dave smirks.
Karkat rolls his eyes. On the next toss, the stress ball flies a bit too far. It ends up bouncing off his foot and rolling across the floor, eventually stopping an inch to Dave’s left. “Fuck. That was the most enjoyable thing in this room.”
Again, Dave laughs — and the sound massages every part of Karkat’s brain. He leans over and snags the ball. “This old thing?” When he notices the logo, he rolls his eyes. “Shit. I brought this from Houston. Not sure why. Here. Catch.” He tosses it back.
Karkat manages to snatch it before it topples over a pile of papers on the shelf behind him. “Maybe aim a little before you throw next time, you stupid motherfucker!” he shoots back.
“It’s all just old documents, anyhow.” As if to demonstrate, Dave picks up a wad of crumpled newspaper from the back of the desk. He daubs it against the paint a few times, leaving a crackle-like texture on the surface. “Works great for freaky effects,” he says, brushing over his work. “Not on this one, though.”
“Well,” by extending the vowel, Karkat emphasizes the word and — hopefully — imitates Dave’s mannerisms enough to annoy him. “Wouldn’t that imply that you’re thinking about what to put into this vase, thereby giving it some sort of meaning?”
Dave looks up long enough to grab a metal rasp and awl combination from a cracked ceramic mug and glance in Karkat’s direction. Shortly thereafter, said tool ends up lodged tip-first in a cardboard box three inches to the right of Karkat’s head. As he returns to his work, he smirks. “Don’t use my logic against me.”
Karkat finds himself staring at the crafting tool. After a few seconds to calm himself, he pries it from its place. The tip isn’t razor-sharp, but the metal construction gives it plenty of heft. If Dave had been off by just a hair…
“Do you… regularly pull stunts like that?”
“Only when I’m feeling like being a try-hard.” The smirk widens. Pale fingers pluck a paring knife from the drawer. Another quick toss lodges the instrument in the cork board near the kiln. “Probably not the recommended hobby to pick up in physical therapy,” he adds a nonchalant shrug, “but it worked.”
“You have some intriguing talents.” Karkat’s eyes narrow. In the back of his mind, he makes a note to avoid pissing Dave off anywhere near sharp objects.
“I’ll consider that a compliment.” Dave finishes his paint job and rinses off the brush. “Probably more interesting shit happening out in the main room, by the way.”
“Are you implying that you’d like for me to leave?”
“Not really. Mostly just pointing that out.” Apparently satisfied with his work, Dave replaces the lid on the jar of glaze. He stores it back in the drawer and turns to face Karkat. Then, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “And I’d like to apologize for the bullshit a few nights ago. Like I said then, Rose ain’t always tuned in on everyone else’s wavelength, if that makes sense.”
“You mean she’s a loquacious know-it-all?”
“Pretty much.” Dave folds his hands and twiddles his thumbs. “Anyhow, it ain’t exactly a problem most of the time. It’s usually just us, y’know? And both of us are in the loop with that shit. Despite being a goofy dork, June picked up on it pretty fast, too, so…” His gaze drops to his lap. “I don’t generally talk ‘bout that shit to” — he pauses; his brows furrow. He straightens his back and rubs the side of his neck. “Sorry. Gimme a mo’.”
Karkat nods.
Eventually, Dave seems to figure out what he wants to say. He speaks, but his gaze remains firmly locked on the ceiling. “Generally, when I like someone enough to have ‘em ‘round more, I don’t dump this sort of shit on ‘em. And it’s not because it scares people off, even though it does. It’s more that… Everyone’s already pussyfooting ‘round me. Don’t need another reason for them to keep doing it.” Finally, his gaze meets Karkat’s. There’s a sense of uncharacteristic sincerity behind a film of glassy disconnect.
Karkat’s heart slams against his chest. For a minute, all he can hear is his own heartbeat. Only after Dave breaks eye contact does he manage to regain his composure. He clears his throat and rolls the stress ball between his palms. “I can’t say I get it, but it makes sense.”
A flicker of a smile pulls at Dave’s lips. “Good answer. Real diplomatic, KV.”
“And stop fucking calling me that. I never approved of it.”
“I will when I think of a better nickname,” Dave shrugs. After repositioning himself slightly, he stretches his arms across his chest — right, then left. “Anyhow…” He turns back to the table and pops open another container of glaze. “Awkward shit’s done. We can go back to sniping each other.”
“As if I ask for an invitation to dunk on you?” Karkat snickers.
“Good point.” Dave preps his brush once more. He swirls it in the water, dries it off, and dips it into the open jar of pigment. (“Lapis Lazuli”, apparently.) “We never talk ‘bout you, bee tee dubs,” he muses as he applies a second layer of glaze to the lower half of the vessel. “You said earlier you like writing?”
“I write shitty poems and movie reviews,” Karkat admits, albeit with a slight edge of reluctance. He resumes tossing the ball between his hands. “I did some wrestling in high school and college, but I haven’t touched it again since. Not everyone’s life is as interesting as yours, Strider.”
To this, Dave smirks. “‘Interesting’ might not be the right word, but I can agree.” Hazel eyes sweep over the pottery piece in his hands. “Your friends are pretty nice. None of them said anything wildly offensive, so that’s a plus.”
“When they’re not being incurable dumbasses, they’re almost enjoyable company,” Karkat concedes. “You’re welcome to join us, by the way. Sollux has already added you to our dumb group chats, anyhow.”
Again, a small but wary smile pulls at Dave’s lips. “Kind of hard to miss that bullshit, dude.” After finishing this layer of glaze, he rinses off his brush and preps the round-tipped option. With it, he begins painting idle, interlocking patterns on the vase’s upper half. “Not to sound too forward or nothing, but… You can stay the night, if you’d like. Kanaya is. And the buses stop running before midnight, so…”
“Did you miss the fact that I brought a fucking bag, or what?”
For once, the expression on Dave’s face softens and settles into place. “You want me to get the sofa ready?”
“Actually…” This time, it’s Karkat’s turn to look away. “I… wouldn’t exactly be opposed to just sharing your bed.”
Before the embarrassment can set in, Dave supplies a helpful excuse: “Because it’s a pretty bitching bed, of course.”
“Yeah. Of course!”
Dave breathes a hoarse, subtle snicker, and the sound wraps itself around Karkat’s mind like stubborn English ivy. It plants its roots in an otherwise reluctant heart and exploits every weakness to gain a foothold, even as Karkat does his best to resist. “You’ll always get burned,” he tries to remind himself. But for now, the relaxed atmosphere calms his fears. For now, he lets himself enjoy the moment.
Notes:
[that meme of the guy bringing a pizza to a party and everyone's on fire] Welp. Long live this dumpster fire. Stay wild, Homestuck.
Chapter 21: That Moment When Words Run Dry
Summary:
Chapter lyrics from Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, namely “The Point of No Return”. That's the original London cast recording (Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman), but literally any version works. The 2004 movie version (Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum), for example, also works. Take your pick.
Notes:
Chapter warnings for discussions of past abuse and one suicide mention in the first half. Kankri also makes an appearance (under “Unknown Number”), and his section contains (predictable) ableism and just being Kankri in general.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saturday, 1 January 2022
Having left his watch in his jacket pocket, Karkat has no idea what time it is. All he knows is that it’s too early. It’s still dark outside, and the suburbs are eerily quiet. Only three sounds permeate the audible emptiness: the whirr of an oxygen concentrator, the rattling hum of a ceiling fan, and a muffled voice.
“Fuck,” Dave mumbles in his sleep. Then, a pause. His shoulders, which rest against Karkat’s back, twitch. “Back off,” he snaps, his voice clearer than before. “STOP!” A sharp wheeze follows. Then, a tired groan. The bed shifts as Dave shoves himself into a sitting position. When he notices Karkat staring at him, he freezes.
Pale fingers comb through a tangle of golden blond hair. “Oh. Fuck.” When the machine pushes oxygen in, he falls silent; he winces. When it lets him exhale, he speaks, “You saw that? I” — inhale. Exhale. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” Karkat admits. He, too, sits up. “Do you want to talk about it, or…?”
Dave’s brows furrow. He lets the machine cycle a few more times before carefully pulling off the tubing wrapped behind his ears. “Turn that thing off. Power’s the single round button.”
Karkat complies. The hardwood floor is cold — but not unbearably so — beneath his feet. By the time he’s done, Dave is situated in his wheelchair.
“Rose’s room is up against this one,” he explains, vaguely gesturing to the wall next to the bedroom door. “Better to talk in the garage.”
Karkat lets Dave lead. On his way out, he steals a pair of ratty slippers. They’re at least one size too big, but he doesn’t mind. They’re still comfortable enough.
By now, he knows where he’s going; it just feels more polite to follow. The overhead tube lighting hums to life as Karkat steps inside. They’ve reached their maximum brightness by the time the door clicks closed.
Dave looks uncharacteristically small. There’s no trace of his usual larger-than-life act. He’s drawn inwards. “Beer?” he asks, his voice alarmingly quiet.
“A little fucking early for that, isn’t it?” Karkat flops onto the slowly disintegrating sofa. With a muffled crack, the cushions sink even lower.
Dave has no response as he pulls a can of Carapacian from the mini fridge by the door. He waits until he’s next to the sofa to open it, and he drinks eagerly before speaking. “Sorry I woke you up. Haven’t had nightmares like that in years.”
“Everyone has bad dreams. And I really don’t give a shit. I’m still unemployed, remember? I have no fucking sleeping schedule.”
Though he smirks at the joke, Dave pointedly avoids looking in Karkat’s direction. Instead, his gaze focuses on the automatic door’s control panel. “Still feel shitty ‘bout it. Thought I’d gotten over it all. I mean… feels like I should have gotten it all out of my system. Bastard’s been dead for ten years. Shot himself in the head on the fifth anniversary of my accident. Left a note blaming me, saying he shouldn’t have been responsible for paying for my medical care. That I ruined him financially. That I should’ve died.”
“Your…” Karkat’s brows furrow. “Your dad did that?”
Dave nods. His right thumb starts to tremble. “It’s a long, stupid, depressing story, really.” A hollow smile forces its way across his face. “You don’t have to listen.”
Instinct tells Karkat to hit back with his usual brand of biting sarcasm, but the rising anxiety in Dave’s voice — the way his muscles are tensing like coiled springs — drives him to do otherwise. He adopts the softer, gentler tone he picked up during child psychology classes. “We’re already out here, Strider. Might as well listen.”
From Dave, a hesitant nod.
“You can stop whenever you want.”
A shaky sigh.
Rough fingertips rub against a silver beer can. “My father was an abusive bastard,” Dave mumbles. “Lived with him for fifteen years, and I only really remember a handful of days when he wasn’t blackout drunk or beating me senseless. Said it was love. It was to toughen me up…” He downs more beer. “It’s probably why I ran off and joined a mini gang when I was thirteen. Got me out of the penthouse, at least.”
Karkat’s heart drops, but he forces himself to remain silent.
“Hell, I’m pretty sure I’d still have arthritis by now, anyhow. Bastard threw me around enough.” A bitter, cynical laugh punctuates Dave’s statement. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward.
“I… I still don’t know if he wanted to be that way. He went sober when I was six. Lasted ‘bout a year. We went to the state fair. He won me a shitload of prizes. ‘Strider genes,’ he said it was. Said Striders are always meant to be winners.” A flicker of fondness inches into Dave’s voice, but it disappears quickly. “Soon as he hit the bottle again, he hated me. For a while, I thought my name was ‘shithead’.”
Here, he stops. He downs more beer and massages the bridge of his nose. “When I turned thirteen, he started training me to use knives. Told me I had to be street smart.” Hazel eyes focus on the array of scars across the back of well-worn hands. “Maybe he… did… hate me.”
There’s a gaping hole in the pit of Karkat’s stomach, and it’s growing ever wider. But its depths are not filled with the usual sense of self-flagellating depression; no, this chasm burns with a rising, searing rage.
“Saw him once after my accident. Not sure how long after waking up it was, but he stormed into my room. Shoved my current bill in my face.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Must’ve been pretty soon after I woke up. Still couldn’t breathe on my own. I just had to lay there and take it, really.” He blinks a few more times. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “The shit he told me then was…” As tears threaten to form, he downs the last of his beer. He crushes the can against his knee and throws it aside. As it clatters against the floor, he snaps.
He buries his face in his hands and sobs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t…” he gulps down a few breaths. Each inhale shakes his shoulders and forces him to rock slightly forward. “I thought I’d…” He shrinks ever inward. “I’d figured it out.” His fingers shake as he runs them through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. And between sobs, as he makes himself as small as he can, he repeats it again and again: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Karkat acts on instinct. He reaches out and rubs Dave’s shaking shoulders. “You’re allowed to cry,” he reassures.
And Dave melts beneath his touch. Over the next few minutes, he calms down enough to speak. “I’m a grown-ass man,” he sighs, “It’s been fifteen years. Almost two decades.” He rubs the back of his right arm across his face. A series of weak coughs follow; then, a wince. “There’s an inhaler in my bag. Far right.”
It’s easy enough to find — bright red, like most of Dave’s things. Karkat hands it over before closing the bag strung across the back of the chair.
Dave, meanwhile, shakes the inhaler for a few seconds before pressing it to his lips. He releases the vapor in strategic spurts, pressing down on the button with each rasping inhale. When he’s done, he leaves the device in his lap. When he finally speaks again, his voice is cold and detached. “‘You should’ve just died out there.’ That’s what he said to me. Told me I was a pussy for sticking ‘round. That a real Strider would’ve accepted fate.” A sense of distant awe shines in his eyes as he watches himself flex the fingers of his right hand.
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe…” He frowns. “I should’ve died. I don’t deserve any of this. I met dozens of folks in worse shape than I am, but they had damn good hearts. None of them deserved it, so…” His brows furrow. “Why me?” he asks, his voice smaller than ever. “He’s right. I’m a brat. I’m a spoiled, lazy, worthless bastard. It’s all dumb luck that most of the real bad damage was just swelling. It’s dumb, stupid luck. And I don’t deserve any of it. I” — he starts spiraling.
“Stop,” Karkat snaps, and the fire that’s been smoldering in his stomach flashes over. “You do deserve it. You…” Half of him wants to pick up the nearest breakable object and hurl it as far as he can. The other half, the one clinging to his college degree, reminds him that violence will only make things worse. He channels his rage, instead, into a sense of compassion that he’s always kept buried beneath layers of thorns. “Yes, you can be an insufferable douchebag. You’re a show-boating asshole with an unfair amount of charisma. But you’re a good fucking person, Dave. And I’m not saying that out of pity or whatever your fucked up mind wants to twist it into. I’m saying that because it’s the cold, hard truth. You give a damn about things. You give a damn about too many things. So do I. And I’ll only ever be half as fucking decent as you are on your worst day.”
To this, Dave blinks. “I… Holy fuck…” He rubs his thumbs against his temples. “Jesus fuck, man, that was… A lot. And thank you. I needed to hear it, but… I guess it’s nice hearing it from someone who isn’t Rose. And as much as I love June, I’ve never…” He pushes against the seat cushion of his chair to reposition himself. “I don’t really do feelings. It’s not my thing. June knows none of this, so…” A tentative smile works its way onto an otherwise weary face. “Thanks, Karkat.”
“Any time.” As much as he wants it to be false — a mere expression of courtesy — Karkat knows the statement is unabashedly genuine. For all his outward hostility and incurable cynicism, he’s never been able to relinquish his need to help others. He’s always seen it as a weakness. Now, he wonders if it’s something more.
That deep-set passion drives him to speak, and he starts to bare parts of his soul that he’s hidden away from the world. “My brother isn’t a raging alcoholic,” he admits. “But he’s… He hates me. We’ve established that. He’s gone out of his way to make my life miserable. Sure, the bullying was fucking rough in bumfuck suburbia. But Kankri’s the main reason I left Beforus. He thinks he’s the fucking pinnacle of humanity, a true paragon of the ages. Really, he’s just a manipulative fuckhead.
“I’m not saying it’s at all comparable to the shit your father put you through, but… I get it. I get wanting someone to love you and care for you and getting abso-fucking-lutely nothing back.” Here, Karkat stops. His mind catches up to his mouth, and an instinctual terror grips his chest.
Dave, in his usual way, soothes the rising anxiety with a faint smile. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well, huh? We’re both miserable little men.”
A strange warmth blooms in Karkat’s chest. It’s something like love, but it’s not quite as soft. It’s wrapped in edges and shards of his own design. It’s something that he wants more of, but he keeps pushing it away. Now, with great hesitation, he starts to peel away the armor. He allows himself the luxury of a genuine smile. “Maybe.” He glances at the clock; it’s 3:42 a.m. “It’s still too fucking early to be awake.”
Finally, Dave relaxes. His thumbs flip the locks by the wheels of his chair. “Sure as fuck is, ‘Kat.”
For once, a nickname doesn’t grate against every fiber of Karkat’s being. “That’s a new one.”
“Kinda’ just slipped out, honestly.”
“Stick to that one. It’s not terrible.” With that, Karkat rises from the sofa. As he stands, one of the support beams on the bottom gives out.
Both men stare as the rotted wood thunks against a concrete floor.
Dave is the first to speak. “Fuck. I think I need a new sofa for out here.”
“You think?” Karkat laughs. And for the first time in years, he feels fully at ease.
-----
He’d never admit as much to Dave’s face, but going home is the last thing Karkat wants to do. The space he once prized as his oasis has become unbearably dull and quiet. Its quirks are no longer charming; now, they’re downright infuriating.
Outside, the once bright sky has gone gray. Clouds loom overhead, hanging dark and heavy above downtown New Alternia Hills. Somewhere, a handful of blocks away, someone’s car alarm is going off.
Once, years ago, Karkat swore that he would never live in the suburbs. He associated them with everything wrong in his life. He saw them as isolated scourges upon modern society. Now, he’s not so sure…
“It’s just quiet,” he thinks aloud. After throwing the contents of his gym bag on his bed, he turns on the television.
One of the three local newscasts is discussing a recent water main break nearby. He recognizes the donut shop in the background. He sinks into his still-broken couch and flips through the available channels.
As usual, he finds nothing interesting. He ultimately leaves the station playing seemingly endless Law & Order: Special Victims Unit reruns on, though he pays no attention to the show.
Instead, he finds himself stewing in his own thoughts.
When he unlocks his phone, he finds that his usual background is gone. Instead of a generic mountainside, he stares at a photo of a sticky note. Its message is written in familiar red ink: “don’t make your phone password your birthday.” As he prepares to lock the screen, he receives a message.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Dave:
For a minute, everything seems fine. Karkat’s mood lightens — if only for a moment. The crushing loneliness of his apartment subsides. Unfortunately, fate has a way of reminding him of his place. Another text, this one from an unknown number, pops up on his phone.
He doesn’t need to know the name. He knows the voice behind it well enough.
After sending Dave an apologetic text, he reluctantly flips to the new messages.
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Kankri:
Notes:
Alas. I must once again work. If I do not update for a few days, do not worry. I am, unfortunately, working to support my DaveKat addiction. (* ￣︿￣)
Chapter 22: Never Listen to the Self-Ordained
Summary:
Chapter title from “Morphine Child” by Savatage. Yes, that song is seriously ten minutes long, and every minute is worth it.
Notes:
Chapter warnings for Kankri, so ableism, racism, general douchebaggery. But also. Chapter warning for what I shall call... slur reclamation slapstick.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, 2 January 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and June:
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Text messaging chain between Karkat and Dave:
Monday, 3 January 2022
Text messaging chain between Karkat and Rose:
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Text messaging chain between Dave and Rose:
Tuesday, 4 January 2022
Text messaging chain between Dave and Karkat:
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Despite The Iron Stallion’s upscale pricing, the interior is rustic and inviting. Upon arrival, Dave and Karkat are led to one of the more isolated booths in the back. Three oak seats are upholstered in forest green leather to match the stained glass light hanging above the table. Each light has its own design; to Karkat’s mild bemusement, theirs bears an olive branch motif.
Kankri is already present. His initial impression is always the same. He stands and greets his guests with a cold but polite smile.
And — personality aside — Kankri has always been what Karkat wants to be. He’s tall (by Vantas standards), lean, and infuriatingly intelligent. He excelled in school and quickly found gainful employment as a paralegal. Even now, with streaks of gray starting to appear in his hair, and faint lines appearing on his forehead, Karkat feels as though his brother is leagues beyond him in the looks department. His custom-tailored gray suit and polished black loafers are elaborate displays of his wealth, as is the diamond-studded clip holding down his red silk tie.
Everything is the same, but there is one major difference: For once, Karkat doesn’t feel the usual sense of stomach-churning dread that trails his older brother’s presence. In fact, he almost feels emboldened.
“What are you wearing, Karkat?” Golden-brown eyes sweep over and ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit combo. “You look like you just finished shopping at Goodwill. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but…” Kankri’s gaze flits to the left and hovers over Dave. There’s an almost predatory spark in his eyes. “And are you going to introduce me to your… friend? David, isn’t it?”
Dave counters with an uncharacteristically pleasant smile. Anyone who’s known him for more than a few hours can see the resentment simmering beneath the surface, but it looks perfectly welcoming to everyone else. “Name’s Dave,” he says, offering out his hand.
Kankri’s brows furrow. He accepts the handshake with an obvious sense of discomfort. After he’s done, he subtly wipes his hand against his suit. “Yes… Well… Dave, I suppose,” the word, packed with a potent dose of venom, slides off his tongue with all the grace of a dying animal. After wiping down his seat with his handkerchief, Kankri sits. “So, how did you two meet?”
This time, Karkat answers. “Faggot club,” he says. His tone is straightforward and succinct.
“What?” Kankri’s eyes widen slightly. He’s shocked, but he’s far from disturbed. “Surely, I misheard that.”
Dave pulls up to the table’s single empty spot. One hand picks up the menu; the other slips on his reading glasses. “No, really, we met a faggot club. Great place. You should try it. It’s where all the cool queers hang out.”
“And don’t forget the dykes,” Karkat adds.
A dismissive wave precedes Dave’s reply. “They’re implicitly included with the fags.” The furrow of his brows suggests that nothing on the menu’s first page has piqued his interest. “So, what are you?” — he begins.
Kankri cuts him off. He adopts an overly bright and cheerful tone, the sort of voice one would expect of a children’s television show host, as he offers some predictable commentary: “You know, none of those words are socially appropriate. I’m sure we can find less historically loaded terms for you and your friends.”
“Maybe,” Dave flips to the next page.
By now, Karkat has also realized that most of the menu is pretentious, overpriced shit. Nothing sounds particularly appetizing, and everything is egregiously expensive. Normally, he’d order the most expensive item as a dig against Kankri. Tonight, however, he’s hoping to run his brother off before dinner is over. So, instead, he finds himself drawn to a grilled chicken and morel salad.
“I see…” Kankri rubs his hands together. Presumably, he’s already picked out his order; he’s yet to touch his menu. “I was under the impression that you had met through some sort of repugnant friendship-for-hire scheme.”
“Really?” Dave’s smile is just a few millimeters short of a smirk. “Well, now, I find that a mildly problematic conclusion. Don’t you, Kat?”
Karkat nods eagerly. He has a vague idea of where this comment will go, but he lacks the certainty necessary to add worthwhile verbal input.
“And what would you mean by that?” For the briefest of moments, Kankri’s usual poise falters. “I assure you, David, that I strive to be the least problematic person possible. So, please educate me on where I may have erred in my commentary.” As always, his tone is sickeningly sweet. His voice is like honey — sugary and sticky and inviting — but there’s always an acidic undertone of disdain. Tonight is no different. “And let’s try to stay away from any nasty slurs, shall we?”
“Yeah, sure,” Dave tosses his menu onto the table. He fixes his posture by pressing against his knees. “Well, it sure did sound to me like you’re implying a crip can’t get any action.”
Kankri’s interjection is an octave too high and a pinch too fast to pass off as a level-headed correction: “That’s a slur, actually. You can’t say that. Unless, perhaps, you’re using it in a medical context. It is also a perfectly valid verb to use.”
“Mmhm?” Pale fingers rap against a polished oak tabletop. Dave’s smile grows wider; he’s enjoying this too much. “Well, then, you’re implying a crippled fag can’t make friends naturally. That work better for you, pal?” He leans into his accent, turning his usual twang into an emphatic, banjo-like beat.
Now, Karkat jumps in. He unlocks his phone and pulls up his messages from Saturday. “And you did call Dave that earlier, Kankri.”
Silverware and crystal glasses rattle as Kankri slams his hands against the table. It’s a move every member of the Vantas family knows — an over-the-top way to pull attention away from an unpleasant issue. “I was, of course, using it in a purely medical sense. After all, it’s quite clear that your… uh… friend is differently abled.”
For a moment, there’s a flash of genuine annoyance on Dave’s face. When he responds, there’s a fine edge to his words: “Say that one again, and I’ll hit you so hard you’ll be joining the wheelchair club, bud.” Then, as if nothing happened, his expression relaxes and falls back into his usual look of indifference. “We all cool with that one? I’m thirty, not three.”
“Yes, well,” — Kankri begins. For what may be the first time in twenty-five years, Karkat sees traces of discomfort on his brother’s face. A bead of sweat is forming just below his hairline. His shoulders are tense, and his lithe fingers rapidly tap against his glass of red wine.
“Well?” Again, Dave smiles; again, it becomes painfully obvious that he’s enjoying this. “How ‘bout I put it a different way for your… uh… differently thinking mind, huh?” He tugs at the starched collar of his shirt enough to pull it down, revealing the round scar at the base of his neck. “You’re a smart guy, Kankri,” he drawls. “I’m sure you know what this old thing’s from, right? ‘Course you do. And that means we both know that your phrasing’s just a cutesy way to make you feel more comfortable ‘bout it all.”
“Well, David, that is your personal medical information. I may know what it is, but I certainly wouldn’t say that aloud at a dinner table.” A strained, anxious laugh punctuates Kankri’s statement. “Anyhow, why don’t we discuss a different matter? What sort of things do you two enjoy doing together?”
This time, it’s Karkat’s turn. “We fuck. We fuck each other, we fuck other fruits, and we fuck other fags. It’s really a whole lot of fucking fun, isn’t it, Dave?”
“Well,” a slight vocal fry slips into Dave’s elongated vowel, “I sure do assume it is for everyone else. I mean,” his smirk widens, “like Kankri said. I’m a crip. Can’t exactly feel the shit going on down there.”
Finally, to Karkat’s delight, his older brother snaps. “None of these things are remotely acceptable terminology.” Kankri picks up his wine glass and chugs. When he’s done, he stands. “You and David have a lovely night. This has been the most thoroughly embarrassing meeting possible, and we will never speak of it again. Is that understood, Karkat?”
“Aw, hell, you sure?” Dave leans his elbows on the table and smiles. “We ain’t even seen those faggy little bread rolls. And they’re free, y’know?”
“Nothing better than faggy, free bread rolls,” Karkat supplies. “Faggot baguettes, you might even say!”
“Just stop,” Kankri snags his jacket and throws it over his forearm. “You two may continue to be problematic little fuckers for as long as you wish. I want no part in it! And until you clean up your act, Karkat, I will not have your foul behavior polluting my good name. So, until then, this is where we part ways.”
Even Karkat’s days in drama club can’t quite compensate for the wild, ecstatic glee that’s surging through his veins. Still, he makes an attempt to act somewhat upset. “What a shame. Well, Dave and I will stay, anyhow.”
As Kankri turns to leave, Dave slides in a final jab. With a lazy salute and a nonchalant smirk, he tosses in a simple parting statement: “Enjoy your night, dude.”
It takes approximately a minute for Kankri to storm out the front door. As it swings closed, both Dave and Karkat burst into laughter.
“It worked! What the fuck, Dave? It worked!”
After taking a minute to regain his usual cool composure, Dave shrugs. “Thank Rose for the idea.” One hand pulls the chair to Karkat’s left out; the other deftly maneuvers Dave’s wheelchair into the vacated spot. “Anyhow,” he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a metallic silver credit card. “That dumbass needs to watch his stuff closer. I’m upgrading my meal to that bitching steak. You?”
“You stole my brother’s credit card?” Karkat’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he wonders if this is going too far. The thought is quickly dismissed when he remembers that Kankri had initially offered to pay for the meal. “Whatever. I’ll send the bastard his card in the mail later. This is exactly what the chucklefuck deserves.”
After pulling his beer closer, Dave nods in agreement. “I’d say two bitter, old bastards deserve something nice, too, huh?”
“Speak for yourself,” Karkat laughs, “I’m just bitter.”
A wide, genuine grin serves as Dave’s response, and the expression instantly sears itself into Karkat’s mind.
Notes:
Okay. For real this time. I must work. So if you don't see an update for a day or two, I am sowwy. (๑•﹏•)
Chapter 23: Lost in the Sauce Once Again
Summary:
Chapter title from Ween's “Waving My Dick in the Wind”. Yes, seriously. And don't forget that there's a playlist.
Notes:
Yes, I added two new tags. Because I plan nothing. It just kinda happens. CSS-heavy chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 5 January 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
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Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
Friday, 7 January 2022
Group Pesterchum chat between Dave, Sollux, and Kanaya:
GROUP CHAT [WHAT THE FUCK DOES KARKAT LIKE?] STARTED
DAVE: i almost forgot how much i fucking hate mechanicsville. this place blows massive rancid balls.
DAVE: sorry to jason mraz who i hope never sees this but holy fuck this place is just cartopia.
DAVE: it’s just heaven for those freakass sentient cars from that one pixar movie.
SOLLUX: you mean cars? the movie cars?
SOLLUX: and there are 3 of them. ☹️☹️
DAVE: 3 of what?
KANAYA: There Are Three Installments Of That Peculiar Pixar Film.
DAVE: THEY MADE 3 OF THEM FUCKERS? 😭
SOLLUX: yeah. sorry you had to find out this way. 😞😞
SOLLUX: and why did you invite kan to the chat? no offense, kan, but you’re absolute ass at romantic advice.
KANAYA: No, You Have A Perfectly Valid Point. I Am Not Exactly Skilled When It Comes To Handling Romantic Endeavors.
KANAYA: I Am, In Fact, Quite Perplexed As To The Status Of My Relationship With Rose.
DAVE: i really don’t want to be this privy to my sis’s dating life… ☹️
SOLLUX: ok. well. my point is that maybe don’t take any of her advice.
DAVE: and it ain’t romantic.
KANAYA: Ha. Hahaha. HAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA.
KANAYA: Sorry. I Lost My Composure For A Moment.
SOLLUX: dave, you and karkat are like. a thing. you’re totally a thing.
SOLLUX: kk’s just doing his usual stupid song and dance around the issue. like he always does.
KANAYA: He Has Done This Since We Were Children. It Is Not Anything Particularly Strange. He Will Enter A Romantic Relationship And Then Refuse To Acknowledge Its True Intentions.
DAVE: ok but you’re both the people kat’s constantly namedropping. so who the fuck else would i ask?
SOLLUX: wait is that a new nickname? wtf.
KANAYA: I Have A Perhaps Unorthodox Idea. What If You? Asked Karkat? What He Would Want To Receive As A Gift?
SOLLUX: shut the fuck up for a minute, kan.
SOLLUX: “kat”. that’s a new one. i’ve never seen that one.
DAVE: oh yeah i said it when i was drunk once and he liked it.
DAVE: ain’t really that big of a deal is it?
DAVE: and no kanaya that sounds like a fucking terrible idea.
SOLLUX: kk **hates** nicknames. he cannot stand them.
DAVE: yeah ok and i can’t stand a lot of things. or at all. your point?
SOLLUX: HE LIKES YOU, DUMBASS. 📢📢
SOLLUX: kk only lets his favorite people call him anything other than “karkat” or “vantas”. period.
SOLLUX: periodt, even.
SOLLUX: he’s down bad for your ass, dave.
DAVE: that’s nice.
DAVE: but can we maybe go back to the og topic here?
DAVE: i’m sure he’s been to mechanicsville before since he’s lived here forever but it feels weird to not give him something. i mean we haven’t not seen each other for more than a few days until now.
KANAYA: Dave, Dear, I Want You To Read That Last Message Again.
KANAYA: Because As Much As You Insist This Relationship Is Not Romantic, It Sounds Incredibly Romantic To Me. And To Anyone Capable Of Reading That Message.
SOLLUX: there’s a fancy candy store somewhere around there. get him some of their jalebi.
DAVE: see? that’s all i needed! none of this weird preachy shit.
DAVE: relationship status is irrelevant right now.
USER turntechGodhead HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Saturday, 8 January 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Kanaya:
Sunday, 9 January 2022
In theory, it’s none of Karkat’s business.
In theory, he doesn’t actually care about whatever bullshit has landed Dave on the umpteenth page of some gossip rag. Despite being a devotee of fictional drama, he’s never been particularly fond of real-life fiascos. More importantly, as far as he’s concerned, the only version of Dave that matters is the one he knows now.
It’s all perfectly thought out.
He knows his place. He’s always known his place. Whenever drama rears its head, he tends to flee or freeze. He is, as his father has so often puts it, “a resolver”. He’s always acted as a mediator in his friend group, and he sees his relationship with Dave — whatever it may be — the same way.
Then again…
Even Sollux was talking about it.
And it’s not like he actively sought out the information. The headline greeted him the minute he unlocked his phone. For better or worse, the algorithmic news feed served Dave’s more public activities to him on a silver platter.
Mystery Announcement From Strider Edits
TMZ, 7 January 2022 — It looks like the elusive Dave Strider, best known for his editing work on various commercials and directing indie comedy hit The Metamorphosis (But It’s a Worm), may be making a comeback. The eccentric creator and self-styled “cinematic artiste”, who shied away from the public spotlight after being shot in a 2016 break-in, recently posted an announcement on his normally dormant Chittr account.
The mysterious update, referred to as “the expansion of a behind-the-scenes empire”, suggests that Strider will be adding additional services for his clients. At the time of reporting, his company, Strider Edits, offers filmmakers “sick deals and rapid turnaround” on editing, incidental musical scores, and virtual consultations to assess film set accessibility.
Currently, no official reports have clarified Strider’s statement. Online speculation has suggested that he may be expanding his musical services, with posters noting a slight bump in activity on his personal and professional ViewTube accounts.
Overall, it’s less exciting than Karkat anticipated. Then again, considering the source, he finds himself wondering exactly what he expected in the first place. He’d spent most of his teenage years following random celebrities’ personal woes; their misery was one of his guilty pleasures.
And he likes to think that he’s grown out of it — that he doesn’t need the mental stimulation of some washed-up child actor’s latest debacle. Most days, he doesn’t.
He wants to close the article and leave.
If Dave wanted him to know something, he would’ve said it.
And, yet…
Prolific Editor Dave Strider Hospitalized After Break-In
Film Insider Gossip, 5 December 2016 — Film editor and Lalonde Press co-owner Dave Strider, best known as the one-man team behind 2015’s surrealist comedy hit The Metamorphosis (But It’s a Worm), was rushed to the hospital after a break-in at the Lalonde Estate early Monday Morning.
Police were called to the sprawling 15-acre lot at approximately 2:30 a.m. for “sounds of fighting and gunshots.” Strider has lived in the historic Victorian home with his twin sister, Lalonde Press owner Rose Lalonde, since the death of their mother, Lalonde Press founder Rhonda Lalonde, in 2012.
Aside from his extensive media output, Strider is known to many film production aficionados for his hardcore partying and multiple run-ins with the law. He last made headlines on November 12, when he was arrested and detained for cocaine possession. Unlike his September arrest, which earned the freelance film editor six months of community service, charges from the most recent incident were dismissed.
Strider, who has spoken publicly about his life-altering 2006 motorcycle crash, has also gained fame as a Houston-based disability rights activist. In 2012, Strider donated half of his shares in Lalonde Press to multiple non-profit legal defense funds, medical charities, and rehabilitation programs.
An official statement from Lalonde Press, issued at noon, asked for “privacy” in “an extremely difficult time.” The announcement confirmed widespread rumors that the publishing mogul's brother was seriously injured during the break-in and listed Strider’s condition as “critical”.
If asked for an honest answer, Karkat would say he thrives on curiosity. He wants to know how the world works. More importantly, he wants to know how people work. He’s always been happiest when he’s peeling back the layers of someone’s mind and seeing into their soul. It’s one of his more peculiar habits, and it’s something he’s always kept close to his chest. As far as he knows, only Kanaya is aware of his obsession.
However, Karkat isn’t being honest at this exact moment.
In fact, he’s grasping for every justification he can find as he digs ever deeper into Dave’s past. There’s a tiny part of his mind that tells him to stop reading, but it’s easily overpowered by a mix of boredom and intrigue. He scrolls to the bottom of the article and taps the related story.
Lalonde Press Moving to New Alternia Hills, Virginia
Forbes, 3 February 2017 — Lalonde Press, a beloved staple of Houston’s landscape, is moving. The highly successful publishing company’s announcement follows the December shooting of its co-owner, Dave Strider. In the company’s official Facelook statement, current owner and CEO Rose Lalonde thanked Houston for its “decades of dedication and support”.
In a longer speech, given during the sudden closure of the brand’s Houston headquarters, Lalonde expressed “genuine heartbreak” over the decision. The move was “not entirely her choice” and was, instead, “a culmination of many traumas” and “a need to move on from a city that holds too many painful memories.”
Co-owner Dave Strider is reportedly still recovering from “life-threatening injuries” following his shooting. He was released from an undisclosed Houston hospital in mid-January. Leaked hospital reports revealed that he suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. Area police arrested the perpetrator on January 30. The attack was allegedly the result of a drug deal gone wrong.
Current employees of Lalonde Press were offered housing allowances to relocate alongside the brand. Those who did not accept were reportedly given generous severance packages.
The deeper Karkat goes, the stranger he feels.
He finds himself tapping related articles with borderline impulsive fervor. His eyes start skimming pages, barely reading the content, in favor of rapidly absorbing key points.
Part of his mind wonders if there’s a reason for Dave’s silence on the topic. He’s been an otherwise open book. Not once since they’ve met has Karkat ever felt like Dave was hiding something from him.
But the deeper he goes, the more he finds himself wondering who Dave is.
Another page leads to an article about another drug possession arrest. Juxtaposing that is a glowing exposé on Dave’s work with a Houston charity that combats adolescent bullying. There’s a decade-old story about Dave somehow escaping a straightforward DUI charge linked in a piece covering his involvement in some sort of charity auction.
The omnipresent cynic on Karkat’s shoulder presents a simple argument: Dave Strider is a serial conman and petty criminal. He’s said it as much himself — he’s spoiled. He’s a rich, pampered heir to a throne he rarely touches. And like most people with money, he covers his crimes with philanthropy.
And as much as Karkat hates to admit it, there’s nothing superficially wrong with that assessment. If he’d never met Dave, it’s certainly the impression he’d have.
But he does know Dave, and he’d like to think he knows him pretty damned well. He knows Dave as a deeply flawed man with a rebellious streak and an almost painfully jaded worldview. He’s someone who will do whatever he can to help a friend, regardless of the upfront cost. He admits his faults and works to better himself.
Yet, for all Karkat knows, he can’t stop his own inquisitive cynicism. The warmth that’s settled at the back of his mind over the past few weeks cools ever so slightly, and a question settles into that slick spot of ice: Who is Dave Strider?
Notes:
UURUUGHHRGHH I'M. I'M GONNA WORK FOR REAL THIS TIME. I PROMISE. (╬▔皿▔)╯IF YOU DON'T SEE AN UPDATE. I HAVE. FORCED MYSELF. TO WORK.
Chapter 24: You're Not the Same Man
Summary:
Chapter title from Trans-Siberian Ochestra's “There Was a Life”.
Oh my God, they transed that WHOLE ORCHESTRA.
Notes:
Chapter warning for discussion of past drug use.
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 11 January 2022
A long shift on Monday keeps Karkat’s mind from wandering.
He mostly forgets about what he read; instead, he exists in a whirlwind of inconsequential complaints and asinine demands. Whether or not that’s a blessing is subjective. It’s certainly a plus for his anxiety. The trade-off is, of course, that he spends most of the time a breath away from beating the next customer he sees to death. By the time he finally makes it home, he has just enough energy to shovel some microwaved ramen into his mouth before crawling into bed.
But come Tuesday morning, his thoughts drift back to Dave.
When his phone buzzes, he pounces.
It’s exactly who he’s looking for.
Text message between Karkat and Dave:
Without Rose, the house does feel empty. Despite its modest size, the open concept living area feels almost cavernous without any activity. The lights are mostly off, save for the buzzing stained glass pendants that dangle over the kitchen island. No warmth flows from the empty fireplace. The dark hallway leading to Dave’s room seems even stranger; without the warmth of the overhead cup lights, it’s borderline haunting.
The bedroom door is open, but courtesy still drives Karkat to stop and knock on the doorframe. “I’ve got your meal, dumbass,” he says, though he mostly speaks to add some life to the otherwise cold home.
Despite his apparent predicament, Dave has still managed to shove himself into a paint-stained white undershirt and a pair of well-worn sweatpants. The head of his bed is raised enough to push him into a loose sitting position, and his otherwise dull expression brightens immediately after he hears Karkat. “Finally.” He leans over long enough to pry a faded blue towel from his bedside table drawer. “And you can come in, y’know. Why else would I have left the door open?”
“Maybe you wanted a clear headshot at the delivery driver.” Karkat drops Dave’s lunch in his lap before throwing himself on the sofa. “There’s one of every condiment and some fries in there, too. And I’m not apologizing for eating any of the fries.” He pulls off his shoes before resting his feet on the far armrest. “You’re welcome, by the way, you fucking ingrate.”
“Shut the fuck up, man, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet,” Dave mumbles, his mouth already full of lukewarm fries. “My wallet’s on the shelf behind you. Just take however much you spent. Or more. I really don’t give a fuck right now.” The paper wrapper around Dave’s burger barely crinkles as he rips it open.
At this point, Karkat makes an idle observation: Dave eats like it’s the last thing he’ll ever have.
True to Dave’s word, there’s a beaten down leather wallet on the lower shelf. Aside from the thick wad of cash, the contents are otherwise ordinary. Only two things stand out: three small medical alert cards — colored red, orange, and yellow — tucked behind his driver’s license, and a silver dollar jammed into one of the spare credit card slots. Neither is interesting enough to pursue further.
By the time Karkat has replaced the wallet, Dave is already halfway through his burger.
“Have you considered that the cause of your medical issues is indigestion?” he jests.
Dave counters with a smirk. “Potentially. Bad habits and all that.”
“You seem to have more than a few of those, Strider.”
For a second, Dave’s shoulders tense; his brows furrow. “Yeah, well…” he shoves the last few bites of his meal into his mouth and cleans his hands on the towel in his lap. He straightens his glasses as he swallows the meal. Finally, he offers a sheepish reply: “Yeah. You mentioned wanting to talk ‘bout that, right?” Pale fingers comb through untamed blond hair. “I’ll answer whatever I feel comfortable answering. Sound good?”
Karkat beats back his more invasive and possessive tendencies before responding. For once in his life, he takes a minute to mentally lay out his thoughts. He runs through everything he saw — all the gossip, news, and scandals — and tries to sort them into categories. Psychology class lessons kick in, and everything flows from there.
What does he want to know? Why does he want to know it?
After what feels like an eternity — or according to his watch, a mere six minutes — he speaks. He drops his usual verbosity in favor of straightforward communication: “Were you addicted to cocaine?”
And Dave’s reply is equally succinct. “Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Not too sure.” Dave counts something off on his fingers. “Probably seven years, from 2010 to 2017. Maybe more, maybe less.” His hands form fists, and he pushes against his knuckles as he searches for a more comfortable resting position. When his right leg starts to shake, he stops, winces, and draws in a sharp breath. “Started after Rose tried hooking me up with some douchebag in her business admin course.”
In a weak attempt to lighten a rapidly darkening mood, Karkat tosses out a joke: “It’s always the fucking business majors.”
For a few seconds, Dave takes the bait. He smirks and snickers. Then, he falls back into a state of detached disgust. “Snorted my first few lines off the back of his dorm room headboard. And it felt amazing. I mean…” He rubs his hands over his mouth, but his expression is still visible; it’s a thin and vaguely nostalgic grin. “For the first time in literal fucking years, I felt something other than pain or anger. I felt alive, y’know?”
Karkat nods, but he doesn’t truly grasp the implications; he knows he never will. The one time he tried cocaine, it gave him the worst anxiety he’d ever experienced in his life, and he never touched it again. Still, he knows what it’s supposed to do. Intellectually, he understands what Dave is saying. But he can’t say that he fully comprehends the sentiment.
“You studied psychology. Of course you know.” A weak, nervous smile punctuates Dave’s statement. He still refuses to meet Karkat’s gaze as he continues: “Part of me thinks that the coke’s what gave me that final push to be fine being like this. I was just so damn pissed off all the time before it. After it, I sort of loosened up. Realized I’d never go back to what I was, if that makes sense.
“And maybe that’s what hooked me,” he shrugs. Idle hands grab onto a throw blanket, roll it up, and shove it under a shaking right knee. “Rose knew ‘bout it. Everyone knew. It was pretty fucking obvious. I was snorting every line I could find, and I can’t honestly say I ever really felt bad ‘bout it.” He tugs at the red pendant around his neck and rubs it between his fingers. “I’m not even sure I’d hesitate if you handed me some now, really.”
The information cycles through Karkat’s mind like a swarm of wasps. It’s a buzzing, violent idea that clashes with what he knows.
“You’d do it again?”
An exasperated sigh precedes Dave’s reply. His eyes widen, and his shoulders tense. It’s a posture Karkat has seen before — the look of someone desperately grasping at any justification they can find for their personal vice. “I don’t think you understand how much it fucking sucks to be in constant pain, Kat. It’s not usually this goddamn bad, but it was. Early on, it was like I was being boiled alive every fucking day, and nobody took me seriously. Always tossed me out and assumed I was looking for drugs.”
“Were you?”
“I mean…” Dave rubs the back of his neck. “Heh. Yeah. But…” his gaze drops to his lap. His usual air of confidence slips away. He seems more human — more palpably genuine — than he ever has before. “Lemme’ try it this way. If you went from being a track star to… well… me… Wouldn’t you be doing the same?”
Karkat opens his mouth to reply, but a moment of thought forces it closed. Logically, he wants to deny the implicit accusation. Emotions, however, are a different beast entirely. So, reluctantly, he offers an honest answer: “Yeah. I would.”
A tired and vaguely vindictive smirk slides onto Dave’s face. “Cool. So I’m not, like, totally fucking bonkers.” He laughs, but the sound is cold and shallow. “Anyhow… that’s it, I guess. That’s ‘bout as much as I feel comfortable saying right now. And don’t take that as a personal thing. I just…”
“You don’t like talking about it,” Karkat supplies.
“Not exactly the best small talk topic, now, is it?” Dave hums. His next attempt to readjust himself ends with a pained groan and a reluctant sigh. “Fuck. This isn’t working. How comfortable are you helping me?”
“Depends on the task.” By now, the air has grown unbearably cold. A desperate need for some sort of relief drives Karkat to tack on a joke: “I’m not giving you a sponge bath, if that clears things up.”
Mercifully, Dave laughs. The wall that’s risen between him and Karkat begins to fall. “No! ‘Course not. Just let me lean on you to get into the chair. Bed ain’t helping worth shit.”
Karkat nods. He kicks some stray papers aside on his short walk to Dave’s bedside.
“Great. Just…” Dave grabs hold of Karkat’s shoulder to haul himself into an upright position. “Stay there a minute.” He tentatively scoots to the bed’s edge and pulls his wheelchair closer. He breathes in and does his usual transfer, letting forth a low growl of discomfort as he lands on the heavily padded cushion. His left leg finds its place as he manually adjusts his right.
And Karkat discovers another new fact to ponder: Without his usual layer of cologne, Dave smells like old cardboard record sleeves and time-worn fabric.
“Is that any better?”
Dave responds with a noncommittal wiggle of his left hand.
“So…” Even with the conversational ice thawing, Karkat feels wildly out of place. His curiosity may be satisfied, but now he finds himself wondering if he’s delved too deeply into Dave’s personal life.
“So?” Dave swaps his readers with his bifocals. “Keeping in mind that I’m about two inches from peeling out my spinal column and pulverizing it into a fine dust, what do you want to do? I don’t really have a plan.”
“It’s your house. You pick.”
“Well, in that case…” Dave leans his elbows against his knees and eases himself forward. For whatever reason, the position seems to offer some relief; a pleased hum precedes his next comment. He gestures towards a well-stocked shelf of records before moving towards the record player. “Pick whatever you want. I’ve got something for everyone. Promise.”
Karkat obeys.
Admittedly, he’s never been huge on music. He likes showtunes and pop, but he would never claim to be an expert in the field. Certainly, he knows far less than Dave. Still, he peruses the spread and pulls the first name he recognizes. When he hands it to Dave, he receives a sly smirk.
“Really? Julie Andrews?”
“Do you have something against The Sound of Music? If you do, I am walking right the fuck out of this house.”
“No, I just… hm…” Dave dusts off the tattered album sleeve before slipping out the disk. He sets it on the platter with the utmost care. Setting the needle is a similarly meticulous process. Only after the ceiling-mounted speakers crackle to life does he back away from the record player and stop in front of Karkat. “Didn’t expect that choice, honestly.”
“Well, what did you expect?”
After a moment of thought, Dave shrugs. One hand peels solidified mud from the left wheel of his chair as the other rubs the back of his neck. “With all the shouting you do, I just assumed you liked metal. Probably screamo. We all know the saying about assuming, though, so,” he clicks his tongue and flicks the dried mass of mud into the nearby trash can.
“I could potentially see how you’d draw such a wildly out of touch conclusion, but I’m not really huge on metal.” Figuring that the plan is little more than hanging out in Dave’s room, Karkat leans against the bed. When he notices a nod of approval, he sits. He’s still a few inches above Dave’s eye level, but it’s more comfortable than before. “Really, I don’t listen to music all that much.”
A look of realization crosses Dave’s face. “Shit! Yeah, you probably…” he rushes back to the record player and fiddles with a few dials.
The music shifts and moves, slowly panning to the left. After a few seconds, the song is crisp and clear.
“Mono mix,” Dave explains, “You’re deaf on the right side, yeah? I tweaked the settings to move everything to the left. Better? More distracting?” When he turns, he leaves his right hand resting against one of the many tuning knobs.
After failing to intercept the smile tugging at his lips, Karkat responds with a blasé shrug. “If you turn it down a little, it’s perfect.”
Dave quickly locates a slider and tweaks it ever so slightly. The volume drops.
Karkat’s nonchalant attitude is, as always, a ruse. Just below the surface, he’s filled with a bubbling warmth. He’s long since learned to fill in the blanks by reading lips. Most people, even Kanaya and Sollux, tend to forget his hearing problems. And, after a moment of thought, he’s forced to break his act.
“Thanks for remembering that, by the way. That’s surprisingly decent of you.”
“Really?” Dave shrugs and leans against his knees. “Your hearing ain’t exactly as obvious as my legs, but it’s still worth thinking about. At least that’s how I see it. Might as well make sure everyone can join the fun.”
“For a chronic, self-conceited jackass, you’re pretty considerate.”
“It’s a learned skill,” Dave admits. “I was way more stuck-up as a kid. Typical snobby brat. I’d guess half my growing up was breaking my back, and the other half was not wanting to end up like my deadbeat father.”
A snicker of laughter slips through Karkat’s defenses. “I’d guess my understandable disdain for Kankri helped me grow up, too.”
“Well, shit!” Dave pushes himself upright and claps his hands together. “Let’s fucking hear it for bad role models. They at least taught us what not to do.”
Karkat’s snicker becomes a genuine laugh. The patch of ice in the back of his mind begins to thaw. The air brightens.
“So, what ‘bout your dad? I know you hate your brother, and we’re totes mutual ‘bout that, but you never say anything ‘bout your pops.”
“He’s a spineless idiot,” Karkat shrugs. “He lets Kankri lead him by the nose. He probably should’ve gone to therapy after Amma died, but he just threw himself back into the family restaurant.” Unconsciously mirroring Dave, he leans his elbows against his knees and heaves a thoughtful sigh. “But when he wasn’t being a clueless godsdamned moron, he was pretty decent. I mean… he is pretty decent. He’s still alive.”
A wistful smile floats across Dave’s face. “Must’ve been nice having him ‘round, then.”
“For the most part, yes,” Karkat admits. “But you had people, too, right? Surely, it wasn’t just you and Rose.”
“No, for the most part it was just us. Up ‘til we moved here, we were like parasitic growths. She kept pulling my ass out of legal troubles, and I’d drag her away from the bottle.” Here, he pauses. He rubs his hand over his mouth. “Shit. Shouldn’t’ve said that. You… uh… You didn’t hear that from me.”
“How many fucking times do I have to reassure you that I won’t blab about your secrets?”
“A lot, actually.” When the needle hits the end of the record, the player automatically stops, Dave returns, flips the disk, and restarts the machine. When he settles back in his former spot, directly across from Karkat, he leans back instead of forward. “Well… I guess Mom was pretty decent. When she wasn’t drunk as shit, she was nice. And she was still nice when she was drunk, just… not very motherly.”
Karkat nods. “From what I’m told, Amma was amazing. Babba always says I have her eyes. I wouldn’t fucking know, though. He’d taken down all her photos by the time I started forming memories.”
“Damn, that’s depressing.”
“It really is, isn’t it?”
“My fault for suggesting the topic, though, ain’t it?”
“It is.”
Dave grins. “Well, then, jackass, why don’t you pick something to talk ‘bout? You’re obviously so socially gifted.” He reaches out and playfully smacks Karkat’s knee.
The brief moment of touch sends a pleasant tingle down Karkat’s spine, and the feeling persists as he ribs Dave back. “Have you ever actually seen The Sound of Music, you uncultured swine?”
“Nope. Can’t say I have.”
“Then…” Suddenly, Karkat feels a rush of warmth rising to his cheeks. “Maybe we could… watch that?”
“You want me to watch a romantic musical?” Dave’s smirk grows.
“It has some action in it. And evil Nazis.”
“So… it’s Indiana Jones with extra steps?”
“Okay, Strider, now you’re just being an obtuse bastard,” Karkat laughs.
Dave counters with a casual middle finger. He returns to the record player and removes the vinyl disk. After carefully storing it back in its sleeve, he pulls up to the other side of the bed and locks the wheels of his chair. He lifts himself back onto the mattress, settling beside Karkat with a shit-eating, smug grin. “Fine. Whatever.” He fishes the television remote from his bedside drawer. “Twist my fucking arm. Let’s watch them defeat the Nazis with the power of music.”
Chapter 25: No Winter Lasts Forever
Summary:
Chapter title from DragonForce's “Seasons”. The link leads to the acoustic version (also used for the playlist), but there's also a more “straightforward” power/speed metal version typical of the band's usual style.
Notes:
if you're reading this and seeing the sticky notes in cursive, it's your phone/device. it should be appearing as comic sans-adjacent writing font. i do not know how to fix this issue. if you do, please tell me.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 12 January 2022
The buzzing, shrill tone of Karkat’s phone alarm alerts him to multiple facts at once. Firstly, it’s 9:00 a.m., and he’s coherent enough to remember that he ended up falling asleep in Dave’s bed. Through a haze of sleep-addled fog, he recalls pushing back against the idea with some of his weakest protests.
But these are established facts. He fully expects to find himself in Dave’s room, and the slightly musty smell of old record sleeves is far from surprising.
No, he’s more intrigued by what’s missing: Dave isn’t in his bed.
As Karkat punches further beyond the liminal early morning gloom, he realizes that Dave’s phone and wallet are also missing. There is, however, a slightly crumpled sticky note resting on his pillow:
forgot i had to catch a client this morning. sorry! i’ll be back between 11 and 12 (probably).
ordered you some vagabond’s. it’s on the counter. if you snoop around in my house just put everything back the way you found it.
— dave
p.s.: you can keep the extra key.
Yawning, Karkat stumbles from the bed. The hardwood floor isn’t freezing, but it’s cold enough to be unpleasant against the soles of his feet. He quickly steals a pair of Dave’s slippers before trudging to the living area.
There is, as promised in the note, a hearty spread of Vagabond’s breakfast items to choose from. A balled up wrapper suggests that Dave has already eaten at least two breakfast sausage rolls, kindly leaving behind a four-pancake-tall tower of battery goodness for his guest. As Karkat moves to toss the dish in the microwave, he sees another note. This one, affixed to the countertop and set directly beside the pancakes, is penned in the same red ink as the first:
btw don’t play with any buttons knobs switches or whatever. turn on the lights and fans and fiddle with the thermostat if you want but leave everything else alone. you can use the pottery wheel too but i’m not responsible for any injuries.
if you have any questions about something just take a photo and ask me when i get back.
i guess you could also just leave but i mean. might as well snoop around. i would. if you leave just send me a text so i don’t think you got your ass abducted or fell down a well or whatever.
— dave
At this exact moment, snooping around is the last thing on Karkat’s to-do list. Right now, he’s more interested in demolishing a plate of fluffy, delicious buttermilk pancakes. Thirty seconds in the microwave is all it takes to see some tantalizing steam, and a heaping helping of butter, syrup, and whipped cream finish the meal.
It’s as borderline sickeningly sweet and lusciously soft as anticipated. Every bite is like a cloud — a soft, mouth-watering, melting slice of heaven. The tiniest bit of doughy, bread-like neutrality cuts through the otherwise sugary taste. As far as Karkat is concerned, Vagabond’s is the de facto pancake provider — and there are a lot of those in New Alternia Hills.
By the time he’s done eating, he’s fully and naïvely convinced that he’ll resist his most basic impulses. He washes his utensils and cleans up his meal before sprawling out on the living room sofa. For approximately ten minutes, he occupies himself with his phone. He checks his emails and browses ViewTube.
By 10:00 a.m., he’s grown bored.
He falls into his usual habit of mumbling to himself.
“I could leave,” he muses. “It’s not like I have anything to do here, and” — of course, the universe can never be so kind as to let him have a day of rest. His phone dings, and an email appears in his inbox.
From: [email protected]
Subject: MAINTENANCE ALERT
This email is for the resident of UNIT #312. If you are NOT residing in the listed unit, please disregard this email and contact Railside Properties management immediately. Otherwise, please read the attached announcement.
Hello from Railside Properties®!
The room above yours, UNIT #412, is currently experiencing plumbing issues. Be aware that these problems have not yet affected your unit, and our maintenance professionals are currently working to resolve all associated inconveniences. However, you will likely hear some noise from your upstairs neighbor as a result of the ongoing work.
We apologize sincerely for the stress this may cause you. As repayment, we have waived your gym usage fee for the next month.
Sincerely,
Railside Properties®
“Of fucking course.”
Karkat throws his phone to the end of the sofa and covers his face with his hands. The recent news may not be a deal-breaker, but it’s enough to make him reconsider returning home. A few more minutes of thought, during which he imagines all the pesky intrusions he’ll likely be dealing with, is enough to convince him to stay put. He got a taste of what to expect when unscrupulous land developers started razing the land behind his childhood home. Even if he’ll be awake throughout the ordeal, being subjected to near-constant construction noise is less than ideal. And unlike when he was a child, he now has options; he can choose to avoid the hassle.
The only problem is the overwhelming curiosity that drives him to wander through the home.
He doesn’t expect to find anything particularly interesting. It’s a standard, albeit extensively updated, 1950s structure. He’s seen plenty of them; he lived in one of them as a child. There will be no secret rooms or hidden niches, and he knows that for a fact.
Seeing as he has relatively little attachment to Rose, he pokes around in her room first. It’s about half the size of Dave’s and mostly empty, save for a neatly made bed and some seemingly random books. The pastel pink globes hanging from her ceiling fan sparkle brilliantly in the morning sunlight, casting prismatic flashes throughout the space. The only thing in the small closet is a single fluffy slipper. As he leaves, he notes that the bedroom has no attached bathroom. Presumably, Rose used the “guest” bathroom in the hallway.
The rest of the house is similarly mundane. He already knows the layout, but his idle wandering solidifies his mental plan of the space. Only three rooms — Dave’s office, ensuite bathroom, and retrofitted studio — are inaccessible from the main living space. Working clockwise from the office, he can pass through both the bonus den, studio, and living room in a simple loop. The rest of the rooms are attached to the hallway. Rose’s bedroom is roughly parallel to the garage, while Dave’s is across from the guest bathroom.
As for the décor, the entire home is an increasingly harebrained mix of styles. Rose’s influence is still present. The original oak trappings, elegantly carved by skilled craftsmen, are still in place. Every room with a ceiling fan — namely, both bedrooms, the bonus den, the living room, and Dave’s office — have old-fashioned faux wood blades with silver or brass accents. Most of the larger furniture pieces are similarly formal. Dave’s style, meanwhile, is more minimalist, and all his choices stick out like a sore thumb. The blocky modernism clashes with increasingly fading traces of classical décor.
The grandfather clock at the end of the hallway chimes. It’s 10:15 a.m., and there’s still close to an hour of time to kill before Dave returns.
With nothing else left to do, he gives in to his burning curiosity. He trudges back into Dave’s room and looks around.
Most of the “essentials” are shoved against the wall opposite the entrance. A dusty medical lift is in the far right corner, and the computer to its left is currently off. Next to that are two guitars — one acoustic, one electric. A portable turntable setup rests on its side and leans against the custom storage shelf for Dave’s record player. Working down the line, Karkat’s eyes pass one of the two end tables sandwiching Dave’s bed. The oxygen concentrator is wedged between the second end table and the sofa.
The left-hand wall is mostly dedicated to shelving and storage, including the dresser. The right is largely bare, save for a seemingly pristine beanbag chair and a portable clothes rack stocked with suits and coats.
An even closer examination of the space reveals that it has a very slight ‘L’ shape, though the “tail” is barely two feet deep. The door on the recessed wall leads to Dave’s bathroom, a space that — until now — Karkat had never actually entered.
Unlike everywhere else in the house, this room is almost obsessively tidy. A custom-built shower, complete with a fully integrated seat, is set against the back wall. A one-inch lip and a red and black striped curtain presumably keep most of the water in. The rest of the back wall is dedicated to a floating slate gray countertop.
The wall on the right hosts a modern sink, a mirror, and a sizable standing linen closet. A surplus of towels, waterproof cushions, and bathing supplies is visible through the glass panes on the piece’s upper half.
On the left is the toilet flanked by built-in support bars. Directly to its left is a metal cabinet, atop which is a carefully arranged array of medical gloves, clean towels, and a sealed bottle of over-the-counter stool softener. Shoved into the far corner is another medical lift with a waterproof sling.
Karkat, having had his fill of snooping, buries his hands in his pockets and turns back around. “I’m not really sure what the fuck I expected,” he grumbles.
In theory, he could dig deeper.
He sees the dented digital camera sitting atop an old (and seemingly broken) wooden speaker. Morbid curiosity drives him to pick it up and fiddle with the buttons. He doesn’t truly intend to view anything; he’s merely placating his urges.
After a few seconds, the screen buzzes to life.
Dave, approximately fifteen years younger and oozing a palpable sense of disdain, sits in a bulky cross between a manual and an electric wheelchair. His right arm rests in his lap, and a stained bandage rests against his throat. When he notices the camera, he looks away.
An unknown female voice — likely Dave’s mother — bursts from tiny, shitty speakers. Her tone is gratingly bright; her words are slurred. “Aw, c’mon, Davey, it’s for posterity.”
“Mother, I strongly suggest that you find other ways to track my brother’s progress.” Rose’s voice hasn’t changed a bit.
“Oh, it’s just a minute.” The camera moves closer to Dave. Each breath now makes a harsh, grating gasping sound. “C’mon, hon. It’s your sixteenth birthday.”
“Get that shit out of my face.” Dave’s voice is softer and raspier than it is now. He looks down and fumbles with the wheels of his chair.
“Aw, don’t be like that, hon!” A sloppy, wet belch punctuates the woman’s statement. “Don’t you… You have a birthday wish, don’t you?”
“I want my fucking life back,” Dave snaps.
The camera sputters. The next five files are, at least according to the flashing alert on the screen, “corrupted or irretrievable.” The next item in the camera roll is a photo of a fluffy white dog.
Karkat’s finger hovers over the camera’s circular D-pad.
Part of him wants to stop. He feels as if he’s intruded on memories he has no right to see. As far as he can tell, everything on this camera is a record of a version of Dave he’ll never know. And, in some ways, he doesn’t particularly want to know him.
Yet, twisted curiosity compels him to keep going. The next readable file is another video.
A sixteen-year-old Dave lays on a pastel blue beach towel. Sand forms a small mound beneath his knees. Another, larger, pile of sand supports his upper body. Oversized aviators cover his eyes, and a rentable umbrella blocks most of the sun’s harshest rays.
For once, he’s smiling.
This time, Rose’s voice is dominant. “I persuaded mother to take her inebriated ass back to the hotel. Alas, she still wants evidence that you are enjoying your first vacation since… well…”
The beginning of a habit appears: When Dave breathes in, his shoulders pull inward. “Is that what she wants?” He inhales more frequently and takes longer to catch his breath. His right hand rises slowly. After a few tries, he manages to raise his middle finger. A smug grin flashes across his face “Does this count?”
Rose laughs.
An electronic whine vibrates through the camera. The next video plays automatically.
A heavy ceiling harness holds Dave upright. Even then, fourteen years ago, he was ridiculously tall.
The assistants’ commands are too distant and muffled for Karkat to parse.
“You know what, Dave?” Rose’s voice is playful and clear. She must be holding the camera. “I’d prefer you just stay sitting. You’re far too tall when you’re standing. It really brings out my inner Napoleon complex.”
A brief, tired smirk serves as Dave’s reply. Without the impenetrable layer of tattoo ink, it’s easy to see multiple webs of old scars covering his arms. His shirt is drenched in sweat, and his right leg shakes violently. After a few seconds, he lets forth a pained wheeze.
The camera battery dies as the front door opens.
“You’re still here, right?” The living room and hallway lights flicker on. “Please don’t be fucking up anything too important.” It’s hard to call Dave’s voice a shout; it’s coarse and loud, but it’s still a few steps below a proper yell.
Keys rattle. A heavy bag gets dropped on the ground.
Karkat fumbles with the camera and puts it back.
Dave turns the corner and leans his right elbow against the doorframe. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not really,” Karkat lies.
Dave responds with a good-natured and vaguely skeptical smile. He lowers his arm and glides into the room with a single, smooth push. “I’m really not all that interesting. But, hey, maybe you’ll let me snoop ‘round your place next time I visit.”
“As if I’d leave you alone in my apartment.”
“Touché.” Dave shrugs and motions for Karkat to follow him. “I picked up some lunch on the way home. Not sure how you feel ‘bout Tex-Mex, but it seemed like a halfway decent pick.” He stops easily and snags the grease-stained bag from the middle of the dining room table. From its depths, he produces two white take-out boxes. “Two beef, two chicken tacos. Figured that’s a safe bet for you.”
“I’d be extraordinarly fucking concerned if a restaurant managed to mess those up, actually.” Karkat glances down at his box before clamping it shut. “Not to be an ingrate, but I just ate breakfast.”
“Then save it for later, idiot,” Dave pops open his own box, revealing a hearty shrimp and rice mix. “Anyhow, yeah. It’s pretty fucking abysmal if a place can’t get that right, ain’t it? All it is is a shell and the stuffing.” He dumps the included plastic utensils out and starts eating. As usual, he gracelessly speaks between massive forkfuls of food. “Anyhow, d’you need to go back today? I’ve got another meeting tomorrow ‘round noon, and it’s close to where you work. I can drop you off on the way.”
“I do have a shift tomorrow at about the same time, but I need my uniform, dumbass.”
“True.” Dave rubs his hand along his jawline. “We could leave early. I park at your place, you get your clothes, and I’ll run you down to your job.”
When Karkat opens his mouth, he fully intends to refuse the offer. Instead, his heart overpowers his mind. “Why the fuck not? Sure.”
A strangely sincere smile slips onto Dave’s face and tugs at an old scar along the right side of his jaw. “Cool. So, what’d you get into while I was gone?”
“I just wandered around like an idiot. What, did you expect me to call up my friends and invite them over?” Here, Karkat mimes the act of talking on a telephone, “‘Yeah, you useless motherfuckers, Dave’s gone for a few hours. Why don’t we trash his house and eat all his shitty, processed food?’”
“To be fair, you know where I keep my weed. And that’s some primo stuff, y’know.” Dave winks and leans his elbows against the table. “Didn’t dredge up any questionable shit, I hope?”
“Not really.” Karkat raps his knuckles against the table. When he realizes what he’s doing, he stops and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I did… uh… That little digital camera in your room, the one that looks like you threw it in the washing machine? I think it died.”
“Battery probably started leaking,” Dave shrugs. “I don’t really care. I’m planning on destroying it soon. Nothing on there I’d really want to remember.”
“You mom’s in some of the videos, isn’t she?”
Dave pauses. He sticks his fork in the remaining pile of rice and leans back. A thoughtful sigh rumbles in his throat as he folds his arms across his chest. “Sure, but I have photos. I don’t need to remember how many times my drunk as a skunk mother shoved a camera in my face ‘cause she thought I was dying.”
“Oh.” Karkat stares at his take-out box.
“Sorry. Made that awkward,” Dave rubs the back of his neck. “Heh. My life’s so fucked that it all just seems normal to me. Then it leaves my mouth, and my brain’s like, ‘Woah, there, numbnuts. That shit is not normal.’ If that makes sense.”
“Not really, but your stupidity at least makes me feel better.” Partially to distract himself, Karkat ferries his meal to the fridge. As he turns around, his idle thoughts take hold of his tongue. “I do actually have a question for you, Strider.”
Dave smirks and mimes firing a gun. “Shoot away, dude.”
“They had you standing in one of the videos I saw. Did you?” — Karkat doesn’t get to finish the question.
Dave interjects first. “Feels like a stupid question, there, Kat. No, none of the therapy really worked on the lower half” He backs up a few inches. “Left leg’s as good as it gets, and it ain’t much.” He shakily lifts his left knee up before letting it drop back down. “Stopped trying to walk a while ago. Too many falls, not enough payoff. I don’t have enough sense of where half my body is for it to work.” With that, he pulls back up to the counter and digs into his meal.
“Yeah…” For once, Karkat finds himself laughing at his own error. “You’re right. That wasn’t my most brilliant inquiry ever.”
“It’s fine,” Dave scrapes one final, massive forkful of rice into his mouth. He stacks his garbage in the take-out container and shoves it into the trash compactor. Afterwards, he peels off his usual gloves. “Anyhow, I feel like working on my old car. You want to join me?”
“As long as you don’t need me to actually do anything, sure,” Karkat stands and steps aside. When Dave passes, he forcibly suffocates the rush of pleasure he gets from his scent. “The most I’ve ever done is fix a flat. Don’t expect me to know anything.”
“Would holding a wrench be too much for you?” Dave shoots back, smirking. “C’mon, asshole. It’s s’posed to rain later.” After slipping on a pair of mechanic’s gloves, he punches the automatic door button. “I’d like to see how much of the engine I can fix before it starts.”
As much as his logical side protests, Karkat willingly — and borderline eagerly — complies. It’s getting harder to deny his feelings for Dave, and he’s not entirely sure that’s a bad thing.
Notes:
I will do work. Eventually.
Chapter 26: In Some Nostalgic Place
Summary:
Chapter title from the English translation of “When I Remember This Life (いのちの記憶)”, from The Tale of Princess Kaguya, performed by Kazumi Nikaido. (For some reason, it's credited to composer Joe Hisaishi on Spotify.)
Notes:
No chapter warnings, but this is a fun experimental chapter that's 100% chats/texts.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, 13 January 2022
Text message chain between Dave and Karkat:
Friday, 14 January 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
-----
Text message chain between Dave and Rose:
Saturday, 15 January 2022
Group Pesterchum chat between Karkat, Dave, June, and Rose:
GROUP CHAT [SHUT THE FUCK UP, DAVE] STARTED
ROSE: Allow me to make my point transpicuous: I, in no uncertain terms, do *not* want to hear anything about your sexual fantasies in this chat. All discussion shall pertain to your feelings for Karkat. Do not tell me what you want to *do to* him. Understood?
DAVE: yeah i guess that makes sense. 👍
ROSE: I’ll take the “guess” as a yes.
JUNE: soooooooo why am i in here?
ROSE: I thought that my logic for that choice was plainly evident.
ROSE: Silly me. Assuming that anyone here knows what the fuck is happening.
ROSE: You’ve known Karkat longer than any of us, so I have added you as an “emotional springboard”, so to speak. If Dave says anything that would jeopardize his relationship with Karkat, I expect for you to say as much.
DAVE: oh my fucking god you talk almost as much as he does rose.
DAVE: sheesh that’s a giant wall of text.
ROSE: Do you want my help, or do you want me to double down on my incredibly reasonable “The Last Time I Helped You Went Outstandingly Wrong” policy?
DAVE: 😶
JUNE: woah. you’ve gotta teach me how to make him shut up that fast.
ROSE: Later, June.
ROSE: Okay, Dave. You may speak.
DAVE: en gee el
DAVE: i’m so horny for the guy. 😭
ROSE: I *will* end this discussion here, Dave. Back on topic.
JUNE: you do know that he’s been, like, texting me constantly about you, right?
JUNE: and we all know i’m the most oblivious person in this chat.
JUNE: so it’s pretty bad if i’m the only one with any sort of clarity on this shit.
ROSE: Hm… Perhaps I should pull Kanaya into this?
DAVE: please stop making this more complicated than it already is. 😭
JUNE: no, she’s even more clue less.
ROSE: On second thought, yes. That’s a fair point.
DAVE: ok so i guess i like him?
DAVE: like him like him?
DAVE: and feel other words that start with the letter l towards him. maybe.
DAVE: but that feels a little too forward. and i mean. idk he can do better than me.
JUNE: HE LIKES YOU BACK, YOU STUPID FUCK.
DAVE: yo it’s my feelings jam here gimme a hot sec
DAVE: wait what?
ROSE: Welp.
ROSE: That was easier than anticipated. Let’s all have a round of celebratory (non-alcoholic) drinks, shall we? 👍
USER tentacleTherapist HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
-----
A very reluctant text message chain between Dave and June:
-----
Group Pesterchum chat between June, Dave, and Rose:
GROUP CHAT [ACCESSIBLE DATING IDEAS IN YOUR AREA] STARTED
DAVE: oh my god the fucking chat name. 🤣
DAVE: ok. you get one (1) stoic nod for that because it’s pretty damn funny.
DAVE: wait who else is here?
JUNE: don’t worry, i didn’t add any of the trolls.
DAVE: who the fuck are the trolls?
JUNE: idk why but karkat calls his core group “the trolls”. it’s super cringe.
JUNE: anyhow, i added rose and jade.
DAVE: who the fuck is jade?
ROSE: Why am I being dragged into *another* group chat with my idiot twin?
ROSE: Mild offense intended, by the way.
DAVE: ok fair. ✌️
JUNE: oh yeah you haven’t met her.
JUNE: she’s sort of my cousin? she’s, like, five or six branches out. anyhow, she’s a botanist and she moved to peru or some shit like that 5 years ago.
JADE: uhm! excuse you, june. i actually moved to *paraguay*. 😤
JADE: is this the dave karkat kept sending me photos of earlier? he’s kinda cute.
JADE: his hair looks super soft. 😊
DAVE: uh thanks i guess?
JADE: what? it’s true! i’d consider dating you if i wasn’t in paraguay, even. 👍
ROSE: June, I can see you typing.
ROSE: DO NOT send a sex joke.
ROSE: I DO NOT want to know about your sexual activities with my twin brother. That’s just weird.
JUNE: 😞
ROSE: We’re unhealthily codependent enough as is, June. I don’t need to add “additional Freudian thoughts” to our relationship chart.
DAVE: what in the name of sweet baby jesus on a rocket powered unicycle is happening here? 😭
ROSE: Yes, I agree with my brother for once. (The world as we know it may be ending…) Is there a point to all of this? No offense, but I have a meeting in approximately forty-three minutes, so let’s hurry this along.
DAVE: rosey dear you literally own the fucking company you can do whatever you want.
DAVE: you could shit on your desk and bay like a donkey and everyone would just have to be like
DAVE: wow miss lalonde you’re like so fucking smart and everything! teach us your ways and make the line on the graph go up!
JADE: wait! 😱
JADE: can we at least do an intro first? i don’t know everyone here! 🥺
JADE: and i mean specifically rose and dave?
DAVE: i feel like i’m back on omegle. the fuck is this? 2010? a/s/l?
ROSE: If it pushes things along, I will happily acquiesce. Seeing as my socially inept twin is, as usual, being a contrarian bitch, I’ll go first.
ROSE: Hello, Jade! I’m Rose Lalonde, 30, owner and CEO of Lalonde Press. I’m technically the younger of the pair, born on December 4. You seem like a pleasant person. We should exchange chumhandles after this.
JADE: woah! a ceo! 😦
JADE: yeah! totes! 🎉
JADE: ok, dave! your turn!
DAVE: ugh. fine. whatever.
DAVE: name’s dave strider, 30, december 3. rose and i are twins but we were born a few hours apart so she’s december 4.
DAVE: we usually just celebrate on my birthday anyhow.
JADE: and what do you *do*?
DAVE: is that really relevant?
JUNE: not really. 🤷♀️
ROSE: Come on, Dave! She asked so nicely!
DAVE: 😒
DAVE: freelance video editor and music composer.
JADE: woah! 😦
JADE: really!? that’s super cool! ☺️
JADE: it almost makes me jealous!
JUNE: he’s. like. super cool.
DAVE: no not really. 🤷♂️
ROSE: Dave, you must admit that you lead a peculiar lifestyle. Your job is, by most people’s definition, rather intriguing.
DAVE: so are we gonna help me figure out a date idea or are we just standing in a circle and staring at me?
JADE: oops! 😮
JADE: sorry! i completely forgot that’s what we were talking about! 🤭
JADE: well, june was at least smart enough to keep her mouth shut this time. she might be one of karkat’s best buds, but she hands out the *worst* romantic advice.
DAVE: ok cool we agree there. 👍
JUNE: 😢
ROSE: Alas, dear June, the truth hurts.
JADE: so what’re you thinking? have you gone on a date yet?
JUNE: lol no! they’ve done it dirty and still haven’t gone steady.
DAVE: is it like pick on dave day?
DAVE: nevermind it’s always pick on me day ain’t it? 😒
DAVE: i’m the universe’s favorite butt monkey.
ROSE: Um. If I may? Why exactly am I here? Again, no offense, but I should really be preparing for an important business affair.
JUNE: actually?
JUNE: i’m not really sure why i added you.
DAVE: oh my god yes please get your ass outta here.
ROSE: With pleasure! Jade, I will have June send me your contact information.
USER tentacleTherapist HAS LEFT THE CHAT
JADE: okaaay! so, anyhow.
JADE: i know he doesn’t show it a lot, but karkat is a *total* hopeless romantic! 🤭
JADE: it’s your first date, so take him somewhere *super* special. he’ll eat pretty much anything, but he has a soft spot for southern indian food.
DAVE: … jade you’re super sweet but i cannot stress enough that i’m a basic ass white man.
DAVE: i wouldn’t know the difference between indian restaurants if it hit me in the fucking face.
JUNE: (aren’t you… like… 10% mexican on your dad’s side?)
DAVE: (shut up you dork that’s beside the point.)
JADE: well! 😁
JADE: the good news for you is that june knows a lot about cooking.
JADE: june, are you going to help our friend, or are you just going to bicker with him like you’re his wife?
JUNE: we’re just friends with benefits. 🤷♀️
DAVE: well you ain’t giving me many fucking benefits in seattle now are you? 😤
JADE: you’re funny, dave. do you mind swapping contact info after this? 🤭
DAVE: sure i’ll just have june send it over.
JUNE: found it!
JUNE: tala corner is five stars, accessible, and has a nice little parking lot half a block away. free parking with your cool kid parking pass, dave.
JADE: that sounds perfect! 😄
JADE: oh! shit! i gotta go! someone’s getting heckled by local wildlife again.
JADE: let’s chat later! 💚
USER gardenGnostic HAS LEFT THE CHAT
DAVE: well that sure was something.
DAVE: thanks y’all. i owe you.
JUNE: no prob! anything for my best bud. 🙌
JUNE: you got this, bro.
JUNE: keep me updated. 👍
USER ectoBiologist HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Sunday, 16 January 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
Notes:
“Hey! You used the wrong emoji next to the contact name! Doesn't Dave's phone have ‘👀’ next to Karkat's name?” hehehehe. i'll do work eventually. one day. euueueeuuuugh.
Chapter 27: A Tourist in a Dream [E]
Summary:
Chapter title from Daft Punk's “Touch”, featuring Paul Williams. Did you know it's a tribute song to the best movie ever made, Phantom of the Paradise? You should watch that movie.
Notes:
Chapter warning for what I'm calling “purple smut”, AKA my tendency to describe sex in abstract and flowery terms. They do the doink. They jorking it. Whatever you wanna call it. They do that in the second half, and it's not all that skippable. I guess you could just scroll real fast to the bottom after they get to Dave's house? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Chapter Text
Monday, 17 January 2022
It’s taken two hours of reassurance from Kanaya for Karkat to scrounge together enough confidence to see his outfit as anything more than a hodge-podge of cheap, off-the-rack crap. When he looked in the mirror, he saw little more than a wrinkled white shirt and an oversized gray suit combo. His only tie is from his college graduation, and the fake silk fabric has faded. Once deep black, it’s now closer to a chalky, coal-like gray. And the second he sees Dave, his confidence pops like an over-filled water balloon.
Not surprisingly, he’s dressed impeccably. Not many people can pull off a black suit with gold accents, but he can — of course he can. Every meticulously planned line complements his form. The gold vest and black tie beneath make him look like a rare treasure. The Asscher cut ruby set at the center of his tie clip only reaffirms that narrative. His loafers are polished to a fine shine, and he’s swapped his usual gloves for a thinner, subtler, light gray pair.
To Karkat, he looks like the sun. His confidence — however fake it may be — oozes out like a brilliant light. It’s strong enough to be tangible, and Karkat finds himself wanting to hold just a scrap of it in his hands.
For the entirety of the journey to the restaurant — that is, the fifteen-minute drive and the twelve-minute walk from the car — an awkward tension hangs between the two men. Neither dares to speak. Instead, they exchange sideways glances. This continues as they enter the restaurant.
The walls are painted persimmon orange, a garish color tempered only by the thick stripes of black bean bordering the top and bottom. The base and crown moldings have been replaced by lines of hand-laid porcelain tiles, all of them bearing intricate black and white designs. The floors are covered in a herringbone array of buffed granite slices. Accessing the dining area requires both approval from the greeter and stepping through a curtain of glass beads, though the main space is designed to match the entrance.
To Karkat, it smells like home — cardamom, garlic, ginger, jakhya, mint, nutmeg, and a dazzling array of peppers.
Dave, situated to his left, seems slightly more apprehensive. After pushing himself forward, he tugs at the collar of his silk button-down.
The host ultimately drops the pair off at a low two-person table by the back window. Through a rainbow of stained glass, there’s a view of the rear alley. Undoubtedly a concrete hellscape at some point in its life, the area has been leveled, covered with inviting green turf, and converted into an intimate garden space. However, being the middle of winter, the patio is currently closed. (And the sign on the nearby door, which declares that “OUTDOOR EATING RETURNS IN MARCH”, confirms as much.)
Finally, after a middle-aged waiter drops off the menus and explains the nightly specials, the tension breaks.
Dave speaks first: “I’ve never actually been here. Just heard it was good, so…” He slips on his reading glasses and picks up one of the glossy menus. Upon reading the first entry, his brows furrow. “Holy fuck,” he mutters under his breath, “I can’t even pronounce half this shit.”
Try as he might, Karkat can’t suppress a snort of laughter. He moves to the opposite end of the table and stands behind Dave. He folds his hands behind his back as he leans in to study the laminated page, and his eyes gloss over the entries; he knows what everything is. He served enough time as a line cook and busboy at his father’s restaurant. “It’d help if I knew what you wanted to eat.”
“It would help if I knew what any of this food was,” Dave grumbles.
“You didn’t do a little research beforehand?”
“Finding a nice place that didn’t require me to drag my ass up some fancy-ass concrete stairs was hard enough, y’know.” Dave’s brows furrow even more as he flips the page over. Unfortunately for him, the reverse side of the menu is entirely devoted to the restaurant’s alcohol and dessert selections. “Just go and pick what you want, dude, I’ll figure my shit out eventually.”
“I always get the lamb curry dosa. Just tell me what you’re looking for, you stubborn shithead.”
A low growl, a sound underpinned by a vague sense of embarrassment, rises from Dave’s throat. “Fine. I’ll start with the disclaimer that I was leagues more adventurous food-wise when I was fifteen.”
“Is that relevant to this decision?” Karkat raises a brow.
Dave, his cheeks now turning an increasingly vivid shade of pink, rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of? I mean… I mostly just want something that’ll go down easy.” Here, his volume drops, forcing Karkat to strain to hear his next statement. “Look, dude, I really don’t want to shit myself in public on our first date, so… Just… Find something someone as white as a celeb’s fake teeth can stomach without any issues.”
Karkat doesn’t need much time to think; in fact, his answer is all instinct. He’s been asked the same question — albeit for a myriad of reasons — countless times before. “Biryani,” he says. “You want biryani.” He points the item out on the menu. “It’s about the same as fried rice, except you add umpteen different steps and some spices.” He walks back to his seat as he continues: “To be more precise, it’s layers of rice and whatever add-ons they list on the menu. I’d go with lamb, but that tends to come with more kick than, say, beef. Your choice.”
For a moment, there’s a flash of confusion on Dave’s face. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it fades. “Yeah. Duh. Your dad runs a restaurant. You’d know this shit.” He shakes his head and lays his menu on the table. When he beats his fingers against its laminated surface, it sounds like steady rain pattering on a tile roof. “If I’d actually planned shit instead of being an impulsive goddamn doofus, I might be slightly more adventurous, but…”
“Let’s not discuss your digestive problems before we eat,” Karkat suggests.
Dave’s blush grows brighter. “Yeah. Heh. Sorry.” His gaze shifts to the left. “I’m maybe a tiny bit nervous, as stupid as it sounds.” He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “I mean… I’m kind of amazed you agreed to it.”
“You?” A hint of laughter worms its way into Karkat’s voice. “You’re nervous? Come on, now, Strider, you’re way out of my league. And I’m probably just as nervous as you are, so…”
“We’re both incurable idiots, huh?”
“There’s a huge fucking problem if you just noticed that,” Karkat quips.
Finally, the tension breaks. Dave’s shoulders relax, and a tentative smile spreads across his face.
Admittedly, Karkat has spent every moment thus far drowning in his own anxieties. He’s taken a page from Dave’s book and forced his more confident persona to the front, but it’s done little to quell his churning stomach. Dave’s smile, however, acts like the moon; it shifts and calms the tides, though it doesn’t eliminate his nerves completely.
“I know your brother’s a douchebag, but would you ever consider taking me to your pop’s place?” Now, Dave’s index finger draws idle shapes against his menu. He sips at the complementary glass of iced mint water.
It’s an honest question, but it feels like scraping steel wool over Karkat’s skin. “It’s not accessible,” he lies. (The city of Beforus even provided a generous stipend over a decade ago to retrofit the business as part of its ploy to increase tourism. There’s a ramp at the front and back, and the interior has long since been redesigned to be more spacious than ever before.)
When Dave accepts the answer as fact, a small part of Karkat feels a pang of guilt.
“Worth a shot.” As Dave prepares to continue his statement, the waiter returns.
Both men place their orders, and a warm basket of naan is placed at the center of the table.
By the time they’re done, the conversation has mercifully shifted.
Dave shifts to spinning the fidget ring he’s wearing on his right middle finger. “Might as well get to know each other better, I guess. That’s generally what you do on dates, right?”
“Typically, yes.” Karkat snags a piece of naan and nibbles at the edges. The texture is perfect — fluffy and light with a slight bit of crunch on the outside. The flavor, however, is a bit too garlicky for his liking. Still, he keeps eating. “What? You want to play twenty fucking questions or something?”
“Maybe?” Dave’s lips curl upward, though the expression isn’t quite a smile; it’s a peculiar display of anxious, bemused confusion. “T’be fair, we already had sex, so there ain’t much there to talk ‘bout.”
The statement jogs a vague memory that’s been sitting at the back of Karkat’s mind for weeks. “Actually, I do have a question about that. Well…” he sets aside the naan and rubs his hands together. “Not about sex, of course. That’s a bit too crude for the dinner table. More about something you did.”
“During sex?” Dave smirks.
“Yeah. You kept pushing my hand away if I put it on your right arm.”
“‘Course I did.” A shrug and a dismissive wave accompany Dave’s statement. Afterwards, he uses his left hand to draw a line from his right shoulder to the knuckles of his right hand. “Whole back side of this is numb, constant pins and needles. I can feel temperature and pain, but everything else is just static. Like I said, I prefer for most of what’s happening to stay where I feel it.”
“Huh.” Karkat pauses.
The waiter returns with drinks. Dave gets a tall glass of water. Karkat receives his lager.
“So, what? My turn for a question?”
“If that’s how we’re doing it. I wasn’t aware this was like a fucking oral test.”
“That comes later, ideally in the bedroom,” Dave smirks. “Fine. Uh…” He mirrors Karkat and snags a piece of naan. Judging by the massive bites he’s taking, he likes it. “Let’s go with a classic icebreaker. If you could change something ‘bout yourself, what would it be?”
“I’d stop sticking my foot in my mouth all the fucking time,” Karkat answers immediately. His tendency to spew the social equivalent of verbal diarrhea has always been a sore spot. When it isn’t leading him astray, it’s causing more headaches than he can count. “What about you, Strider?”
Dave’s reply comes just as quickly: “I’d go back and tell my younger, dumbass self to actually give a damn in high school.” He swirls the straw in his water around, knocking chunks of ice against the glass. “At the very least, I wouldn’t’ve had that inferiority complex hanging over my head for a decade.”
“That’s what you’d change?”
“Well…” Dave blinks. After a moment of thought, he nods. “Yeah. That or stopping myself from snorting coke.” A beat of silence gives him enough time to catch onto Karkat’s implication, and a dry snicker of laughter rises from his chest. “I’ve been pretty solidly disabled for half my life, Kat. I really don’t give a fuck anymore. Hell, I’m not sure I’d remember what to do with my legs if I woke up and they worked again.”
As much as the answer makes sense — especially given everything Karkat knows about Dave — it’s still mildly surprising.
And, like usual, Dave seems to sense as much. He drops the straw, leans forward, and rests his folded arms against the table. “Yeah, it’s inconvenient. It’s frustrating. Hell, it’s downright depressing sometimes. But it’s just part of me at this point. Is that a problem?” Despite the harsh phrasing, his closing statement is an earnest question.
A frown flickers across Karkat’s face. “I agreed to the date, so it’s obviously not a problem, dumbass. What sort of question is that?”
Dave shrugs. “Just checking.” He finishes off his naan and eyes the basket, clearly weighing the pros and cons of taking another piece. “Some folks just have this preconceived notion of me in their heads, y’know? They think, ‘Oh, yeah, he should want to be cured and back on his feet and doing a stupid little dance routine.’ Anything other than that makes ‘em squirm. But not everyone fits into that box. I don’t, at least.” Before continuing, he snags another slice of naan. “Anyhow, your turn to ask a question.”
“Do you have any hobbies that you haven’t monetized?”
“Hm?” Dave sets aside his naan long enough to shift his position. “Used to sing, but haven’t been able to do it in years. Apparently, having a hole drilled through your throat more than a few times is bad for your voice. Taxidermy was another hobby, but I quit that after the chemicals started giving me asthma attacks.”
“Any active hobbies, ones that you’re doing right now, you stupid fuck,” Karkat clarifies.
Dave laughs. “I still work out semi-regularly. One of the few things that carried over from the first half of my life. And not all my music is for business. I mix tunes for m’self, too. You?”
“I’m an amateur film critic, occasional animal shelter volunteer, and I knit sometimes.”
“Really?” Where Karkat expects a friendly ribbing, he gets a look of genuine intrigue. “Rose likes that. She tried teaching me, but my hands just don’t work that way.”
“Nepeta taught me.” Karkat eyes a passing tray of food. The aromatic spice rubs linger in his nose like a pleasant memory. “Where’d you learn to play guitar, by the way? I know it’s technically your turn, but this entire setup is juvenile, anyhow.”
Dave smirks. He downs some more water before pushing off the table to lean back. “Knew that before the accident. Been playing since I was six. One of the few nice things my father ever did for me was buy me a guitar and lessons when he was sober.” The expression on his face briefly sours; his brows furrow. “That was one of my big fears, y’know. After the crash. It seemed pretty solid that I’d never play again. I could take the dependence. I could take the inconvenience. But losing my music just ‘bout broke me.” His eyes drop to his artfully folded napkin. “I mean… music was that one thing I always had, if that makes sense.”
“I feel that way about books, as stupid as it sounds.” Karkat sips on his drink. It’s strong and earthy, perhaps a bit overly so, but it’s not entirely unpalatable. “How long did it take you to start playing again?”
Dave’s gaze remains locked downward, but a flicker of a smile tugs at his lips. “Three years.” Seemingly without thinking, he scratches at the scar at the base of his throat. “It all came back pretty slow. Arm, then elbow, wrist, and all that. Still takes a little concentration to get right.” He idly taps his right thumb to each corresponding finger. “Guess that’s another annoyance. I have to take more breaks. Can’t do any fancy playing for too long, or my hand starts getting fatigued. Then the shakes kick in.”
“But you still wouldn’t change it?”
“Most days, no.” Dave’s smile softens as a low laugh shakes his shoulders. “Really, it’s just who I am. You take that away, well… I’m not sure what else is left, y’know?”
Karkat counters with a joke: “I’m sure you’d still keep your shitty personality.”
Again, Dave laughs. The sound easily finds a place in Karkat’s heart.
The meal arrives, and the golden-brown crust on the lamb masala makes Karkat’s mouth water. The aromatic spice mix reminds him of peaceful childhood moments. The phantom scent of his father’s cologne briefly fills his nose. It’s enough to make him briefly forget that he’s on a date.
Fortunately, Dave reminds him. “You look ‘bout ready to rip that to shreds, Kat.”
“I fully intend to,” is Karkat’s succinct reply.
And so the dinner continues.
There’s back-and-forth banter, but the conversation quickly turns to more trivial affairs.
Karkat rants about the surplus of idiots at his job. In return, Dave rambles about a pesky client. Later, when he starts talking about music, his face lights up. A wild, passionate light shines behind his eyes. A childish, unbridled sense of wonder fills his voice.
Most of what Dave says makes no sense to Karkat. He uses advanced terms and discusses concepts far beyond the average person’s comprehension. He names hitherto unknown instruments and lays out their unique perks. Were it anyone else, Karkat would be trying to redirect the discussion. But there’s something captivating about Dave’s passion. There’s an ecstatic joy in his voice that scratches Karkat’s mind so perfectly. And when Dave finally catches himself and apologizes for his aside, Karkat finds himself wanting more.
“No,” he insists. The flavorful, savory taste of his meal pales in comparison to the surge of wild, inexplicable passion he feels when Dave shows off his knowledge and skill. “Keep going.”
Dave offers a subdued smile. “You sure? I could talk ‘bout this shit all night.”
“I love it,” Karkat pushes, “I wouldn’t let you go on this fucking long if I didn’t.” His logical mind wants to maintain distance, but his heart wins out as he concludes, his voice emphatic, “Please, Dave. Keep blabbing.”
That seemingly eternal flame burns behind Dave’s eyes. His smile widens. After readjusting himself in his chair, he eagerly obeys the command.
By the time dinner is over, he’s rambled for at least two hours.
Karkat’s mind is wrapped in a pleasant fog. There’s a buzzing warmth settling in his chest and between his legs. He wants more — he wants Dave — and the few fully cognizant parts of his mind commend his past self for bringing a bag.
When Dave invites him back to his house, Karkat doesn’t hesitate. He accepts without delay, and he forcibly stifles his anxiety’s warnings.
Once Dave is out of the car, it’s obvious that the feeling is mutual. He immediately removes his jacket and lays it across the still-broken garage sofa. The tie follows shortly thereafter. When he isn’t propelling himself forward, he’s unbuttoning his shirt.
And Karkat, feeling like a lovestruck teen, follows. He stumbles into the bedroom with all the grace of a newborn fawn and even less self control. The only thing he can hear over his own heartbeat is Dave’s voice. His face is warm; he’s tipsy, but he’s far from drunk.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dave playfully chides. “I need some extra time over here.” He pulls off his shirt and leaves it draped over the back of his chair before lifting his right foot onto his left knee. A swift tug loosens his shoelaces enough for him to slip off one shoe and remove the corresponding sock; then, he repeats the process on the left side. When he’s done, he heaves himself onto the bed.
Karkat’s mouth goes dry. His body seems to act on its own, driven by pure passion and wild, insatiable desire. He peels off his clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor. Unlike Dave’s suit, his ensemble is discarded without care.
By now, Dave has finished undressing; his pants have been discarded at the end of the bed. A small piece of tape holds his catheter tubing out of the way. That same smirk — the expression that’s been buzzing in Karkat’s mind like a swarm of angry wasps — easily reels Karkat closer. He’s everything Karkat wants and craves, and he’s lazily sprawled out for his taking. And he knows it. “Gotta rile me up a little more before I’m ready for you,” he gloats.
It’s as much a challenge as it is a warning. And Karkat heeds the comment in both senses. He rubs his thumbs over Dave’s shoulders, zeroing in quickly on knots of deep tension. He kneads each carefully — soft skin stretched over taut muscles — and allows himself the luxury of pride each time Dave melts beneath his touch.
“You sure you weren’t a masseuse at some point?”
“Kanaya was. She taught me some pointers.” A tattoo on Dave’s right shoulder catches his eye — a fan of stylized flames, each a different hue of red. Idly, he rubs his fingers over the image. Like the rest of Dave’s tattoos, the colors are still vivid.
Dave laughs. “Be sure to thank her for me.” When a particularly tight knot dissipates, he breathes a rasping sigh of relief. After a few seconds, he runs his hands along Karkat’s sides.
The buzzing, warm white light makes Dave’s scars stand out. Thin slits of puckered skin hide beneath otherwise dense canvases of tattoo ink. A long surgical scar spans from his left shoulder to his collarbone. Another is situated on his right side, between his second and third ribs.
Pale fingers fumble with the buttons mounted to the side of the bed. After a few seconds, the top half rises, pushing Dave into a more upright position. His hands move and wrap around Karkat’s waist; his lips press against his neck.
As Karkat eases into Dave’s warmth, he takes note of his breathing. Every so often, the short exhales stop, making room for a series of sharp inhales. Every long exhale is accompanied by a low sigh. At times, it hitches, and a whine of involuntary discomfort rises from his chest.
Dave’s left hand idly tangles in Karkat’s hair; his right rubs down his side and settles on his hip. A low, pleased hum escapes his lips. He pushes his elbow against the bed to rock himself to the side a few times. “‘M sorry I can’t do more for you down there. That’s ‘bout all I got,” he mumbles, and there’s the faintest trace of genuine disappointment in his voice.
“You’re fine, dumbass,” Karkat reassures. “You’re just making me work for it.” The heat between his legs is rising. His heartbeat is banging against his eardrums with frenzied, wild passion.
Dave counters with a relaxed laugh, a sound more raw and unfiltered than ever before. His right hand rises again. Shaking fingers run down Karkat’s chest.
Time keeps flowing. As much as Karkat wants it to stop, the minutes pass.
Every touch leaves him wanting more. Each breath that rolls down his neck pulls him in closer.
Eventually, the pounding in his ears peaks. The electricity that’s settled between his legs explodes like fireworks, and a pleasant warmth fills his chest.
By now, Dave’s chest glistens with sweat. He’s gulping down breaths every few seconds, but there’s still a wild, unprecedented air of barely contained ecstasy surrounding him. His right leg twitches slightly, faintly, as Karkat stops. He winces and readjusts himself. He combs the trembling fingers of his right hand through his hair. He spends a few minutes breathing, slowly regaining his usual cadence, before he’s ready to speak. “Well,” he smirks, “you want to call that a successful first date, or…?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Karkat laughs. The bubbly warmth wrapped around his chest and settling near his heart overpowers his usual need to hit back with sarcasm. “Yes, Dave. That was probably the best date I’ve ever had in my absolute clusterfuck of a life.”
Chapter 28: May Ours Turn Slow
Summary:
Chapter title from Phantom of the Paradise's “Old Souls”, as performed by Jessica Harper. (Lyrics by Paul Williams.)
Notes:
No chapter warnings besides being more emotional than the last chapter.
Once again, but with emotion.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 18 January 2022
If the generic wall clock hanging over the bathroom door is any indicator, it’s currently 4:23 a.m. — far too early for Karkat to be awake. It’s strangely cold inside, and the ceiling fan has stopped spinning. A low, grating beep sounds every five seconds; on Dave’s side of the bed, there’s a pulsing red glow. The cyclical buzz of the oxygen concentrator is gone, and Dave’s chest rises sporadically; each breath falls both randomly and too far apart.
After a few minutes of thought, Karkat manages to piece together the puzzle.
“Shit.”
He nudges Dave’s shoulder. When he gets no response, his chest tightens.
“Come on, dumbass, wake up.”
Finally, mercifully, Dave stirs. His brows furrow as he shoves himself into a sitting position and gulps down a lungful of air. “Fuck.” He massages his chest before removing the oxygen line. “Power’s out, ain’t it?”
“Yeah.” Karkat grabs his phone and stumbles out of bed, narrowly dodging his discarded shoes, and approaches the window.
The world outside is dark, but it’s otherwise peaceful. As far as he can tell, there’s no discernable cause for the outage.
“What the fuck?” he grumbles.
“Hail,” Dave supplies, his voice wispy and low. “Dunno if you can hear it. Hailstorm probably knocked something out.”
“Good to know, I guess.” Karkat pulls on his pants and turns on his phone’s flashlight. His free hand burrows into his pocket. The brief rush of fear has yet to fully subside; he won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Even so, he starts to return to bed.
“It’ll be a while before it’s fixed.” Dave breathes in again, wincing as his chest expands. A hoarse, throaty cough follows. “Shit. It’s” — his statement is cut off by another cough. His brows furrow. “Inhaler,” he wheezes.
Karkat changes his course and circles to the opposite side of the bed. Like last time, it’s easy to find — bright red and tucked away in a dedicated pouch. He shakes it a few times before passing it over. “You okay?”
“Maybe.” Dave gulps down a few doses before coughing again. Even in the dark, Karkat can see his cheeks turning red. “Fuck. I…” His next breath comes out as a pained wheeze. He coughs again as he tosses aside the inhaler. This time, when he’s done, he grabs a handful of tissues from his bedside and spits into them.
“Should I call?” — Karkat begins.
Dave cuts him off with an uncharacteristically curt and cold reply. “No.” He clears his throat and winces as he breathes in.
“Then what the fuck do you want me to do?” Karkat snaps.
“Go to the living room.” Dave’s answer is equal parts firm and conflicted. He breathes in again. After a few seconds, he points to the door. “Please,” he groans.
It takes every ounce of Karkat’s self control to obey. Every neuron screams at him to stay, but he knows when he’s not welcome. He nods and trudges to the living room, closing the door as he leaves.
And he waits. He sits on the sofa and listens to Dave coughing for — at least according to his watch — seven minutes. He falls into his old habit of chewing his nails.
Finally, a full fifteen minutes later, Dave’s bedroom door opens. Now clad in an old sweatshirt and boxers, he glides into the living room and stops in front of the sofa. He folds his arms across his chest before he speaks. “I’m fine,” he clarifies, though he pointedly avoids meeting Karkat’s gaze. “Just some crap in my lungs.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” Karkat mumbles.
“Yeah, well…” Dave frowns. “Scared m’self there, too.” He moves his elbows to his knees and leans forward; his breath smells like generic mint toothpaste. “I’m saying this in the nicest way I know how: If you’re going to freak the fuck out over everything, it won’t work. We won’t work.”
“You…” Karkat massages the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You want me to just let shit happen to you and not say anything?”
“I want you to follow my lead on things.” A huff of discomfort passes through Dave’s lips as he straightens his back. “I’ve been like this for fifteen years, dude. I know how my body works, and… well… Again, in the nicest possible way, you don’t.”
“I could learn, though,” Karkat pushes back.
A melancholy smile tugs at Dave’s lips. “That’s real sweet, but you can’t. Not even Rose knows everything. It’s…” he pauses. He raps his knuckles against the left wheel of his chair. “There’s a reason people don’t date me, Karkat. It’s hard. And I know that. Deep down in there, you know it, too.” His voice lowers; that slick, smooth tone returns. “I don’t mind if you duck out now. I promise, and I won’t hold it against you. This” — he waves his left hand over his legs — “is a lot. I’m a lot.”
“But…” Karkat’s frown grows. His brows somehow manage to knit closer together. “You’re fine, aren’t you? I mean…” He breathes in — one, two, three — and out — three, two, one. “You’re Dave fucking Strider, right? You’ve figured all this out.”
Dave’s smile fades. After a moment of thought, he wheels closer to the sofa and lifts himself into the seat to Karkat’s left. He sets his hand on Karkat’s shoulder and — with palpable reluctance — meets his gaze. “I like you, Karkat. Truly and sincerely, in the most insane way possible, I like you. But you’re…” his gaze wanders, “twenty-five, yeah? I’m thirty. Assuming this goes the distance, you’re statistically looking at being a widower. Probably sooner than you’d like, too.”
“You mean…” Slowly, Dave’s words sink in.
“I’m on death’s speed dial, dude,” a nervous laugh punctuates Dave’s statement. Again, he keeps his eyes focused on anything but Karkat. “Everyone’s dying. I’m just… dying a little faster, I guess.”
“But you can fix it, right?” Karkat’s voice grates against his own ears. He’s too desperate, too clingy. He wants to strangle himself to death, but Dave is easily occupying most of his thoughts right now. “Science is pretty fucking amazing. There are surgeries and medicines and…”
“And?” Dave releases his loose grip on Karkat’s shoulder. He rubs his hand over his mouth and breathes a bitter laugh. “I’m as good as I’ll get, Karkat. This is all there is. I’m fine with it. I’ve accepted it. I live with that idea every fucking day. And I’m tired of it. A guy can only tolerate so many corrective surgeries and invasive interventions before it ain’t worth it.”
“I…” A deep, boiling, long-suppressed rage boils in Karkat’s chest. He flexes his fingers and tries his usual breathing exercise. When it fails, he stands. He slams his foot against the coffee table and buries his face in his hands.
“Sucks, don’t it?” There’s an understated warmth in Dave’s voice, but it’s otherwise flat.
“Yes,” Karkat snaps. “I… fuck. I hate to say it, but I like you, too, Dave. I don’t understand why, seeing as you’re the most insufferable piece of shit I’ve ever met, but…” He trudges to the front window and folds his arms across his chest.
“If you can’t do it, tell me.” After a minute of silence, Dave pushes into view. He’s back in his wheelchair, arms folded. “I promise, dude. It’s fine. I’ve been dumped more times than I can count. And it’s usually after this perky little chat, so…” he forces himself to smile, but it’s a hollow expression. “End it here and now, before I get myself too attached to the idea.”
Karkat’s omnipresent anxiety pushes for a sense of relief. It begs for him to back down. But he’s never been particularly good at listening to his fears. “No,” he sighs, “I… Fuck. I like you too much to do that, Dave. Just…” he pauses to collect his thoughts. After a few seconds, he finds what he wants to say. “I want to know what’s happening, okay? I respect your privacy, but you’ve got to give my anxiety some room to do its thing.”
“Understandable.” Dave rubs the back of his neck. His head is lowered; it’s impossible to read his expression. “You sure ‘bout this?”
“I am. Gods fucking help me, but I am.”
An enigmatic huff of laughter precedes Dave’s reply. “‘M sorry for kicking you out, by the way. I don’t like being like that in front of other people.” He rubs his hands together before clarifying: “Weak. I hate looking weak ‘round other people. ‘Specially the ones I’ve taken a liking to.”
“Well,” Karkat beats back his inner pessimist long enough to dredge a joke from the depths of his swirling anxiety. “I’m happy to know you’ve taken a liking to me, Strider. That really explains the date.” He trudges back to the sofa and sits. After flipping his phone face-down, he drops it on the coffee table.
Again, Dave joins him. He easily shifts from his chair to the sofa. Once he finds a comfortable position, he leans his right shoulder against Karkat’s left. “You sure you’re okay with this?”
“About as ‘okay’ as I can be,” Karkat admits.
“It’s scary, ain’t it?” Here, Dave pauses to yawn. He stretches his arms above his head before folding them across his chest. “Everyone’s one bad day away from dying, y’know. You, too. I just learned it the hard way.”
Again, Karkat forces himself to pull a joke from the black hole that’s consuming his heart. “You know, Strider, that’s a great thing to say to the whiny bastard with chronic anxiety.”
Dave laughs. His expression softens. “I plan on sticking ‘round for a few more decades, at least. And it’s not like we know this’ll last that long, anyhow.”
As much as Karkat wants to refute the statement, he stays silent. He listens.
And Dave supplies his usual brand of rambling. “Maybe shit’ll get better in a decade or two. Maybe they’ll figure out how to fix some of what’s broken without slicing me open again. That’d be pretty solid.”
“Would you actually take it, though, Strider?”
“A total cure?” Dave rubs the bridge of his nose and chews on his lip for a moment. Then, he shakes his head. “No. I’ve spent too long learning to love myself again. It’d fuck with my head too much. And I’d lose out on some killer parking spots.”
Finally, one of Dave’s odd comments punches through the ever-thickening veil wrapped around Karkat’s mind. A smile spreads across his face, and it quickly turns to a laugh. “Fuck you, Strider. Is that what you’d be worried about?”
“It’s built-in seating, too. No chairs, no problem. Already in one.” The way Dave digs into his jokes makes Karkat suspect that he’s performing. It’s as if he’s actively trying to soothe Karkat’s frayed nerves. “You’re guaranteed pretty solid theater seats, too. Ham it up a little at the right spots, and you’ll get discounts.”
And it works.
Slowly, the chains of anxiety unwind.
Following a momentary pause, Dave idly runs his fingers along Karkat’s jaw. “You ever think ‘bout growing a beard?” His brows furrow. “You’d look nice with one.”
“I’d look like Kankri in his twenties,” Karkat scoffs. “No.”
“Fair.” Dave smirks and withdraws his hand. “‘Bout the same reason I shave. My father was obsessed with his stupid goatee.”
“A goatee?” After trying to picture such a thing, Karkat laughs. “You’d look like an even bigger douchebag.”
“Also true.” A bemused smile tugs at Dave’s lips. “You have work tomorrow?”
Karkat’s heart drops. Now, his worries drift to his dead-end job. “Fuck. Yeah. Noon to eight.”
Dave whistles a sharp, consolatory note. “Damn, man. Linda really hates your ass.” He drums the fingers of his left hand against his knee. “I’m helping a local theater group with some promo material. Pro bono stuff. We’re meeting ‘round noon, so I can drop you on the way. Sound good?”
“Could you just fucking kill me instead?”
“We just went on this long, arduous emotional journey about mortality, dude.” A shit-eating smirk accompanies Dave’s comment, and his faux holier-than-thou tone completes it. “So, as I’m seeing it, I can’t die, but it’s fine for you to? Interesting logic.”
Finally, the last scraps of fear slide away. For now, Dave’s comments are forgotten as Karkat lets forth a whoop of laughter. “I should dump your ass for being an insufferable, smug bastard.”
“But you won’t.”
Karkat opens his mouth to reply, only to be silenced by the hallway lights flickering to life.
Wednesday, 19 January 2022
Truthfully, Dave Strider’s romantic life has always been a series of mishaps. His few successes — the most prominent being June — have always fizzled out into “friends with benefits” situations, and he’s never bothered questioning why. He doesn’t really care for the answer, anyhow.
What he does know is that he’s always been a stand-offish lover. Even before his crash, he preferred to let people come to him. He rarely took the first step. Before the crash, he thought of himself too highly to be the pursuer; afterwards, he often found it best to let someone else express interest in him.
So, even now, two days after the fact, he finds himself pondering why he broke his usual rule.
“Focus on the job,” he kicks himself and forces his personal feelings to the back of his mind.
“If y’all have a different tripod, that’d be peachy,” he calls.
Shortly thereafter, he’s handed a different model. The setup is still slightly too high, but he can work with it.
He’s worked with authors for their profile photos. He’s worked with D-list celebrities. Posing a gaggle of dorky theater nerds is easy enough. He doles out instructions and makes adjustments as needed. When everyone is in place, he returns to the camera. He drags a shoulder-height stool into place and tests the stability. Once satisfied, he uses it to haul himself into a shaky standing position. He sets the camera to burst mode before tentatively lowering himself back into his chair.
The jolt of pain down his right side is to be expected, as is the spasm. He ignores the concerned glances from his clients as he drops the tripod to a more manageable height.
He keeps working, moving from one photo to the next, until he has ten distinct shots. The constant motion keeps his mind busy. It keeps him from dwelling on his latest impulse.
When he’s done, he returns the camera and clambers into his rental car. He turns on the radio and flips through the available stations, eventually landing on some vapid pop lineup. Only then, with enough music to overpower the anxiety that plagues him whenever he drives, does he pull out of his parking spot.
He raps his fingers against the steering wheel and lets his mind wander.
He finds himself daydreaming about living with Karkat. It’s an idea he’s never before entertained. Even June maintained a respectable and understandable distance.
Karkat is different. He’s not afraid to grab what most people avoid. His zeal for learning reminds Dave of a young nurse, albeit without the occupational separation. He clearly wants to be with Dave. And as afraid as he is to admit it to himself, Dave feels the same way about Karkat.
Notes:
Have you seen Phantom of the Paradise, Brian De Palma's 1974 cult classic? You should see it. Yes. And then tell me about it. Tell me about it on my blog. Because it's the best movie ever, hands down, no notes.Okay. For real. I gotta fucking work. Fuck. If there are no updates for a few days, I'm not dead. I'm being forced to work.
Chapter 29: A Star Shines in All of Us
Summary:
Chapter title from “Heroes of Our Time” by DragonForce. As always, it's also on the Spotify playlist.
Chapter Text
Monday, 24 January 2022
If there’s one thing that Karkat has learned about his boss, it’s that Linda is nothing without her petty grievances. As far as he can tell, the middle-aged woman likes nothing and hates everyone. She is the epitome of perfection, and everyone else is a worm. In that sense, she’s like Kankri — if, of course, Kankri actually said what he was thinking.
So, when Karkat’s break begins with her whining about “that stupid, fake bastard” on the local news, he thinks nothing of it. He keeps poking at his yogurt and nods politely. He quite reasonably assumes that Linda is talking about some low-level politician or slimy business owner. There are a lot of those in the city, after all.
Then, he hears the tail end of the segment intro.
“Our guest is David Strider, a four-year local and film editor. So, Dave, why did you join the Road and Pedestrian Safety project?” The female reporter, Rhonda, is new to the station. Her voice is instantly recognizable, chipper, and bright — perfect for the news. It’s impossible to see much of anything through the omnipresent static, but the old CRTV’s sound is still fairly crisp.
A burst of static covers what Karkat has long since grown accustomed to — a series of short, sharp inhales. “I’ll start by thanking you for having me today. As far as I’m concerned, it ain’t really that big of a deal. I’m just loaning my services to a” — his voice gets overpowered by Linda’s.
“What a self-inflated jackass,” she huffs. Today, her gray hair is teased into an overly puffy perm. Her seemingly eternal scowl deepens as she folds her arms across her chest. “That’s the lazy asshole I warned you about. Keeps stealing the disabled spot and demanding we bring his items to his car.”
“I mean… he is disabled, you b” — Karkat catches himself at the last minute, — “Linda.”
“I’ve seen his legs move.” Linda slams her hands on the table and leans in, closer to Karkat, until he can smell the nicotine on her breath. “Man’s a fucking fake.”
Three, two, one…
One, two, three…
Somehow, Karkat beats back his rising rage long enough to grab the television remote and turn up the volume. He’s just in time to hear one of the questions.
“Mr. Strider has acted as the pro bono producer and director for the informational film, now scheduled to debut in high schools and driver’s ed classrooms across the region. So, Dave, why did you choose this project? From what I understand” — Rhonda adds a good-natured, if not somewhat awkward, laugh — “you’re already quite busy.”
“The number of times I’ve almost been run over by a car is, well, pretty far from zero, Rhonda.” As Dave nears the end of his sentence, his vocal pitch rises slightly before falling back into its usual range. To anyone else, it’s a quirk; to Karkat, it’s a suppressed wince of pain. “Folks like me are at a significantly higher risk of being mowed down by cars.”
“Really?” If Rhonda isn’t genuinely intrigued by Dave’s statement, she’s a great actress.
“Officials actually track us as a ‘vulnerable group’. We’re in the same pedestrian classification as kids, strollers, and bicyclists. And I’ve got nothing against any of ‘em, but” — Dave’s laugh carries a slight sense of anxiety — “I’m not choosing to use my wheelchair, y’know? And” —
“Of course he is,” Linda groans. “He’s a fucking freeloader. Of course the news loves him. He plays his part well.”
One, two, three…
“Oh, he’s a fucking idiot and a jackass,” Karkat tries sympathizing first. “But he’s… once you know him, he’s actually really nice.”
“You know him?” Gray eyes zero in on Karkat like a laser pointer. “I’m sure he’s told you his sob story, too, then. I don’t believe him for a minute.” Here, Linda pauses long enough to chug some coffee. “Like I said before, Vantas: His legs move. He’s just milking people for cash.”
“Gods, kill me now,” Karkat grumbles under his breath as he raises the television’s volume again.
“It’s taken ‘bout three weeks to put it together. Hold on, sorry,” Dave’s voice cuts through the tension in the breakroom. A series of sharp inhales and a hoarse cough precedes his next statement. “I’ve been bouncing this ‘round with my other projects.” Another pause. A few more breaths. “If this movie saves just one person, I’ll be pretty damn happy.”
“A good sentiment to have,” Rhonda concurs. “Any last words?”
“More specific, please?” Even with static filling the screen, Karkat can picture Dave’s expression. There’s probably a slight frown breaking his otherwise nonplussed mask. One pale brow is raised higher than the other.
“If a viewer at home is just tuning in,” Rhonda clarifies, “what would you want them to know?”
“Share the road. Watch for things that you wouldn’t normally think ‘bout.” A pause. Dave is probably shifting his position. Judging by the slightly breather quality of his voice as he continues, he’s probably leaning against his knees. “I have people waiting for me. You do, too. Everyone does. I don’t want the end of my story to be the front of your car, and I’m sure most people in my position” —
“‘In my position’,” Linda jeers, mimicking Dave’s accent. “Cry me a river, boy.” She snatches the television remote and changes the channel. The local news is overridden by some vapid, incomprehensible old game show. “That’s the sort of crap that got him banned from the store. He can walk his ass in here and buy his own damned clay.”
Finally, Karkat snaps. “That’s my boyfriend, you stupid bitch!”
“Oh?” A mocking edge creeps into Linda’s voice. “You’re dating that freak? So he did tell you his little story. And you fell for it? Damn. I thought you’d be smarter than that.” She finishes her coffee before resting her feet on the table and tilting the folding chair back. “The asthma’s a nice touch, though. Really ups his whole pathetic persona.”
“He could sue you.” Karkat digs his nails into the slowly softening, rotting laminate cover on the breakroom’s cheap dining table.
“Then tell him to,” Linda pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and tips one into her hand. She’s never heeded any regulations before, and it seems she doesn’t intend to start at this exact moment. “He’s still banned.”
“Gods above, you’re an intolerable banshee. That man has more common sense and empathy than you ever will, and he’s a verified jackass.” Impulse, as usual, drives Karkat’s actions. He pulls off his ill-fitting apron and throws it on the table. “Fuck you, you miserable hag. I quit.”
-----
Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
-----
By now, Dave’s house is starting to feel more like home than Karkat’s apartment. That vaguely musty smell — the mixture of old cardboard, pressed flowers, and antique books — is fading away; the novelty is wearing off. He knows the layout by heart and has a mental map of most of the rooms. He’s learned that the door is like Kanaya’s; a slight downward push is required before it easily swings open.
Dave is sprawled out on the sofa. Both feet rest on the armrest closest to the entrance, and crumpled wads of paper surround him. Every now and then, he hums a few notes to himself before scribbling them down in a notebook. If he dislikes the product, he rips out the page and starts over. He’s fully unaware of Karkat’s entrance, and — at least for a while — Karkat keeps it that way.
He stands by the door, arms folded, and watches Dave work. He watches the mental wheels turn. Finally, after a while, he clears his throat.
Dave startles; his notebook and pen fall to the ground. “Shit, dude! How long’ve you been there?”
“I don’t know,” Karkat admits. “Probably ten minutes.”
“Huh. And you didn’t say anything?” Dave shoves himself upright. One hand pulls his legs around; the other pushes against the backrest to twist his torso into a sitting position. “You still feeling stressed, or…?”
“Well,” Karkat plods to the sofa and scoots aside some of the stray trash. As he passes, he scoops up the fallen notebook and pen and places them on the coffee table. He then sits, buries his hands in his pockets, kicks off his shoes, and rests his feet on the coffee table. “I’m back to having no source of income, so that’s not fucking great.”
“I’ve got contacts. If you’re chill with a less stressful retail job, I know people who might be looking for record store clerks. The seasonal rush just ended, so they’re probably down a few crew members.” Dave leans over and grabs his water bottle. He downs a few greedy gulps before setting it on the ground by his feet. “And I didn’t realize you’d give a damn ‘bout the interview. I do them so often that they’re not really that important t’me, y’know?”
“Really?” For now, Karkat steers the discussion away from his abysmal employment record. He doesn’t particularly want to talk about his consistent inability to hold a job for more than a handful of months. Later, perhaps, but not now. “I didn’t know you were that famous.”
“I’m not sure I’d say I’m ‘famous’, necessarily,” Dave emphasizes his points with lazy air quotes. “I just… tend to talk a lot. And I throw money around. People listen to me for some reason. Kind of baffling, really. We both know I’m an uneducated jackass.”
“You’re smart, actually,” Karkat rubs the back of his neck. “I hate to admit it, but you’re surprisingly smart.”
“You think so?” A sense of doubt clings to Dave’s words, but it never shows on his face. After a moment of silence, he pulls his wheelchair closer to the sofa. He flexes his fingers before transferring, and a low sigh passes through his lips as his right leg begins to bounce.
“Are you serious about the record store jobs?”
“Of course.” Dave’s right arm loops around the blunted handle of his chair, forcibly stretching his torso. He holds the position for a few seconds before dropping back down and moving to the kitchen. “I’ll call up some folks and see what’s out there. Until then, it looks like we’re both banned from the biggest craft store in town.” A hint of laughter creeps into his voice.
And Karkat’s brows furrow. “You’re not bothered by that?”
“There are other stores, y’know.” Dave uses one hand to pull open the fridge; the other controls his wheelchair. “Like I said before, most people don’t understand it. I don’t give a shit. Honest.”
“So… I fucked over my job for nothing?”
“Sort of?” Dave sticks three different containers of lunch meat, a container of butter, and a jar of mayonnaise on the counter. A pensive hum precedes his decision to snag some Swiss and American cheese. Apparently satisfied with these picks, he then stacks the items in his lap and moves to a lower portion of the countertop. “I’m flattered that you think that highly of me, but you don’t have to fight my battles.” He pulls a loaf of bread from the cabinet and turns to the side. “You hungry?”
“Depends on what it is.” With the sofa free, Karkat takes the opportunity to sprawl out. He follows Dave’s former lead, propping his feet on the armrest and folding his arms behind his head.
“Pastrami, ham, and salami.”
“Yeah, sure.” Slowly, Karkat starts to relax. He finds himself feeling the same sort of peace he experiences at Kanaya’s house. It’s a mixture of familiarity and comfort, something he once found in only two places. He lets it wash over him and savors it, clinging to it as if it’s the last joy he’ll ever experience. After a few minutes, when a plate is dropped into his lap, the sensation only intensifies.
“Not sure what else you wanted,” Dave says as he stops beside the sofa. “Probably not the sort of luxury food you’d usually eat, but…” An apologetic smile flashes across his face. His plate, currently resting on his lap, is occupied by a double-decker sandwich. He waits until Karkat takes the first bite before he starts eating.
Admittedly the sandwich is nothing special. It’s grocery store deli meat, cheese, mayo, and butter between two loaves of whole wheat bread. It’s simple, it’s easy, and it’s enough to fill Karkat’s stomach.
Now deeming it acceptable to eat, Dave takes a few tentative bites of his meal before speaking up, his voice oddly anxious: “Until I’ve found you something, I could use an assistant. I’ve got some projects lined up, but not all of them are exactly easy. Well…” He bites off a larger chunk of sandwich and chews. The act covers for him as he puts his words in order. When he’s done, he sets his half-eaten meal aside and leans his elbows against his knees. “It’s easy for most, probably. But I honestly can’t do as much as I was doing ten years ago.” A nervous smile — one that straddles the line between shy bemusement and earnest embarrassment — tugs at his lips. “And to be fair, I was also snorting so much cocaine then, so…”
And against his better judgment, Karkat laughs. “Well, what would that job involve? I’ve never touched any film equipment. The most I’ve ever done is use my phone’s built-in piece of shit.”
“Nothing complicated.” Dave accompanies his comment with a dismissive wave. “Just setting up tripods and checking photos. I could do most of it myself, but having someone doubling as my legs speeds shit up a lot. It’s the difference between… hm…” he raps his knuckles against his knee. “It’s like a rowboat versus a speedboat. Both’ll get you where you’re going, but one’s more streamlined.”
“And I’d get paid?” Karkat smirks.
“No, I’d use you as an unpaid intern.” Despite his best efforts, Dave’s stoicism cracks; a snort of laughter punctuates his statement. “Of course, dumbass. I’d pay you.” He continues his meal, but he’s consciously eating slower. “Lemme see…” he counts things off on his fingers. “Twenty-five to thirty per hour fair? It won’t be consistent, but I’ll try to get you enough hours to survive on.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Karkat insists.
In all honesty, he wants it to happen. At least for now, he sees no obvious downsides to helping Dave. Any time he spends with him is a perk. But he’ll never admit as much — not now.
“I know I don’t.” Dave’s smile brightens. For perhaps the first time since Karkat has known him, he doesn’t react to his shaking leg. “I want to. And, heh, to be honest” — he rubs the back of his neck — “I feel mildly responsible for this.”
“No, it’s entirely my fault. I always stick my foot in my mouth. It’s constantly going so far down my pathetic fucking throat that it’s probably getting rammed out my ass at this point.”
Dave smirks. “Sounds like some kinky shit.” He pushes himself upright and wheels to the fridge. After producing two beers, he returns to the sofa. One can gets tossed to Karkat; the other is popped open immediately. He downs a few gulps before setting it on the coffee table. “Y’know, as stupid as your move may have been, I gotta admit that I admire the gumption. I wouldn’t’ve said anything.”
“I don’t believe that for a fucking minute,” Karkat scoffs.
Dave offers a blasé shrug. “It ain’t worth my time. I have bigger fish to fry than some whiny middle manager.” There’s a vague hint of fatigue beneath his smirk, though his tone remains otherwise even. “Maybe I just got thicker skin. I don’t care that much ‘bout that sort of shit. At least… I don’t now. Might’ve if you asked me ‘bout a decade ago.” He snags his sandwich and finishes one half in a few massive bites. When he’s done, he grabs Karkat’s now-empty plate to the kitchen. “You wanna do something less depressing than talking about your recent unemployment? I could probably find some games in my office.”
The tension in Karkat’s chest clears. For now, he’s vented enough. It takes a bit of a kick, but he manages to force a mostly genuine smile. “I’d never pass up a chance to kick your ass. You know that.”
Dave responds with a hoarse snort of laughter. “Well, who am I to deny you your fun? Let’s see what’s buried under all that paperwork.”
Notes:
The Linda character is partially inspired by my annoying, judgmental aunt. Rest in piss, hon. And Karkat's contact name for Dave is an intentional change. I did not forget that it used to be “HOT ANNOYING TWIN”.
Chapter 30: ⏪: K. 47a.I
Summary:
This chapter title is another Köchel number, specifically Mozart's “Waisenhaus” (Mass in C minor), section I (Kyrie).
Notes:
Chapter warnings for gunshot wounds, light gore, situationally understandable suicidal ideation, and drug use/addiction in the first half. Pay attention to the date headers; they're kind of important this time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 5 December 2016
For most of the day, Dave Strider existed in a state of constant, high-strung mania. He’d blown through six projects and pumped out three hours of new music. His usual nerve pain was gone, dulled by the constantly fluctuating high, and he felt nigh omnipotent. He floated from one line of coke to the next, only stopping when he found himself scraping individual flakes off his debit card. At that point, he called his dealer.
His allowance from Rose was more than enough. Combined with his usual income, he always had enough for as much cocaine as he needed. At least, that’s what he told himself. He explained away his ever-tightening budget as part of an economic slump that he didn’t care to fully understand — inflation, gas prices, and all that. He dug through the lockbox in his room and set aside $3,000; by the time he was done, he had a mere $15 left.
Not that it mattered. If he needed more, he could ask Rose. As long as he found her when she was drunk, he’d be able to tease as much as he wanted out of her wallet.
Everything was fine until it wasn’t.
When the dealer arrived, he should’ve been suspicious. She wasn’t his usual provider — in fact, he had no idea who she was. He saw the cheap semi-automatic pistol on her waist and the back end of a folding knife sticking out of her pocket. He reasoned away both as personal protection. She was carrying $3,000 of cocaine with her, after all. He did the same when she demanded to be let inside.
Only after she began pushing for more money did the hairs on the back of Dave’s neck start to rise.
He can no longer recall exactly what was said, only the basic sentiments behind those words.
He told the woman to wait. He rushed to his room and tore through every drawer. He scrounged together spare change. In the end, he still came up short — thirty dollars wouldn’t even buy him a gram of the world’s dirtiest slop. Still, that buzz was massaging his brain. Guided by misplaced optimism, he returned to the dealer and offered what he had.
It went as well as the Titanic’s first voyage.
She started with the knife.
At this point, Dave knew two things: He had no more money, and his twin sister — the person who did have the money — was drunk as a skunk. He doubled down, insisted he couldn’t pay more, and prepared for a fight. He reassured himself that his father’s old lessons would still apply, that nothing had changed in the past decade.
And to be fair, he managed to hold her off for a solid minute. He dodged a few jabs and even pulled the knife from her hand. For a brief moment, emboldened by the cocaine, he felt invincible.
That illusion ended as soon as he saw the barrel of a gun aimed at his face.
Five loud bangs echoed through the living room before the weapon jammed. One: An antique vase shattered. Two: A burning, stabbing pain ripped through his right shoulder. Three: Metal pinged off metal before pattering across the tiled floor. Four: His back tensed; something was wrong, but he didn’t know what it was. Five: For the second time in his life, his lungs refused to cooperate with his body.
Any remaining delusions of invincibility faded as he found himself thrown to the floor. He saw his wheelchair rolling further away.
Dully, through a haze of pain and terror, he recognized that the woman was still demanding money. She leveled the gun between his eyes, only to be interrupted by an animalistic shout. With that, she fled.
He heaved himself onto his side. For a few blissful seconds, he was able to breathe. He gulped down as much air as he could before gravity and spasms pulled him onto his back. A familiar face hovered over him. At first, he couldn’t hear her; then, slowly, as the pounding in his ears faded, Rose’s voice became the only thing tethering him to reality.
“What the fuck did you do?” she slurred. She was drunk — of course she was drunk. But at least she was a cheerful drunk. At least, she usually was. But at that moment, she was downright terrified. Her voice was drenched in instinctual fear. She grabbed the fallen folding knife and cut through Dave’s shirt as her wireless headset chirped away. “What did you do, David?”
Dave closed his eyes. His mind slid backward. He found himself somewhere else — in a sterile hospital room.
One for yes. Two for no.
He was rolled onto his left side. His abdomen involuntarily tensed. Breathing became easier, but it was still a conscious effort. When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the blood-streaked tile floor of his mother’s entry foyer. The elegant main staircase, with its polished marble steps and wrought iron railing, seemed to taunt him. The pounding in his ears returned as a rushing roar — a sound like pulsing jet plane engines. A sense of deep, inescapable terror gripped his mind. Logically, he knew what was happening. Emotionally, he started panicking.
A firm hand pressed against his right arm, breaking through the usual tactile haze.
“How far away are you?” Rose’s voice shook. She sounded smaller than ever.
Pain overwhelmed Dave’s senses. It began along his right side before blooming outwards and pressing against every muscle like a vise. He weakly fought against Rose’s grip, only to find himself pinned down more firmly.
“Stop,” Rose commanded. “I’m right here, Dave.”
A knee between his shoulders held him upright as a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his left arm. After a few seconds, the cuff started to tighten.
“Don’t die,” Rose pled, “I can’t lose you. Please. Don’t die.”
An involuntary sob squeezed its way out of Dave’s throat. A headache — no, a migraine — began pounding against his skull. Each pulse of pain coincided with his rapidly rising heartbeat. His right arm started shaking.
He knew what was happening, but he had no solution.
Again, Rose’s voice punched through the haze. “I know it’s easy for me to say, but” — her joke was tense and teary — “you need to stay calm.” Her fingers intertwined with the only hand Dave could feel or control.
Another groan escaped from his throat.
“I know, Dave, it hurts.” Finally, the mask that usually covered Rose’s insecurities dropped. Her voice broke. “I’ll… You know you’re getting a lecture after this.”
Distantly, Dave heard sirens. His eyes started to focus on the bright red blood smeared across the floor. The rest of the world began to fade. He clung to pools of ruby red, and the morbid depths of his mind pondered their beauty. In thinner areas, they refracted light like liquid gems. The thicker blood looked like a rich coat of glaze.
As the pressure pressing against his skull reached its climax, the world spun. For a brief moment, he heard sounds without understanding them.
Another version of him — one wholly disconnected from his physical being — awkwardly stumbled to his feet. For once, he was sober and free of pain. He stood above his failing body and studied the damage. He saw four bleeding gunshot wounds: one in his right shoulder, one in his left knee, one on the side of his abdomen, and one in his chest. Somehow, he knew what was happening before Rose’s panicked declaration.
“Can you hear me, Dave?” Her tone shifted. Terror was starting to override her understandable frustration. “GET OVER HERE NOW, DAMMIT!”
“You’d be better without me,” Dave wanted to say. “Stop letting me drain your wallet and let me die. Please.”
“I… I think he’s having a stroke.”
Dave’s vision started to darken.
“Please, Dave,” lightly tanned fingers, soaked in blood, ran through bottle blond hair. “I already lost Mother. I can’t lose you, too.”
“I’m tired,” Dave said, though he knew Rose couldn’t hear him. He knew he was speaking entirely to himself. At best, he was venting his frustrations to a world that had never once shown any concern for him. “I’m so fucking tired. I can’t take it anymore.”
“We’ll… We’ll leave. Yes,” Rose mumbled, “We can start over. I… I’ll stop drinking. I promise. Just don’t die.” She buried her face in her hands. “If I paid more attention to you…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“If I never introduced you to that bastard…”
“I chose this.”
“Please, Dave,” Rose pleaded.
The door slammed open. A team of paramedics rushed in. A hollow needle was pressed between Dave’s ribs, and he finally took a halfway decent breath. His consciousness was forcibly dragged back into his body. This time, the rush of pain proved too much. He shut down completely and willingly fell into a familiar void of nothingness.
This time, he shaped his own reality. He created a world just for him — one where he could do whatever he pleased. He built himself a city without barriers. And as he let his mind wander, he allowed every experience to roll off him like water. He accepted each revelation, pondered its implications, and let it fizzle into nothingness.
Time had taught him more medical terminology, but he still wasn’t as well-versed as Rose. It took him what he assumed to be two days to piece together what happened. His old brain injury had burst. The scar tissue folded to his skyrocketing blood pressure. In some ways, he was lucky. He’d already faced these problems before; he knew what to expect. At the same time, he felt a simmering sense of frustration. He resented retreading a learning curve he’d already climbed.
Eventually, as outside intrusions became more frequent, he braced himself for reality.
On December 9, 2016, he was forcibly pulled back to reality. For the second time in his life, he found a tube shoved down his throat and a vaguely disinterested doctor hovering above him. This time, he was able to block the blinding overhead light. When asked if he understood what happened to him, he nodded.
Thursday, 13 April 2017
A little over four months later, Dave found himself in an entirely new city.
Rebuilding what he’d lost was surprisingly slow. He spent two months doing pro bono work and embedding himself in the local community. He rearranged his finances around a world without exorbitantly expensive drugs.
One warm spring night, when Rose was busy with her detox program, Dave found himself at Roxanne’s, a now-defunct club a handful of blocks away from his new home. That night, he felt more welcome than he ever had before. Nobody seemed bothered by his presence. Around midnight, as he idled by one of the speakers, a stranger approached him.
She was roughly his age and downright eye-catching. Her black hair was pulled into a loose bun, and she let it down as she sat beside him. She introduced herself as June. Apparently, her group had mostly scattered throughout the night. Some had gone home; others were busy having sex in the club’s private rooms.
“I’m bored,” she mused, hands casually folded behind her head, “I was sort of hoping to get laid tonight, honestly. No dice so far. So, what about you? What’s your name?”
“Dave,” he responded with a surprising sense of confidence. Then, when a surge of uncertainty wrapped around his mind, he backed down. He offered an honest apology: “‘M sorry. I just… Brain’s not working too hot lately. Gimme… Uh… I need a minute to think.”
June nodded. She smiled. “Take as long as you need. There’s nobody else worth talking to in this place.” She idly popped open her bottle of booze and tilted it towards Dave. Judging by the smell, it was some sort of fruity wine cooler. When he refused, she didn’t ask for details. And when Dave finally spoke, she listened.
“Lots of people here, y’know. ‘M sure you could find someone. Someone better than me.”
“Yeah,” June drew out the vowel and crossed her legs. “But you’re cute, and I’ve been here for three hours.” She clicked her tongue and smirked. Her breath smelled like sour apple liquor and peppermint candies.
For a moment, Dave’s brows furrowed. He wanted to ask why anyone — least of all a woman he’d spent half the night watching from afar — would want him. He wanted to know what she saw in him. “You’re joking, right?” He paused. He rubbed his thumbs against his temples as his words knocked around in his head. “I don’t…” he pressed his lips together. “Why?”
“Why what?” A bemused smile pulled at June’s lips as she downed more of her drink. “You’ve been staring at me all night, and I’ve been checking you out. I don’t see a problem here.”
“Well, for starters” — Dave began.
June cut him off with a snort of laughter. She pointed to the thin blue, pink, and white ribbon tied around the left handlebar of Dave’s wheelchair. “I am, too, if that’s the problem.” After a moment of thought, she added another statement: “If I misread the situation, that’s fine, too.”
With his nerves soothed, Dave relaxed. He responded with a small smirk. Leaning forward required more conscious balancing than before, but it was still perfectly doable. He let his elbows rest against his knees and pushed towards June. “No, you’re right. I’m just not used to… uh… I don’t often get hit on.”
“Well, why not?” June’s buck-toothed smile brightened the already vibrant club beyond measure and wrapped around Dave’s heart like a warm hug. “You’re cute, dude! People just don’t know what they’re missing.”
For the first time in months — perhaps even years — Dave cracked a genuine, sober smile. He let his guard down and let June lead the night. For once, it seemed like everything might work in his favor.
Tuesday, 25 January 2022
Dave awakes on the sofa. He’s eased into reality by the patter of rain against the windows and an appetizing aroma that he can’t quite place. There’s a hand on his shoulder and a familiar, slightly gravelly voice buzzing in his ear.
“So much for being awake enough to help with breakfast, jackass.” The harsh words are underpinned by a heaping helping of playfulness. “It’s nice to see some fresh food in your fridge, though. Keep doing that.”
A plate of fluffy scrambled eggs is set on the coffee table. Bits of spring onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms are distributed throughout the fragrant mix.
“You’re starting to eat like an adult, Strider,” Karkat goads. “I figured I’d fix you an adult meal. It’s a twist on Baba’s usual breakfast.”
“And that’d be your pops, right?” The last few scraps of mental fog fall away as Dave shoves himself into a sitting position. He tolerates the slight twinge along his right thigh as he reaches for his meal, and the discomfort is quickly forgotten once he takes a bite.
It’s like nothing he’s ever had before. There are spices he can’t name and tastes he can only recall from the Indian restaurant. The delicate flavor of scrambled eggs mixes with an almost mathematical blend of savory, sweet, and heat.
His surprise must have shown on his face; Karkat is quick to comment. “He may not have been the best dad, but he’s a damned good chef.” He smiles, and the expression etches itself into Dave’s mind as his inner peace’s magnetic north.
Dave finds himself absorbing every detail of this moment and branding it against his soul. And all too soon, he finds himself holding back his disappointment as the moment fades and reality sets in. He buries his feelings beneath his usual mask of disinterest as he continues chipping away at his breakfast. “I’m pretty booked with appointments today.”
“Clients?” Karkat, too, suddenly seems more subdued.
Dave’s inner pessimist writes it off as lingering anxiety. His pragmatic side, meanwhile, pushes the discussion onward. “Doctors. Medical check-ins.” When he notices the worry on Karkat’s face, he’s quick to add clarification: “It’s all routine, dude. Don’t freak. I’m on a pretty regular cycle for all of this. I’m basically a valued customer at most local medical offices.”
To Dave’s relief, his joke lands. That irresistible smile returns to Karkat’s face. “I should probably get home, too. I need to figure out how to juggle my new budget.” After a few seconds, his smile turns to a smirk. “You do realize you’re wearing my fucking sweatshirt, right?”
“Hm?” Slowly, Dave notices a lack of pressure against his shoulders. Most of his sweatshirts are too tight at the top and too loose at the bottom. What he’s wearing now is comfortably oversized. When he looks down, he finds himself staring at a Cuttlefish Cuties logo. “Shit. I don’t even like this band.”
“Well, then, give me back my sweatshirt, jerkass.”
For a moment, Dave thinks about complying. Then, he breathes in. An aromatic mix of cinnamon, spearmint, and pine oil fills his nose. It’s a unique scent that’s grown increasingly familiar over the past few weeks; it’s Karkat’s scent. And it’s embedded in every fiber of his sweatshirt. The realization prompts Dave to reverse course. “Nah, actually, I’ll keep it out of spite. Just so you can’t advertise this shit-ass band.”
“Of course,” Karkat rolls his eyes. “What a shame. I’ll just steal your godsawful Cuttle Cannibals shirt, then.”
“Go ahead!” Though he plays it off as a joke, complete with a haughty wave of his hand, Dave means what he says. Aside from the fact that he already owns too many shirts, he’s always been fond of sharing his clothes with the people he loves. In his eyes, it’s an understated act of affection, an exchange of personal tastes and ideals. And he feels no qualms handing yet another part of himself to Karkat.
Notes:
I’ll work eventually （￣︶￣）↗ If you have any ideas for these idiots, let me know! (My schedule is so FUCKED. Help meeeee. And statistically speaking, there won't be an update Thursday.)
Chapter 31: In Factories Far Away
Summary:
Chapter title from Gorillaz's “Rhinestone Eyes”.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sunday, 30 January 2022
Apparently, Bolton’s was the only halfway decent bar located a convenient distance from both Sollux and Karkat’s residences. At the very least, it was the only one that didn’t serve shit beer and had halfway decent food. So, after a few weeks of back-and-forth bickering, the pair reluctantly agreed to relocate the event to Karkat’s apartment until further notice. (Or, more specifically, until Bolton’s reopens.)
Tonight, with its gentle breeze and unseasonably pleasant warmth, Karkat leaves the balcony door open. He brings out the assortment of booze Dave gifted him earlier — ostensibly because he was “cleaning out the pantry” — and pours himself a bottle of Romulus Brew. According to the label, it’s some sort of high-end reserve cider.
The aroma is hoppy and sweet. The taste is similar, albeit with a hint of sourness and cinnamon. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a watered down Fireball, and Karkat finds himself spending more time than is really necessary on deciding whether or not he likes it. Ultimately, he figures that it’s good enough to finish.
Sollux, meanwhile, props his feet on the bar and tilts his stool back. Unlike Karkat, he’s opted for his usual, a bottle of cheap Carapacian beer.
Karkat reacts by slapping his friend’s feet. “I’m not dealing with you if you fall over and crack your head open, you stupid bastard.”
To this, Sollux responds with a bratty whine. Nonetheless, he complies. He downs a sizable gulp of his drink as he drops the stool back onto four legs. “So… You and Dave are, like, official?”
“Maybe?” Admittedly, he’s yet to fully consider the topic.
On one hand, he’s certainly been on a date with Dave. He’s also been on dates with countless other people, and most of them went nowhere. He’s always considered two dates to be the “official” starting point; the first is just a trial run.
And in his usual way, Sollux manages to inadvertently find and needle that confusion with pinpoint accuracy. “Well, KK, do you want to be dating him?”
“I mean…” Karkat downs another massive gulp of his cider. In larger doses, the cinnamon is borderline overwhelming. “Sure, I’d like to be dating the guy, but…”
“But?” Sollux raises his brows.
“Well, first of all, he’s out of my fucking league.”
“Debatable.” Tan fingers run through barely brushed dark brown hair. When Sollux smirks, he reveals his oddly pointed canines. “Sure, he’s hot, but we’ve gotta point to the elephant in the damned room, KK.”
Karkat opens his mouth to respond. He wants to hit back and refute Sollux’s claim. But there’s enough of a kernel of truth for him to fall silent, instead.
“Just so we’re all on the same page, I’ve hung out with the guy a few times. Without you.” Sollux holds his bottle up and studies how the light filters through its contents. He bears a close and laughable resemblance to a fine wine connoisseur. “He’s cool, but…”
“But?”
“KK,” Sollux sets aside his beer and folds his arms across his chest. He leans in until Karkat can smell the malty notes of Carapacian that permeate his breaths. “I ask this because I know how fucking crushed you get when a relationship goes wrong: Did he tell you why he broke up with June?”
Karkat’s attempt to emulate an ounce of Dave’s stoicism goes badly. His right brow twitches; his lips curl into a skeptical frown. Finally, he breaks. “I assumed it was the other way around,” he admits.
“Nope. He dumped her. And June whined to me for months about it because you were doing study abroad in France.”
“Gods forbid I ever take a fucking vacation from you freaks.”
A snort of laughter precedes Sollux’s conclusion. His attitude is less severe, but traces of cautionary tension still cling to his words. “She wanted it to keep going. She was going to introduce him when you got back.”
Vaguely, in the dustiest reaches of his mind, Karkat remembers — or, perhaps, he thinks he remembers — the few texts June sent him during that four-month period. He recalls discussions of an enigmatic boyfriend — an “artiste”, as June put it — and the dictionary definition of a whirlwind romance.
“I don’t know all the specifics,” concedes Sollux, “but it was bad. He crashed the fuck out, dude.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he had this entire ego breakdown. June called me at midnight, bawling like a fucking toddler. I didn’t understand half of what she said, but it sounded like some sort of depressive spiral. So…” Sollux shrugs. “I dunno, man, just watch out for it.”
“Yeah, I will,” Karkat mumbles.
A small hole appears in the otherwise ecstatic haze that’s embraced his mind over the past few weeks. Downing more cider fails to fill it.
Tuesday, 1 February 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and June:
Saturday, 5 February 2022
Over the next four days, Karkat forcibly suffocates the seed of doubt Sollux (and to a lesser extent, June) had planted in his mind. He reassures it away, handily dismissing it as little more than a worried friend’s concerns. By the time he next meets Dave, he’s largely forgotten about the discussion. Instead of worrying about the hypotheticals, he does what he always does: He soaks in every ounce of bliss he can.
They convene at the raceway convention center. Apparently, it’s hosting a one-day vinyl record swap. Just as before, the pair is waved into a designated parking spot. But this time, the interior is not filled with artisans and crafts. Instead, it’s overflowing with row after row of old records. The air is thick with the musty smell of old cardboard underpinned by heat-pressed plastic wraps. Being just 10:00 a.m., the crowd has yet to reach its peak. There’s a sizable throng, but it’s far from unmanageable.
Dave, clad in a black pullover sweater and old jeans, scans the sea of plastic milk crates and banner-sized signs. He folds his arms atop the sizable white bin in his lap and knocks his knuckles against the side. It’s easy to see the wheels in his head turning; he studies every booth like a vulture hovering above its prey.
And Karkat finds himself in over his head. He buries his hands in his pockets and scuffs the toe of his shoe against the dirtied tile floor. Unlike Dave, he knows nothing about collecting albums; he’s never even touched one. FOMO drove him to agree to this outing, and he feels like it may have driven him into a corner. Still, he tries to learn more. After a solid half minute of silence, he clears his throat.
Dave startles. “Shit. Sorry. I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Where to try first.” After flipping the basket upright, Dave moves towards the far left side of the room.
Judging by the logos on the signs, these vendors specialize in metal bands. Tangled, thorn-like letters spread across black or gray banners. Most of the sellers are clad in spikes, leather, denim, or a combination of all three.
Whereas Karkat would hesitate to ask if he can touch an entire crate of merchandise, Dave does so without thinking. Most of the vendors even lift the crates down for him. When they’re too busy, Dave does it himself. He flips through selections with a mix of speed and precision. When he sees something he likes, he keeps one hand on the album and uses the other to check his phone. Interestingly, it takes him five tables to purchase a single album.
Once again, he seems to read Karkat’s mind. After nestling his new purchase in his box, Dave explains his reasoning: “Never buy the first thing you see. Unless it’s some sort of ultra-rare catch, you’ll probably find it cheaper somewhere else.” He shifts his position and readjusts his shaking right leg before propelling himself down the aisle of vendors. “‘Specially with shows that’re this big, you’ll find something else.”
“And if it gets sold?”
“Then it gets sold,” Dave shrugs. “You’ll find it again.” He plants the pads of his palms against the wheels of his chair to stop. With a few deft motions, he turns left and chats with the vendor. He rolls up his sleeves, and his tattoos shift as he lifts the box of albums to the floor. Again, he repeats the process. When an album grabs his attention, he unlocks his phone. A quick search on some unknown app pulls up a pricing chart, and Dave works from there. His left foot taps intermittently as he negotiates. By the end of the deal, he’s saved fifteen dollars, and he replaces the box before leaving. “Haggling’s the second rule ‘round here,” he explains.
“I wouldn’t know,” Karkat admits. “I don’t even know what you’d be looking for.”
“Older shit, lesser known shit, and strange shit.” After a decently hefty forward push, Dave counts each item off on the fingers of his left hand. When he bounces over a covered extension cord, he instinctually shifts his left arm across the top of the box in his lap. “I use most of these for ripping samples. Take a few seconds of music and rearrange it. Clone it or stick it with other noises, and you have yourself a song.”
Karkat nods, but he doesn’t really understand what Dave has said. Not that such a fact has ever stopped either party.
After purchasing another album, Dave slips to the edge of the aisle. He sets the bin in his lap on the ground and stretches his arms across his chest. “I guess it’s a little like trading cards,” he muses. “You want a balance of old and new, and putting those parts together makes a team. Or however it works.”
“I guess?” In some ways, the analogy only confuses Karkat further. But he doesn’t say as much. “Honestly, it seems like our music tastes are on polar fucking ends of the spectrum.”
“Yeah, probably.” A small smile flashes across Dave’s face. “Don’t worry ‘bout it too much. I like a bit of everything, but” — he picks up his bin and places it on his lap — “that reminds me. I figure it’s been long enough to ask it. What’s up with your hearing, anyhow?”
“Prepare to be wildly disappointed, Strider. I was just born like this. I never had much hearing on my right side.” As if to demonstrate, Karkat snaps the fingers of his right hand. The sound dully thrums against his left ear, but it’s muffled and faint. “It’s a lot less interesting than your story.”
“Meh,” Dave snickers, “I’d call it more ‘fucked up’ than ‘interesting’.” Upon noticing a large group approaching, Dave pushes to the far side of the aisle and stays there until they pass. His fingers tap a mindless beat against his plastic bin as he waits.
Again, Karkat falls into a rhythm. He plods behind Dave, occasionally offering help to reach taller displays, and watches. He doesn’t understand much of what’s happening, but he gets some impromptu lessons as the day progresses. He learns that records typically get graded by quality. He learns that newer records have a different smell than older ones. Cardboard sleeves degrade and leave dust on unprotected discs. The wrong type of plastic covers can cause static buildup. None of it seems entirely relevant until lunch, when Dave insists on ordering from the same greasy sandwich vendor.
“Looks like Golgotha Tracks is looking for a new permanent cashier and stocker,” he says as he drops a glistening paper bag at the center of a small table. “It’s downtown, run by Jake. Not sure if you’ve ever been there.”
“I’ve never even touched a vinyl record until today.” Karkat’s brows furrow. He taps his fingers against the edge of the table as Dave distributes lunch. “So, no, I’ve never been.”
“Nice guy. Older. Fifties, probably. He had a disastrous fling with my dad at some point, apparently?” The fact is, apparently, little more than an aside to Dave. He drops the information without comment and continues speaking without pause. “Pay’s halfway decent, and he ain’t too picky about hires. Whatever you don’t know, he’ll teach you.”
“Good to know.” Truthfully, part of Karkat doesn’t want the job. He wants to spend more time with Dave. But this is an issue his pragmatism won’t fold on. “Do I apply online?”
“No job post yet. If you want it, I’ll tell him ‘bout you. You’re sure to get it.” Dave’s expression is relaxed. A vague smile plays at the edges of his lips, though an outside observer would see his usual mask of indifference. “Good timing, too.”
“You and June are the worst communicators,” Karkat grumbles.
Dave smirks. “Yeah, well…” He peels the glossy wrapper off a cup of honey mustard and smothers an onion ring in the dip, wiggling it around as he continues, “I’m heading back out for a bit. Two weeks ‘round Alexandria.” There’s a satisfying crunch as he bites into the fried side. “I’m helping with some large-scale editing work. Maybe some reshoots. Not too sure of the details yet, but I leave Wednesday.”
“Oh.” Karkat does his best to mask how his heart drops to the pit of his stomach, but he’s sure it still shows on his face. He’s never been good at hiding his disappointment. “Do you need someone to go with you?”
“Nah.” A dismissive wave and a casual smile reaffirm Dave’s response. “I’m fine. And I’m hoping to have my car fixed up by then, so I’ll have the old rig back.”
Desperate for another topic, Karkat jumps on the first offramp he sees. “It’s that close to finished?”
And Dave takes the bait. “The car? Yeah. Been working on it for weeks. Just dropped it off at the body shop Wednesday, and the work there’s pretty minor. I took off all the damaged shit for ‘em.” His brows furrow; his tone softens. “Don’t worry, Kat. I’ll text you. ‘Sides, I’m going a bit nuts alone in the house. This’ll be a nice vacation.”
“Let me move in with you,” is what Karkat wants to say.
“Is it a vacation if you’re working, shit-for-brains?” is what he says instead.
Dave responds with a pensive hum. “Probably not, but it’s close enough.” A dry laugh — a sound that wraps around Karkat’s mind and squeezes like a comforting embrace — punctuates the statement. After a few minutes of silence, during which Dave eagerly devours the rest of his sandwich, he slaps the top of his half-filled bin of records. “You wanna watch this thing? I’ve gotta empty the tank before we keep going.”
“Fascinating euphemism there,” Karkat smirks.
He consciously clings to every moment. He takes in the way Dave’s eyes light up when he likes a joke. He inhales the smell of his cologne. Two weeks may not be long, but Karkat has always been a clingy person.
“Yeah, well…” A click. A wince. After a brief pause, Dave backs away from the table. He shoves himself around, shifting his position considerably, before offering a lazy salute. “Keep my records company while I’m gone. Read a book to ‘em, maybe?”
A snort of laughter slips through the cracks in Karkat’s rising anxiety. “Yeah,” he jests, “I’ll read them some delightful smut.”
Dave counters with a simple, crude gesture before merging into the crowd.
And Karkat, now alone, begins to stew in a mix of doubt and disappointment. He turns to his most reliable distraction — mobile match-four games, to be precise — until Dave returns half an hour later. Only then does the cloud around his heart clear.
He spends the next few hours in a state of rosy bliss, floating from one table to the next with Dave. He takes mental notes of Dave’s commentary. He etches everything he can into his memory and reassures himself that two weeks is a mere fourteen days. He suffocates the needling, cynical voice at the back of his head — the one that goads him for being so obsessive — and manages to hold it at bay. And that success lasts until Dave drops him at his apartment.
The minute Dave leaves, the gaping pit of doubt reappears.
Notes:
girlies (and boyos) help me! i'm being forced to work! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!
update schedule will be a bit wonky for a week or two.
TRANSLATIONS
- JE NE PEUX RIEN FAIRE AVEC VOUS, BANDE D’IDIOTS. = I can't do anything around you idiots. (French)
- RAPPELLE-MOI POURQUOI JE M’EMBÊTE AVEC TOI. = Remind me again why I bother with you. (French)
- 我也会说中文 / Wǒ yě huì shuō zhōngwén. = I also speak Chinese. (Mandarin)
- ¿HAS OLVIDADO CÓMO SE HABLA INGLÉS, JACKASS? = Have you forgotten how to speak English, jackass? (Spanish)
Chapter 32: One More Ladle of Wine
Summary:
Chapter lyrics from “Farewell (Songbie/送别)”, the Chinese version of a song better known as “Home, Sweet Home” or “Dreaming of Home and Mother”. If the tune sounds familiar, congratulations on also being a fine connoisseur of Japanese World War II films; it's in a lot of those. Since it's an old song, the version linked is different from the one on the playlist. The lyric translations also differ. I went with the one on Wikipedia.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Thursday, 10 February 2022
Pesterchum chat between Dave, Jade, June, Kanaya, Sollux, Tavros, and Terezi
GROUP CHAT [SCHEDULING IS RAWDOGGING ME (NEGATIVE)] STARTED
DAVE: kat’s been acting all mopey and shit and i couldn’t figure out why.
DAVE: so i just checked my calendar and i’m a fucking idiot.
DAVE: i’m stuck in alexandria and my boyfriend’s in new alternia hills and valentine’s day is in 4 fucking days.
DAVE: why does life always rawdog me at the worst possible moments?
JUNE: sorry about your poorly timed ass fucking, dude. 😔
JUNE: but for like clarification… you’re asking for dating advice, right? because i’m probably not the guy to give it to you, seeing as our relationship flopped after a month.
JUNE: that is my relationship with you. i never dated karkat. he’s like my pissy little brother. that’d be weird and kinda incestuous. 😬
DAVE: ok so if you can’t help me then i guess i’ll just
USER turntechGodhead GRANTED ADMIN PRIVILEGES TO USER ectoBiologist
USER ectoBiologist ADDED USER gardenGnostic TO THE CHAT
USER ectoBiologist ADDED USER adiosToreador TO THE CHAT
USER ectoBiologist ADDED USER twinArmageddons TO THE CHAT
DAVE: oh hell nah not him.
DAVE: sorry dude.
USER turntechGodhead REMOVED USER twinArmageddons FROM THE CHAT
JUNE: sheesh. what happened between you two? i thought you guys were best buds or some thing of that nature.
DAVE: oh we are.
DAVE: i just don’t want him all up in my grill about this shit. 🤷♂️
JUNE: ok. that’s fair.
JADE: what’s happening here? 🥴
USER ectoBiologist ADDED USER grimAuxiliatrix TO THE CHAT
DAVE: i’d say scroll up gamer but pesterchum still hasn’t added backreading.
DAVE: honestly i think the devs of this program abandoned it at least a decade ago. we’re just stubbornly clinging to it like the whiny nostalgia-addicted babies we are.
DAVE: we are not immune to the alluring call of the past. 😔
JADE: oh, geeze! 😖
JADE: if we’re giving dave romantic advice, don’t add kanaya! (no offense.)
KANAYA: I Think I Still Take Mild Offense To That Statement, But I Also Cannot Fully Deny That It Is Rather Truthful.
JUNE: shit! you’re right. 😓
KANAYA: *However*, I Would Like To Defend Myself As A “Karkat Expert”, So To Speak.
KANAYA: And You Have Already Kicked Out The Second Best Expert In That Field.
KANAYA: That Person Namely And Unfortunately Being Sollux.
TAVROS: i WOULD ALSO LIKE TO KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE, bECAUSE I HAVE NO CLUE WHY I’VE BEEN DRAGGED INTO THIS.
TAVROS: aND I DON’T REALLY KNOW DAVE THAT WELL, SO… 😕
USER adiosToreador HAS LEFT THE CHAT
USER turntechGodhead ADDED USER adiosToreador TO THE CHAT
DAVE: get your ass back in here nerd.
DAVE: does disability solidarity mean *nothing* to you? 🥺
DAVE: c’mon man help a guy out.
DAVE: and speed the fuck up june we don’t have all night. i think we’ve added enough people to this festival of stupid.
JUNE: hold on! one more person!
JADE: 👀🍿
USER ectoBiologist ADDED USER gallowsCalibrator TO THE CHAT
JUNE: ok. so, tl;dr: dumbass over here is out of town for valentine’s day and needs advice. everyone here knows karkat pretty well, so let’s go round robin style and help my best bro out.
TEREZI: WHAT THE FUCK IS “ROUND ROBIN” STYLE? IS IT SOME SORT OF STUPID DANCE? IS THAT WHAT THE KIDS ARE INTO THESE DAYS?
TAVROS: “tHE KIDS?” tZ, wE’RE ALL, uH, bETWEEN THE AGES OF 25 AND 28. wE’RE ALL “THE KIDS” HERE…
TEREZI: SILENCE! ROYALTY IS SPEAKING! 😤
TEREZI: FROM WHAT I’M SNIFFING OUT HERE, YOU’VE BACKED YOURSELF INTO A WEIRD-ASS LITTLE CORNER, COOLKID. KARKAT’S A SAPPY GUY. HE’S PROBABLY LAMENTING THE LOSS OF HIS OPPORTUNITY TO LIVE OUT ONE OF HIS SHITTY ROMANCE MOVIES.
JADE: oh! like 10 things i hate about you? that one SUCKED.
JUNE: idk. i think the hottie and the nottie was worse.
JUNE: and titanic was too fucking LONG. there! i said it! 😡
KANAYA: Actually, I Really Rather Enjoyed Titanic. I Thought It Had A Decent Plot And Delightful Visuals.
KANAYA: At The Very Least, The Historical Setting Was Quite Immersive.
KANAYA: And Do Not Let Karkat Hear You Dissing That Movie. He Will Have Your Head On A Platter For Such An Infraction.
TEREZI: WHAT THE FUCK WERE WE TALKING ABOUT IN THE FIRST PLACE?
DAVE: HELLO MORONS! dating advice? you got any? 📣
DAVE: or has this entirely devolved into the most asinine movie club ever? only one of these movies is any good. the rest are sludge.
DAVE: june if i hear you diss james cameron again i’ll rip your face off myself. we’ve discussed this.
TEREZI: YEAH, SO THE ONLY SOLUTION I SEE HERE IS A DEATH MATCH FOR HIS AFFECTION. YOU WANT ME TO BRING THE WEAPONS? I’LL GRAB THEM FROM THE EVIDENCE LOCKERS. 😁
JADE: i’m not quite sure that’s what dave was looking for, tz. 🤭
JUNE: idc if it’s not what he was *looking for*, it sounds kinda fun. 🤷♀️
JUNE: i mean…
JUNE: i’d pay to watch a death match between karkat and dave. 🍿
KANAYA: I Would Also Pay For Such A Thing, But Ideally *Not* With Real Weapons.
KANAYA: Anyhow, Why Not Have A Virtual Date?
JADE: oh! good answer, good answer! 👏👏👏
JUNE: yeah, that’s a good one, kanaya! 👍
TEREZI: N-NO DEATH MATCH? 🥺
KANAYA: Sorry, Dear, Not Today. 😔
TEREZI: BOOOOOOORING! 😪
DAVE: so is this family feud? am i steve fucking harvey now?
DAVE: ok so problematic elements of that aside i guess it’s my job to turn around and point to the board. and i gotta get my most slack-jawed look of shock on too. let’s go kids. death match already got you a big fat x so let’s see how good this one is and it’s 🫵
DAVE: well it’s on the fucking board but it ain’t number one. any other bright ideas fuckers?
USER gallowsCalibrator HAS LEFT THE CHAT
DAVE: welp disability solidarity is dead! 😒
JUNE: idk, dave, that seems like a pretty good idea.
JUNE: i mean. you’re a camera guy. you can make yourself look super good.
JUNE: not that you don’t already look good btw.
DAVE: well thanks for the clarification there pal. 😩
TAVROS: uH… iF I MAY…?
TAVROS: hE’S JUST A FEW HOURS AWAY FROM YOU, aND YOU COULD PROBABLY AFFORD TO COVER HIS TRAIN TICKET. wHY NOT JUST INVITE HIM UP THERE FOR A NIGHT?
DAVE: oh! 😮
JUNE: ok! well, that’s better than the other ideas. case closed. great job, team!
DAVE: yup that’s a problem solved. chat with you losers later.
USER turntechGodhead HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Friday, 11 February 2022
Text message chain between Karkat Vantas and Dave Strider:
Sunday, 13 February 2022
Pesterchum chat between Karkat and Kanaya:
carcinoGeneticist [KARKAT] BEGAN PESTERING grimAuxiliatrix [KANAYA] AT 13:02
KARKAT: ALL OF MY CLOTHES MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A CONFUSED ETHICS PROFESSOR JUST EXTRICATED HIMSELF FROM THE DISGUSTING, CHEAP MAW OF THE WORLD’S FRUMPIEST DEPARTMENT STORE.
KARKAT: HELP ME. 😭
KANAYA: Well, First Of All, You Must Be Quite Desperate To Be Using An Emoji.
KARKAT: DON’T RUB IT IN.
KANAYA: Hm. 🤔
KANAYA: Anyhow, I Thought We Agreed That I Was Not To Give You — Nor Anyone Else For That Matter — Relationship Advice. I Am Still Not Even Sure Of How To Properly Handle *My* Predicament With Rose. 🤷♀️
KANAYA: We Certainly *Seem* To Be Romantically Inclined, But She Sends Such Frustratingly Mixed Signals. Perhaps It Is A Genetic Trait. Both Twins Are Bad At Establishing Romantic Relationships.
KANAYA: And Have You Ever Noticed That We Can Only Put Emojis At The End Of Our Messages? It Is As If Someone Does Not Like When Monotype Font Faces Do Not Perfectly Align. 🤔
KARKAT: NONE OF THAT IS RELEVANT, EXCEPT FOR THE SECOND MESSAGE.
KARKAT: AND THIS ISN’T “DATING ADVICE”. IT’S *FASHION* ADVICE, WHICH EVERYONE AND THEIR DEAD ANCESTORS AGREES THAT YOU HANDLE QUITE WELL. I’M SURE I CAN SPEAK FOR ROSE WHEN I SAY THAT YOU “handle your wardrobe with such remarkable finesse.”
KARKAT: SO, ARE YOU GOING TO HELP OR NOT?
KANAYA: That Was Quite An Accurate Imitation Of Rose!
KANAYA: And Of Course, I Will Help.
KARKAT: DAVE MOCKINGLY IMITATES HIS SISTER ALL THE FUCKING TIME.
KANAYA: 😏
KARKAT: DON’T YOU MAKE THAT FUCKING FACE AT ME.
KARKAT: WHATEVER. HERE’S WHAT I’VE GOT. CLASSIC LOOK, ALL BLACK SUIT, RED TIE.
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_a.jpeg
KANAYA: Hello, Agent 47. Are You Ready For Your Next Mission?
KARKAT: FOR FUCK’S SAKE, KANAYA, YOU CAN JUST SAY, “That Does Not Look Good On You.” YOU DON’T NEED TO ROAST ME.
KARKAT: REMOVING THAT OPTION FROM THE ROTATION.
KARKAT: BLACK PANTS, RED SUIT, BLACK BOW TIE?
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_b.jpeg
KANAYA: Hm… 🤔
KANAYA: This One Is Not Terrible. It Needs Something More, Though.
KARKAT: WHAT IF I USED NAVY PANTS?
KANAYA: … It’s Giving Spider-Man. 👀
KARKAT: YOU COULD BE A LITTLE GENTLER WITH YOUR CRITIQUES. 😩
KARKAT: FINE. BLACK SUIT, BLACK PANTS, SILVER TIE?
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_c.jpeg
KANAYA: No.
KARKAT: THAT’S IT? “No”?
KANAYA: Correct.
KARKAT: 😤
KARKAT: I’M ASSUMING THAT MEANS SOMETHING ALONG THE LINES OF, “THIS OUTFIT IS AN AFFRONT TO ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL.”
KANAYA: I Would Not Go That Far. It Is A Fine Outfit. Just Not On You, Specifically.
KARKAT: HOW ABOUT GRAY SUIT COMBO, RED TIE?
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_d.jpeg
KANAYA: Congratulations On Joining The Mafia!
KARKAT: FUCK!
KARKAT: YOU’RE KILLING ME, KANAYA.
KARKAT: LOOK ME IN THE FUCKING EYES. DO YOU SEE HOW BLOODSHOT THEY ARE? I’M ON MY DEATHBED RIGHT NOW.
KARKAT: FINE. WHATEVER! I CAN FIND SOMETHING!
KARKAT: BLUE COMBO, RED TIE?
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_e.jpeg
KANAYA: Good Morning, Phoenix Wright. Am I To Expect Dave Is Dressing As Miles Edgeworth?
KARKAT: GOLD COMBO?
KANAYA: No. Do Not Even Send A Photo. That Is A Terrible Idea.
KARKAT: I’M RUNNING OUT OF OUTFITS, KANAYA.
KANAYA: Wait. Do You Have Any Vests?
KANAYA: Go Back To Option B.
KANAYA: Then Put On A Yellow, Cream, White, Or Silver Vest.
KARKAT: ALL I’VE GOT IS SILVER.
KANAYA: Then Do That, Karkat. 😒
USER carcinoGeneticist UPLOADED A FILE: outfit_f.jpeg
KANAYA: Yes! That Is Perfect! Use That Outfit! 👍
KARKAT: AWESOME. THANKS, KANAYA. REMIND ME LATER — AND IDEALLY *NOT* TOMORROW — AND I’LL HELP YOU SORT OUT WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU HAVE GOING ON WITH ROSE.
KARKAT: ACTUALLY…
KARKAT: ARE YOU FREE? WE CAN MEET FOR LUNCH AT BURGER BUNGALOW IN THIRTY MINUTES.
KANAYA: Say No More! 😘
grimAuxiliatrix [KANAYA] CEASED PESTERING carcinoGeneticist [KARKAT]
Notes:
Born to write fanfiction, forced to work. ಥ╭╮ಥ
Chapter 33: Under the Smile of a Saint
Summary:
Chapter title from Kris Kristofferson's “The Silver-Tongued Devil and I”.
Notes:
Chapter warnings for internalized ableism, (literal) arguing with oneself, and borderline alcohol abuse. I'm still working, but I'm POTENTIALLY BACK!? Maybe!? Unbeta-ed as usual, so lemme know if you see anything wonky.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 14 February 2022
For the past fifteen years, Dave Strider’s mind has been caught in a constant three-way tug-of-war. Years ago, Rose informed him that each of these “people” in his head could be distinct personalities. She alluded to yet another formally recognized “disorder”. Dave didn’t buy it then, and he doesn’t buy it now. He did, however, follow her advice to let each of those forces have its own space.
For the past twelve years, he’s let each of the entities grow. He’s acknowledged and named them, but he’s never fully embraced them. Instead, he’s recognized them as splinters of himself.
The first to emerge was promptly dubbed “Idiot”. Dave quickly recognized it as the person he once was. It is brash, self-absorbed, and largely despondent over just about everything. Most annoyingly of all, it is eternally fifteen years old. For the most part, this voice has faded. Time has taught Dave plenty of ways to bury this part of himself, and he’s more than happy to do so.
Ten years ago, the second of Dave’s projections emerged; he dubbed it “Ego”. This iteration is who he wants to be. It’s confidence personified. It is the mask he constantly hides behind, but it’s not his true self.
No, his “true self” began fourteen years ago, and it straddles the line between both realities. It is as confident as it is embarrassed to exist, and it is deeply, uncomfortably loud. It begs for attention at every turn, regardless of how often he smothers it to death. Unlike Idiot, it never seems to fade; it only changes. Over the years, the shame and discomfort has subsided. Now, it’s a decently mixed bag. But time has also taught Dave that showing any hint of weakness is a one-way ticket to rejection.
For the past five years, he’s juggled these three identities pretty well. At least, by his assessment, he’s doing fine. It’s been over two years since he last had another self-deprecating dream. So, it only figures that he’d have one now.
The setting is always the same. He finds himself in a familiar, sterile room. He’s back in Houston, trapped in the place where his life turned upside-down. It always begins the same way, too: He stands before a mirror and grapples with the person staring back.
Time has worn away the pain of reality. In some ways, he feels downright confused to see himself on two feet. In others, he feels envious. Years ago, a dream like this would send him into a weeks-long depressive spiral. Now, it summons little more than a momentary pang of regret.
“You look like shit,” says a younger version of himself, the Idiot. “Are you really ballsy enough to go on a date like that?” After walking into view, he scoffs and scuffs a dirtied red sneaker against the tile floor.
The Dave in the mirror speaks next, the Ego: “Fuck you, kid. You can’t even buy your own booze. Why should your opinion matter?”
And Dave, now trapped between both realities, takes a step away from the mirror. Reality takes hold. He lands ass-first in his wheelchair, and he stares at the roughly six-foot-tall man reflected before him. “You’re one to talk, jackass, you’ve still got a fully functional bladder.”
“And why would that matter?” The Ego has, quite annoyingly, suddenly gained a pair of obnoxious aviators. He lets them slide to the end of his nose as he laughs. “I’m still you, right?”
“Well,” says the Idiot, drawling out the vowel, “I think you are a pathetic loser” — he points to the real Dave before nodding at the Ego in the mirror — “and you are a douchebag.”
“All of us are douchebags, dipshit,” Dave snaps. “C’mon, can we at least pick some halfway decent insults?”
The Ego responds with a haughty tut. “Aren’t you deflecting, Dave? We all know this is about” — he doesn’t get to finish.
“KARKAT IS BEING PAID TO LIKE YOU,” shouts the Idiot. “What the fuck makes you think you have a shot with him?” His sneakers squeak as he closes in on Dave. “What would anyone find in you?”
Dave’s mouth runs dry.
The Ego, meanwhile, offers an indifferent hum. “We’ve still got our shining personality!”
“You’re not helping,” Dave snaps. “Both of you need to shut the fuck up and let me sleep. It’s been a long enough day as is.”
“Doing what?” jeers the Idiot. “Shitting yourself again?”
“I’ll break your stupid spine myself,” Dave reaches out to grab his younger self, only to find himself grasping at air. He falls face-first onto the tile floor, and a jolt of pain runs through his sternum. The sound of his own laugh scrapes like nails against a chalkboard as he rolls onto his back.
“Have you considered that we’re all you, Dave?” asks the Ego, his voice sounding uncomfortably close to Rose’s.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” is Dave’s sardonic reply. “I’ve never given that a moment of consideration. Not once! Not a single time in fifteen fucking years have I ever gone, ‘Wow! Isn’t it fucking stupid that I’m arguing with myself in a mental torment nexus?’ Of course I’ve thought of that.”
“Have you?” The Ego’s brows rise. He looks smug. He looks confident. He looks like everything Dave wants to see in himself, and it fills him with a searing sense of rage.
“Don’t bring me into this.” The Idiot raises his hands in the air and steps back. His voice cracks as he continues, eyes narrowed, “Just put on those rose-tinted shades and think ‘bout how great it was in Houston, huh?”
For once, all three Daves agree on something: “Houston fucking sucked.”
And as Dave hauls himself back into his wheelchair, he breathes a hoarse sigh. “Okay. You” — he points to the Idiot — “have been functionally dead for fifteen years. And you” — he points to the Ego — “are… You’re just downright annoying. Shut the fuck up.”
“Am I dead?” the Idiot goads, stepping closer to Dave. He smells like cheap alcohol, motor oil, and bad weed. “Or do you want me dead?”
“You’re not me,” Dave pushes. “You’ll never be me. You haven’t lived my life. At least the smug cock-sucker over there is the same age as me.”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” demands the Idiot.
When Dave turns to look at the mirror, he sees nothing more than his own reflection. “Of course,” he grumbles.
“Look, you’re just pissed that you fucked yourself up fifteen years ago.” The Idiot’s tone is as casual as it is intrinsically condescending. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he trots blithely about the room. “Now what? You’re old, bitter, and lonely. Just admit it.” He disappears for a second and reappears with his nose inches away from Dave’s. “You’re a loser.”
“And you’re fifteen years old,” Dave shoves his younger self backwards. “You don’t get to decide who I am.”
“But I still do,” goads the Idiot, now smirking from his seat atop the medical cabinet in the corner. “And I’ve won this one. Your alarm’s going off in three… two…”
The grating dinging of a phone mercifully drags Dave from his nightmare. He silences it before shoving himself into a sitting position and burying his face in his hands.
“It’s fine,” he mumbles to himself. It’s hollow reassurance, but it works long enough for him to make himself presentable. It carries him through his roughly two-hour morning routine and gets him into the cramped downtown office, and nine near-constinuous hours of work distract him until the end of the day.
When he’s done working, he returns to the hotel to prepare for his date. It takes him at least an hour of preening to convince himself that he looks halfway decent in a run-of-the-mill black suit. It takes him a solid half an hour to get the thoroughly exhausted muscles of his right hand to cooperate enough to tie his tie. (All while his mind rudely reminds him of Rose’s frequent, well-intentioned offers to purchase him a stock of pre-tied neckwear.) By the time he arrives at the venue, he’s two minutes late and about ready to run down the next person he sees. Finding a parking space and commuting to the restaurant adds another eight minutes. Thus far, his only comfort is that Karkat is, at least according to his text messages, running fifteen minutes late and rather insistent that he is perfectly happy walking the four-block journey from the train station.
It takes Dave an additional three minutes to find and persuade a (likely underpaid) waiter to help him into one of the surprisingly uncomfortable wooden chairs on the brick patio, after which he awkwardly tucks his wheelchair under the table. And all of that leaves him with exactly four minutes to try and regain a semblance of confidence.
Predictably, his efforts fail; he ends up compensating by ordering a drink with way too much alcohol and not enough filler.
He does, however, get a modest emotional boost when he sees Karkat. At the very least, he feels less awkward about sitting alone at an outdoor dining table in the middle of February.
Karkat’s characteristically rough and vaguely nasal voice rubs against Dave’s ears like a warm massage. “Sorry,” he grumbles as he drops his backpack by his seat, “I got stuck behind the slowest car possible.”
“Believe it or not, I was also running late, so,” Dave shrugs. When his drink arrives, he downs a decent gulp. The alcohol burns its way down his throat. Once that distraction fades, he uses the menu as his next social hiding spot. “I’ve heard this place is pretty good. Never tried it myself, though.”
“Yeah, well…” Karkat, too, picks up a menu. His eyes widen as he sees the prices. “Holy fuck, Strider. Can you ever just pick a cheap burger joint for a date? I’d like to be able to pick up the tab every now and then.”
The comment loosens Dave up enough to let out a snort of laughter. “I figured I should at least treat you for Valentine’s, y’know?” Both the former and the current versions of Dave cringe at the modesty in his voice. A familiar, nagging thought pesters him. “Shut up,” it says. “Stop acting like it will last.”
After another hefty gulp of alcohol, Dave adds to his comment. This time, his voice is slightly too loud for his liking; it cracks and rasps like an old record. “Should I have picked somewhere else?”
Even Karkat is mildly surprised by the sudden volume bump. His brows — thick and soft and ridiculously attractive — furrow. “You okay there? You’re acting jumpier than June after eating one of those stupid ghost pepper chips.”
“Perfectly fine,” Dave lies. He squeezes out a decently convincing laugh. The buzz from the heater, located about a yard away, is starting to rub against his already frayed nerves. The heat, meanwhile, has made his nose uncomfortably dry. He braces his elbows against the table as he leans forward and pushes the conversation ahead. “Anything happening back in New Alternia Hills?”
“Meh,” Karkat runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes — luciously dark brown and as captivating as a black hole — wander. “Not really. Sollux sprained his ankle trying to do a kickflip, if that counts for anything.”
This time, Dave’s laugh is genuine. The emotional tension is starting to unwind, but a knot of pain is forming between his shoulders. He leans back and subtly kneads the top of the backrest against the sore spot. For now, the discomfort subsides. “Who gave that stupid bastard a skateboard?” As soon as he’s said this, he pauses. “Vriska, right?”
“Vriska,” Karkat confirms. His smirk and the curve of his lips wrap around Dave’s mind and soothe out the frayed edges.
Slowly, the alcohol starts to set in. A pleasant warmth spreads to Dave’s fingertips; a vague numbness settles in his stomach. It’s enough of a boost to encourage him to drink more, even as his few remaining logical thoughts tell him to do otherwise.
And for a solid two and a half hours, it works.
The alcohol dulls Dave’s inhibitions enough to loosen his tongue. After consuming half his drink, he finds that it vaguely decreases his spasms. He feels bolder and more relaxed. He plays the part of the perfect host, swapping inconsequential stories and enjoying Karkat’s presence.
Everything is fine.
By the time Dave’s highball glass is empty, his entire body is delightfully numb. He’s not entirely inebriated, but he’s close.
“Hey…” Karkat knocks his knuckles against the table. “Are you sober enough to drive us back to the hotel?”
Dave freezes.
The cracks start to form. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hears Rose’s voice: “You can fall into the bottle just as easily as I.”
“Fuck,” he grumbles. “Forgot ‘bout that. Uh…”
This time, it’s Karkat’s turn to reassure Dave. He offers a soft smile and an even softer tone: “Don’t worry about it. We can just get a ride back.”
“Yeah,” Dave nods. He reaches for his glass and feels a vague sense of disappointment when he finds it empty. The base of his skull starts to ache. “I… actually might’ve had too much to drink,” he admits.
“Whatever sort of motor oil you were downing smelled pretty fucking strong,” Karkat concurs. There’s a comforting grin on his face, but there’s something lurking beneath it. Hints of concern are starting to tug at his brows. “As much as I hate to say it, I’ve really enjoyed tonight. At the very least, you hold your liquor better than your weed.”
Dave responds with a smugly raised brow. “I used to hold most of my drugs pretty damn well, thank you very much.” He instinctually reaches for the pushrims of his chair, and a vague sense of embarrassment rises up his throat when he finds his hands hovering over thin air. Dully, he realizes he doesn’t even remember what he ordered.
“Are you ready to leave?” Karkat’s honest question twists itself into something closer to an accusation in Dave’s mind.
The nagging voice at the back of his head returns: “Stop fucking up!” Then, a warm hand on his shoulder drags him back to reality, but reality is starting to spin.
“Shit, Dave, you really did drink too much.” Karkat withdraws his touch long enough to pull out his phone. He spends a few minutes tapping at the screen before offering a nonplussed shrug. “Happens to the best of us, dumbass. Wait here. I’ll track down our waiter and get the check.”
Even through the haze of booze, Dave has enough wherewithal to slide in a quip: “Ain’t exactly going anywhere,” he smirks, jabbing a thumb to his empty wheelchair.
Karkat laughs before standing and wandering off. He returns, as promised, two minutes later, check in hand.
Perhaps thanks to his seven-year, cocaine-fueled Playboy phase, signing a check is pure muscle memory. Dave pens his signature, scribbles out the final total, and pulls his debit card from his front pocket. When the page returns to him a few minutes later, he sticks both the it and his card in his wallet.
He beats down his insecurities long enough to ask Karkat to pull out his chair for him, after which he takes over. It’s all second nature. After fifteen years, he’s turned transfers into a fine art. The only problem is that he generally does them while sober or slightly tipsy. After maneuvering his wheelchair into the correct spot, he flexes his fingers. Leaning against the knuckles of a closed fist puts less strain on his wrists, but it comes with the trade-off of being less stable than a flattened palm. On the plus side, he’s eaten shit enough times to know when to abort an attempt. After a few tentative tries, he swings himself into place and follows Karkat to the front of the building.
Around now, another thought strikes Dave’s increasingly rattled mind. “Fuck! The parking meter.”
Karkat glimpses down, brows raised, before offering a thoughtful hum. “I think you might be a little too fucking slobbed out to think about that. Handle it later.” After glancing at his phone, he tugs at his backpack’s strap. “Our ride’s almost here, anyhow.”
Reluctantly, Dave agrees. He folds his arms across his chest and idly notes how his stomach is starting to churn; the acrid taste of bile keeps rubbing against the back of his throat. He recognizes the feeling. He’s getting close to puking. “Define ‘almost’?”
“The app says two minutes. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Dave lies.
The last thing he wants to do is admit that he drank himself stupid. The ache from before is growing stronger. Experience has taught him well; he’ll have a migraine by the end of the night. He stretches the fingers of his right hand and tentatively reaches for his left. As expected, his muscles tense and twitch.
When the maroon SUV pulls up, the cracks widen.
Somehow, Dave manages to haul his increasingly and unpleasantly sober self into the back seat. He then spends the next eight minutes strip mining the last bits of his drunken confidence. He forces himself to maintain a vaguely engaging conversation, but he pays no attention to what’s being said.
He loses track of specifics.
All he knows is that the thoroughly embarrassing commute from the restaurant to the hotel is the closest he’s come to puking all over himself in years.
As soon as he crosses into his hotel room, he snags the trash can and vomits.
Notes:
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Chapter 34: Some Dance to Forget
Summary:
Chapter lyrics from Eagles' “Hotel California”. (I have old people music tastes, apparently.)
Notes:
Chapter warnings continue from the last chapter, so internalized ableism and Strider Suffering™.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 14 February 2022
Karkat has (almost) always been the friend group’s designated wrangler of the wasted. He generally doesn’t drink that much, after all. Time has also mellowed his usual bite. If this happened ten years ago, he’d immediately rip into Dave for being an idiot. Now, he feels nothing more than resigned confusion.
As far as he’s concerned, the date went fine. He enjoyed himself and the inconsequential crap they discussed. Maybe he didn’t learn anything new about Dave, but it’s unrealistic to expect he’ll crack open a new personal bombshell with every discussion.
Close listening did, however, reveal some smaller facts. Dave has apparently started tinkering with an adaptive drum kit, ending a nearly fifteen-year hiatus from the instrument. He likes apple and orange juice but despises passionfruit and grapefruit juice. These may not be earth-shattering revelations, but they’re some of the countless pieces that fit together to form Dave Strider.
Karkat hopes that Dave learned some things about him, too, but he knows it’s unlikely. Anything that would’ve been retained will likely be washed away by the booze.
Now, as he sits on the carpeted floor outside of a ritzy hotel suite’s bathroom, he rubs the twill fabric of his suit jacket’s pocket flap between his fingers. He listens to the muffled sounds behind a surprisingly flimsy beige door and tries to figure out what’s happening.
The vomiting stopped an hour ago. After that, the water started running. It’s impossible for Karkat to tell if it’s the sink or the shower. Either way, that, too, stopped. For the past thirty minutes, the only thing he’s heard — even with his good ear pressed against the door — is incoherent mumbling. It’s enough to be more than mildly concerning, and it finally drives him to rap his knuckles against the wood and speak up. “You okay in there, Strider? Like I said, I’m not pissed. Hell, you’re not even one of the top five worst drunks I’ve ever dealt with.”
The muttering stops. A sniffle follows. But there’s still no concrete response from Dave.
Karkat heaves a long sigh and pulls his knees to his chest. He leans his back against the door and yawns. “Seriously, Strider, it’s fine. I was shitfaced the first time we fucked, so we’ll call this even. And you’re barely half as intolerable as Kanaya when she’s inebriated beyond belief. I’d smother a bonfire with my face before dealing with that again.”
More silence.
Karkat’s mind wanders.
He thinks back ten years, to a late-night party. He and Kanaya had snuck away one night. It was his first “real” party, but Kanaya was always more adventurous. He refused to drink, but Kanaya had far more than her pubescent stomach could handle. After projectile vomiting all over some poor lacrosse player’s basement bathroom, she begged Karkat to cover for her.
“You know,” Karkat adds, now grasping wildly for something — anything — that gets a response, “My first ever date was with Sollux. We were both thirteen and dumber than asphalt. We went to Friendly’s.” Here, he pauses. Realizing that Dave might not know of this particular chain, he adds: “It was this cheap, kid-friendly place that specialized in diner food and ice cream. The food was mediocre, but I’d murder a man in cold blood for their ice cream… Shit. No pun intended. Anyhow…” He runs his fingers through the plush carpet. It’s clean, at least. “We got into some stupid argument. Only the gods know what it was about. It got so out of hand that we were both kicked out, and we vowed to never speak of it again.”
Finally, mercifully, there’s a reply. Dave’s voice is clearer than before. He’s sobering up, but he’s definitely starting to feel the sting of his binge. “You were thirteen, dude. I’m not sure that’s the one-to-one match as you think it is.”
“Maybe not,” Karkat concedes. Again, he sighs. “What the fuck were you drinking that much for, anyhow? The date was going pretty fucking well.”
“Was it?” Dave’s voice is louder than before; he’s moving closer to the door. The surface against Karkat’s back moves and bounces. Presumably, Dave is inadvertently mirroring his boyfriend’s post at the bathroom door. “I… heh… I guess I was nervous.”
“About what?” Karkat can’t help but laugh. The idea that Dave — a person who’s largely shown nothing but unrestrained bravado — has anything to worry about seems like a joke. “You looked great. And I’m only using past tense because I don’t know if you’re still covered in vomit.”
“Nah. I showered.” A hoarse hum punctuates the statement. Then, after a few seconds, Dave lets forth a relatively long exhale — his version of a sigh. “C’mon, Karkat, you can’t be that dense.”
Karkat responds with an honest question: “About what?”
Something slams against the door. “Have you ever actually looked at me, or are you just… completely lost in the fucking sauce?” Dave snaps. Then, there’s another pause. Another sigh. “Sorry. I… Look, dude, I’m not actually as smooth as I act. You might as well find that out now. So…”
“So?”
A whine of pain. A series of mumbled profanities. “You’re in the honeymoon phase, y’know. Eventually, you’ll get sick of me holding you back.”
Karkat’s college training kicks in. “I will, or you will?”
For a few minutes, nothing happens on the other side of the door. Then, suddenly, it swings open.
Karkat falls backwards. His head slams against the rounded footplate of Dave’s chair. “Ow! Fuck!”
“What the hell’re you doing leaning on the bathroom door, dumbass?” Dave smirks, and the expression swiftly melts into a look of bemused concern. “Really, though, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” As he sits up, Karkat instinctually rubs the back of his head. There’s no blood, just some bruised pride.
“Cool.” A smile briefly flashes across Dave’s face as he tugs at the sleeves of his red pullover; his lower half is clad in a pair of ratty sweatpants. He leans his elbows against his knees and offers his hand out. The action causes the folded towel on his seat to shift slightly to the right, away from his dominant side.
And while he doesn’t really need the extra support, Karkat accepts it. After stumbling to his feet, he buries his hands in his pockets.
Dave, meanwhile, brushes by on his way to the balcony. His hands are bare, and he grabs the wheelchair’s pushrims to stop instead of letting the treads rub against his palms. Outside, in the unseasonably pleasant nighttime air, he leans his forearms against the lower decorative bar that runs along the balcony railing. He wrings his hands together and falls silent.
Karkat settles into the single thatched armchair by the round glass table. He considers speaking, but he decides otherwise. When Dave is ready, he’ll say something.
And, finally, the words spill out. “Both,” he says, his voice firm. “We’ll both get sick of it. Everyone does, even Rose. It gets old, eventually. You find a dope spot, then you realize it ain’t built for everyone. It ain’t built for me. And you’ll want to go, anyhow. I get it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. His voice cracks. “There’s so much you will never do if you have to constantly build your life around me, and you deserve better than that.”
“You do, too,” Karkat points out.
“Yeah, but…” A bitter snort of laughter barely covers the pain in Dave’s voice. “I’m used to disappointment.” His hand drops down; pale fingers rap a mindless beat against one of the vertical railing bars. “Sometimes, I think my deadbeat father was right. I’m trapped in some sort of karmic Final Destination. I was supposed to die that night.”
A thoughtful hum covers the rising rage that threatens to consume Karkat’s mind. He knows that vitriol won’t solve anything, not now, and he consciously forces it back before responding, “But you didn’t.”
“And now I’m stuck like this,” Dave grumbles. His fingers flex before curling into tight fists. “I think you deserve the world, man. As grossly, tooth-rottingly sweet as that is, I really do believe it. You’re a nice guy. A great guy. And you deserve someone who gives everything you want.”
“And you don’t?” Karkat intentionally frames his reply as a question. He picks up the complimentary coaster from the table and idly spins it between his index fingers. “I’m not asking for us to go mountain climbing, you know.”
“Yeah, but…” Dave runs his fingers through his hair. Flecks of water scatter into the night. “I love you,” he mumbles, his voice impossibly small, “and I want you to have someone better than me. Something better than” — his shoulders tense as his right leg bounces. A low whine of pain escapes his throat and interrupts his thoughts. When the movement stops, he stacks a few breaths. “It’s been fun, dude, but you want more out of your life.”
“Maybe I’m happy just being with your insufferable ass,” Karkat shrugs.
Dave responds with a strange laugh. It’s not joyful, but it lacks any sort of bite. “You really are a nice guy, dude. And I’m not sure what you see in me.”
“You’re a surprisingly good conversationalist, for one. Yes, you can be annoying as shit. Everyone can be. But you’re smart, talented, and pretty fucking attractive.” Here, Karkat pauses. He props his feet on the glass table and stares at the stars. “I can’t say I’ve ever had bad sex with you, either.”
Finally, the gloom that’s surrounded Dave breaks, if only for a moment. This time, his laugh is genuine. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you that last one.”
“But not the others?” Karkat raises a brow.
Dave offers a thoughtful hum. “It’s hard to love yourself when the world isn’t made for you.”
Karkat nods. He can’t think of anything to directly combat the statement, so he settles with the best he’s got: “Look, I honestly can’t think of any hobbies or goals I have that are entirely dependent on something you absolutely cannot do. There might be some things we’d have to figure out, but I’m willing to give it a shot.”
Dave turns around and rubs his hands against his knees. “You’re an idiot, Kat,” he smirks. “You’re a stubborn, foolhardy dumbass. But if that’s what you want…” He raises his hands in faux surrender. There are massive cracks, but his confidence is starting to return. “I’m not stoppin’ you. I’ll ride it out, too.”
“Good.” A passing plane catches Karkat’s eye. He tracks the blinking red dot across the sky for a few seconds, idly wondering where it’s going. Finally, his gaze settles back on Dave. “And stop beating yourself up so much. You’ve got more going for you than you think.”
“Can I play an Uno reverse card on that statement?”
“Hm?” Karkat laughs. “Elaborate?”
Dave rolls his eyes and moves closer. He must have used the complimentary toiletries; he smells different. His scent is more vibrant than usual. A mix of citrus, kiwi, and lime rest where there are usually subdued, earthy notes. The fingers of his left hand thump against the corresponding pushrim. His right hand rests in his lap. “Well,” he hums, “you’re gassing me up, and I sure as fuck don’t deserve it. But I don’t quite understand what takes the piss out of you, if that makes sense.”
“I don’t know,” Karkat instinctually lies.
As far as he’s concerned, his self confidence has always been borderline nonexistent. He can’t remember a time when he ever felt particularly comfortable in his own skin. He was too lanky — “too thin” — for his otherwise stubby stature as a child. When he stopped growing, he quickly got rebranded as “too fat”. He’s always told himself he doesn’t care, but…
“You don’t know?” Dave’s lips press together. Hazel eyes flick over Karkat’s frame. “C’mon. If I have to have a feelings jam, you do, too. It’s only fair.”
Part of Karkat wants to shut the conversation down. He’s never been comfortable talking about himself; he’s always hated telling others about his past. Aside from being largely boring and uneventful, it simply seems far too personal for others to know. But an even larger part of him begs for release. So, against his better judgement, he loosens his guard ever so slightly.
“I went to school in the suburban equivalent of Bumfuck, Nowhere,” he explains. “And Bumfuck, Nowhere, tends to be incredibly White, if that makes sense.” He folds his arms across his chest and focuses on the nearly full moon. He sinks deeper into the plush cushions. “If it wasn’t outright racism, it was standard schoolyard insults. And I know I shouldn’t have given a fuck about what Jimmy Hickfuck said about me, but…” his voice trails off.
Dave supplies the conclusion: “The more you hear it, the realer it gets.” His usual inhales seem to cover for a moment of thought. “I didn’t get it, not until after the crash. After that, I got it. I really got it.” That irresistible tone returns, the buttery smoothness of straightforward, earnest discussion. “For months, I just assumed I’d be, well… When enough doctors tell you, ‘Hey, bud, you better get fucking used to moving nothing below your shoulders,’ you just believe it. At least I did.”
Idly, Karkat lets his gaze settle on Dave. He sees an opportunity to turn the conversational focus away from himself, and he grabs it. “What was it like?”
A huff, a sound that vaguely resembles a laugh, precedes Dave’s statement. He pulls out the rubber totem hanging from his neck and mindlessly gnaws on it whenever he pauses. “Straight up couldn’t attend school for a year after the crash. Took months for shit to heal and settle enough for me to tolerate sitting up for longer than two or three hours.”
When he’s talking — when he’s really talking — Dave uses his hands. Here, he runs his fingers down the back of his neck. “I couldn’t move my arms well enough to use traditional controls for months. Used something else instead. It was like a straw. A…” his brows furrow. His left hand sweeps in a slight outward arc on the corresponding side of his head, as if to grab an invisible gadget. A look of realization crosses his face. “Sip and puff. That’s how I moved. Inhaling did one thing, exhaling did another. Don’t quite remember the specifics anymore, but…”
He flexes his fingers and lets his pendant drop from his mouth. “Getting movement back was goddamn orgasmic. Anyhow, it’s cold, and I’m getting tired.” He flips the locks on his chair and moves for the door. “I’m going in.”
Karkat wordlessly follows.
And Dave keeps talking. “When I finally went back to school, it was like a laser-guided nuke to my ego. I could use a standard joystick by then, but it was still… I was pretty obviously fucked, y’know? Can’t hide an electric wheelchair behind a desk. Nobody talked to me. I essentially disappeared overnight.”
Despite knowing that their experiences are inherently and almost incompatibly different, Dave’s words resonate with Karkat. He acknowledges that he was never invisible. He always had a friend group, but he never really fit in with the popular crowd. He was too loud, too brash. He’d found his niche by the end of high school, but everything before that was the social equivalent of a death match.
The cracks in the wall, the normally impenetrable barrier between Karkat and the rest of the world, widen. A little more of his essence seeps out. “I’ve never been happy with how I look,” he admits.
“You’re not?” Dave pulls himself into the bed and quirks a brow upward. “Not sure if it helps, but I think you’re pretty hot.”
A smile works its way onto Karkat’s face. “At least I’m someone’s type.” Once Dave is situated on the bed, he sits beside him. He folds his hands behind his head and yawns.
After slipping on his oxygen line, Dave idly falls against Karkat’s shoulder. After a moment, he mirrors the yawn. “Sorry ‘bout the date, by the way.”
“Don’t be, dumbass.” Try as he might to do otherwise, Karkat’s fingers still find their way into Dave’s hair. It’s as soft as always, and the pale roots are starting to show. “I’ve enjoyed it.”
Dave doesn’t argue. Instead, he closes his eyes and nestles against the crook of Karkat’s neck. “If you say so.” With a weary hum, he shoves himself onto his side. He wraps his left arm, the one on top, around Karkat. “Remind me when I’m awake and sober to schedule a haircut. Need to get it dyed again.”
“Do you?” Karkat pictures what Dave might look like with his natural hair color. “I think you’d look fine without it.”
“Really?” A huff of laughter passes through Dave’s lips. “I always thought it made me look old.”
“Maybe. You could just end up looking like an anime protagonist.”
Dave laughs. His muscles relax as sleep starts to take hold. “Like a douchebag, then?”
“You already look like one,” Karkat quips.
Part of him wants to get up and finish his usual routine. He brought a pair of comfortable pajamas. At the very least, he should probably brush his teeth. Then again…
Dave seems to make the decision for him, much like a spoiled housecat. “G’night,” he grumbles.
And Karkat, unwilling to disturb Dave when he’s on a one-way ride to some much-needed rest, somewhat reluctantly assumes his new role as a pillow. “Yeah, Strider. Good night, jackass.”
Another breathy laugh serves as Dave’s last reply for the night. A few minutes later, he’s asleep. More of his weight presses against Karkat as his muscles relax.
Not that he minds. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he finds that his eyelids feel heavier than before. Maybe it’s the warmth of Dave against him, or maybe it’s the downright bizarre path this date took. Either way, Karkat, too, finds himself closing his eyes.
Notes:
Chapter update schedule is still gonna be wonky, but feel free to suggest ideas or feedback or send me photos of cool rocks on my tumblr.
Chapter 35: How I Wish I Was in Sherbrooke Now
Summary:
Chapter title from Stan Rogers' “Barrett’s Privateers”, more famously performed by The Real McKenzies.
Notes:
i've added a "hidden" class that appears if you turn off the CSS, and i'll be going back (eventually) and tagging it onto old phone messages to make it easier for anyone reading with plain text or using a downloaded copy of the fic. peace and love on the planet snorf. updates may still be wonky with the No Man's Sky update. lemme know if you have any ideas or comments or see a horrific typo. Peace and love on the planet skrump.
Chapter Text
Friday, 18 February 2022
Describing his current working environment as an “office” is a stretch. In truth, Dave is currently working in a rented event space. Presumably, the room would be less cramped without the various movable dividers that currently form four cubicles around a central meeting area. It’s borderline claustrophobic, but it’s far from the worst on location job he’s ever had. He can at least say that his current coworkers largely ignore him.
The location, however, leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. The building is set along a strip of upscale commercial properties along the river. Its accessibility and view are offset by the constant foot traffic from the newly constructed townhomes a block away.
Not that Dave would ever classify himself as a NIMBY, and the townhomes in question are far from the sort of “undesirable” tenements such people would oppose. In fact, they’re lovely row houses with plenty of faux rustic charm. Their brick cladding blends nicely with the surrounding historic structures, and their eye-popping prices keep the local population firmly within that “upright, upper-class, and primarily White” demographic any NIMBY would love.
Unfortunately for Dave, when put on a Venn diagram, that very same demographic also happens to form a near-circle with the “granola-munching, crunchy, multi-level marketing peddler” crowd. Every minute he spends outside of the office is a gamble, and the bet is his sanity.
But the weather is too nice to ignore, and the gorgeous cerulean sky doesn’t pack quite as much of a punch when viewed through a tiny hopper window. So, when Craig returns from his break, Dave slips onto the property’s front patio. He snags a cheap BLT wrap from the vending kiosk downstairs and finds one of the two clearly designated accessible tables.
The late winter air is crisp, but it lacks its usual chill and bite. The unseasonable warmth combines with the river breeze to create a pleasant touch of humidity. The moisture massages Dave’s dry nose and eases that nagging wheeze he’s been nursing for the past few months.
For a while, at least ten blissful minutes, he’s left alone. Then, someone sits across from him.
He’s seen her before, and he’s pointedly avoided her. He doesn’t know her name, but he knows her face. She’s the typical well-to-do upstart. A tan face is made even darker by a questionable spray-on treatment, and her artificially whitened teeth are like dozens of eyes staring from her plumped lips. “Hello, sir! Is this seat taken?”
“It is now,” Dave mumbles.
“Great!” Her tone is overly chipper and bright, and her grin is as vacuous as her sales pitch. “I couldn’t help but notice your…” her expression falters for a moment, as does her tone. She’s thrown off enough by her own hang-ups to switch to an entirely different script. “Do you happen to suffer from persistent pain or weakness, by any chance?” Annoyingly, this new line of thought handily compensates for her discomfort. That sickeningly sweet, can-do lilt returns to her voice.
For now, Dave doesn’t want to rock the boat too much. As much as he already hates this stranger, fighting her directly in front of his current workplace is not on his to-do list for today. He evens out his tone and offers a vapid, placating smile. “I’m a bit busy right now, so,” — he begins.
The over-eager saleswoman — or, in all likelihood, multi-level marketing “contractor” — tuts and shakes her head. “I promise, if you just give me a minute” — the brightly colored box of overpriced essential oils that she pulls out confirms Dave’s suspicions — “I can change your life, sir.”
“I see.” Somehow, Dave manages to keep his tone even. He does, however, give into the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, ma’am, but I ain’t interested. I have a medical team to handle this sort of thing.”
“And I bet you pay them way too much!” the woman insists. “I’m Sharon, by the way. And I love helping people.”
Dave sighs. He bites into his bland lunch to keep his mouth occupied.
“I promise you, sir, these oils are a life-changer. They’ll have you back on your feet in no time!”
“I’m sure. And a decade of extensive physical therapy was clearly a waste of time and money.”
Dave’s brilliant sarcasm is predictably ignored. Instead, Sharon wholeheartedly agrees with his statement. “Yes! You see, that’s how doctors get you. They don’t make money curing people, so they keep you sick. You can be free of that pesky chair if you just” — Dave refuses to let her finish.
He shovels the last bite of his wrap down his throat and redjusts himself before backing away from the table. “Nope. I’m out. Sorry, ma’am, I’ve been nothing but polite to you, but I’m not fucking interested.”
“Are you sure?” Sharon springs to her feet.
Dave quickly turns to leave, but his movement is halted by a hand grabbing the back of his wheelchair. It’s enough to throw off his carefully maintained sense of equilibrium. He has just enough time to catch himself with his left hand as he falls to the side.
“Oh!” Sharon’s eyes widen, and Dave takes a tiny amount of pleasure in the look of outright terror on her face. After a moment of thought, she exhibits a reaction he’s yet to see: She flees the scene.
And Dave, after taking some time to even out his breathing, starts to assess the damage.
It’s not the first time he’s fallen. In fact, properly falling was one of his earliest physical therapy lessons. Of course, there’s a huge difference between a carefully padded floor and a rough brick patio.
His gloves have kept him from scraping his palms, but he can tell without looking that his left shoulder and elbow aren’t as lucky. An intermittent, dull ache in his left thigh indicates a bruised hip. It’s all minor, save for the sharp pain radiating from his wrist.
“Shit.” Dave tolerates the discomfort long enough to shove himself into a sitting position. He pulls his chair around and digs through the bag until he finds a halfway decent wrist brace.
“Shit.” The twinge in his left thigh progresses to a painful spasm. He spins his chair around until the seat faces him, and he leans his weight against that surface as he waits.
“Shit.” He moves aside his jacket and tugs at his belt loop. It gives him just enough space to see a wound along the sharp edge of his left hip. He wipes away some of the blood, and the tension in his chest eases when he sees that it’s little more than a scrape.
The spasm slows; then, it stops.
At least nobody else is trying to “help”.
Dave engages the wheel locks and tests them before pivoting himself into the appropriate position — back to the chair, hands on the wheels. The short hop to the footrest is simple; it always has been. Getting into the seat is harder. He pulls his knees to his chest and breathes in before he lifts himself into place. Even with the brace on, the pressure feels like a crushing vise against his left wrist. He bites his tongue to stifle a shout of pain.
“Shit!”
He settles into his seat and adjusts himself into a more comfortable position. He generally prefers to let his legs rest at opposite edges of the footplate — “manspreading”, as Rose jokingly calls it. Aside from being more natural, the stance subtly hides the weakness on his right side. Now, that position chafes against the fresh sore on his hip. Forcing his knees together and putting both feet near the footplate’s center alleviates the discomfort, but the natural rightward tilt triggers Dave’s carefully buried anxieties.
Fortunately, the universe takes pity on him. His momentary discomfort is overridden by an email alert on his phone.
From: [email protected]
Subject: February Health Update for Strider, David
To: [email protected], [email protected]
PATIENT NAME: David Ellison Strider
PATIENT DOB: December 03, 1991
PATIENT ID: DES-1991
PATIENT CONTACT: Self
EMERGENCY CONTACT: Rosalba Roxanne Lalonde (Sister)
RECOMMENDED ACTION(S): Contact PCP and schedule CT
NOTIFICATION RECEIVED: February 18, 2022
NOTIFICATION WRITER: Méndez, Luna A.
Good Afternoon!
It’s time for your regular digital check-in. The following text is written by a LOHAC comprehensive healthcare advisor and reviewed by administrators.
Mr. Strider, your care team is quite pleased with your recent progress. You seem to be closely following your recommended diet and exercise program. No concerning injuries (e.g., cuts and pressure sores) have been noticed in the past month. That’s great! You have a mostly clean bill of health.
We’re rather concerned about your respiratory performance these past few weeks, as your team has noted decreased lung capacity. This could be caused by the dry winter air, but it could be something more serious. Therefore, we recommend that you contact your primary care provider (PCP) and schedule some testing.
Note that this is not necessarily an emergent situation. Don’t worry yourself about it too much, but don’t delay any necessary preventive treatment.
If you have any concerns or questions about this message, please respond via LOHAC’s patient portal or call the number below.
— Your LOHAC Nursing Team
Lohac Home Care and Nursing Services
1802 W. Victor St. | ███-███-████
This email contains protected health information (PHI), including data protected by federal state and privacy laws. Any unauthorized use or disclosure of PHI is strictly prohibited. If you are not the intended recipient(s), please contact the sender and destroy all copies of this message.
Nothing in the email is particularly surprising. He’s been aware of the problem, and he’s pointedly taken near-zero steps to fix it.
He’s felt it for years, but it’s been a more persistent pest lately. Forcing himself to breathe with just a handful of the necessary muscles has always been tiring, but fifteen years of the same strain is starting to take a toll. He’s hidden the problem well, but time has never been his friend. As far as he’s concerned, it never will be.
“Fuck.” He deactivates the locks and returns to the office. He swallows his claustrophobia for the mercifully short duration of the elevator ride to the third floor.
Again, his phone rings. He checks, and his heart sinks when he sees the “wrong” name at the top.
Notably, Dave has not technically told a lie. He’s not telling the whole truth, but he’s still safely within that moral gray zone. He’s knowingly committing crimes of omission.
He knows what’s wrong.
He was warned about this years ago.
As much as he wants it to be otherwise, his cobbled-together solution for breathing isn’t sustainable; it never was. Everything is built to work in tandem, and he’s spent fifteen years forcing about a third of his muscles to bear the full load.
“Fuck.” Dave tugs on the necklace Karkat gave him. He gnaws on the end and prepares to bury himself in his work.
Again, his phone buzzes. This time, he sees the name he’s been looking for and a familiar explosion of capital letters.
By the time he’s done texting Karkat, Dave’s lunch break is “officially” over.
Normally, he’d be apprehensive to return to work. Today, it’s a welcome relief. He sets aside his phone and dives headfirst into editing. Every snag and hurdle becomes a lifeline, a much-needed foothold in his desperate scramble to escape the knot of stress that’s pressing against his chest.
He finds himself entering a trance-like state, one of his many ADHD-fueled “work benders”, as Rose calls it. The world around him melts away; the only thing that matters is what’s on the screen. He tears through countless sound files and clips, expertly splicing and refining them to perfection.
Eventually, hunger and his watch alarm force him to stop.
It’s 7:00 p.m.; everyone else has left.
He’s done more than his fair share of work. His shoulders scream for a release. His right leg is caught in a near-constant spasm, and his eyes are uncomfortably dry. He silently thanks whatever forces dictate his life for giving him Saturdays off during this gig.
Saturday, 19 February 2022
Working for Jake English is surprisingly enjoyable. Unlike most of Karkat’s past bosses, he genuinely cares about his staff.
Even so, a kind boss can’t compensate for the meaningless, mindless retail grind. The relative dearth of insults and entitlement only gives Karkat more time to ponder his predicament, and he finds himself spiraling by the time he’s freed from his brick and concrete prison.
He spends most of the bus ride home pondering his place in the world.
To his dismay, Dave keeps popping up. He keeps framing his life around a man he met mere weeks ago, and that fact is more perplexing than it should be. He’s always fallen fast and hard, but Dave has an inexplicable pull. He’s grabbed Karkat like nobody else, and his charm feels more and more like a drug. He craves Dave’s presence; he wants his warmth. Every time he tries to picture the future, he sees himself with Dave; trying to do otherwise just seems strange. And when he finally makes it home, his apartment feels cold and bare. Even his worldly possessions can’t tie him to the place.
“Get over yourself,” he grumbles as he rummages around for something halfway decent to eat. The verbal derision offers a momentary respite, but it does nothing more.
He should make himself a decent meal. Instead, he grabs a pre-made TV tray from the freezer. The box purportedly contains a “hearty chicken, broccoli, and rice medley” that has “all your essential nutrients”. When he opens it, he finds a plastic tray containing some of the most disappointing but technically correct definitions of said words: The “chicken” looks more like cardboard, the “rice” may or may not be frozen maggots, and the “broccoli” has the same consistency as three-week-old spring onions. However, he does not want to bother making a proper meal, and everything in the box is presumably edible. So, after a moment of reluctance, he shoves the container into his microwave and sets it to spin for the recommended eight-minute prep time.
At this point, his phone rings. His finger automatically hovers over the red button, as he fully expects it to be another spam call. Instead, the caller ID displays “Dave Strider”, and he answers.
“Should I be concerned?” He leans against the counter and stares at the rotating plate of slop in his microwave. The warm yellow bulb inside flickers. “Is everything alright? I can count how many times you’ve actually called me on a fucking rock, seeing as it’s zero.”
Dave breathes in. He’s clearly poised to say something different, but Karkat’s commentary derails the thought. Instead, he responds with earnest confusion. “Really? I’ve never called you? Not once?”
“Nope.”
A thudding clang draws Karkat’s attention to the microwave. The central plate has slipped out of alignment. It’s a quick fix that results in a few slightly singed fingers.
“Huh. Wild shit, yo.” A cough — a sound laced with the vaguest hints of discomfort — punctuates Dave’s statement. “Anywho, I’m uh… kinda bored, I guess?” His words sound true, but there’s an energy Karkat can’t quite place lurking underneath. Again, he seems ready to say something, only to change his mind at the last minute. “Jake hasn’t told you any of my embarrassing childhood stories, right?”
“Hm…” Karkat raps his fingers against the top of the microwave. “I could be a douchebag and lie, but I’m too busy being hungry to come up with something halfway believable. He hasn’t actually told me anything beyond knowing you before you were fifteen.”
“Cool!” A pinch of honest enthusiasm colors Dave’s reply. Again, he breathes in. This time, whatever was holding him back releases its grip. “So… uh… I know you said you wanted to be kept in the loop ‘bout shit, so…” A low, nervous hum buzzes from Dave’s end of the call. “I may or may not be looking at minor to major surgery in the next few months. Kinda depends?”
Karkat’s immediate reaction is to panic. He’s never been one for slowly processing major information. Any bad news — even potentially bad news — is enough to send him into a frenzy of increasingly incoherent “what ifs”. It’s part of his anxiety, and he’s never quite figured out how to tame it.
Dave, however, has the answer. He starts by dropping his usual verbal mask: “Hey. C’mon, now, don’t freak out yet. We don’t know much beyond my lungs being a little out of whack, m’kay?”
The reassurance is enough to pull Karkat from his spiral, but he still sits firmly at its edge. “Yeah, but…” For perhaps the first time in his life, he stops. He somehow wraps his fingers around the force that’s strangling him and calms it enough to assess the situation. “What do you know?”
“Not much,” Dave repeats. “Look, it could be as simple as a funky infection. I mean… it probably ain’t that simple, but…” Here, he breathes a low, somewhat self-deprecating laugh. “Statistically, I’m probably getting something done to boost my lung function during the day. And I don’t know what that’d be.”
“But it could be surgery?” For the first time since meeting Dave, Karkat finds the thud of his own heartbeat unpleasantly loud and annoying.
“Yeah.” Another pause. Then, a reassuring hum. “It ain’t a big deal yet. I just… you said you wanted to know, right?”
“I did,” Karkat admits. “I think I’m starting to regret that request, but that’s exactly what my stupid ass asked for. So, hey, thanks for that!” Realizing that this can easily be misunderstood as his usual brand of snark, he’s quick to add: “No, seriously. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
And it seems the addendum was necessary, as Dave counters with a nervous laugh. “Shit, Kat, I thought you were being sarcastic there. You’re welcome. And, hey, it ain’t all bad news. I’m probably wrapping shit up here ‘round Tuesday, so I might be back in town earlier.”
That tiny bright spot becomes Karkat’s lifeline. He grabs it with every ounce of emotional strength that he has as he beats back the rising wave of fear in his chest. “So, what? You want another fucking date?” he quips.
“You pick the spot.” Dave’s answer is as nonplussed as usual, but Karkat can hear the tiniest hint of genuine enthusiasm.
Part of Karkat’s answer is pragmatic; he still needs to save money. But part of his reply is born from his need to try and equal Dave’s usual show-boating. “My place, then? I’ll make us something.”
“Sounds fucking Gucci.” Try as he might, Karkat can’t help but picture Dave’s expression. He’s probably wearing that insufferable, irresistible smirk. “Hate to call and drop, but I’m trying to wrangle something out of another client, so…”
“See you later?” Karkat supplies.
Dave answers with an affirmative huff. Then, perhaps after realizing such a reply is somewhat rude, he adds: “Yup. Peace out, mofo.”
The call ends, and Karkat is left to stew in his thoughts.
Chapter 36: Change Everything You Are
Summary:
Chapter title from Muse's “Butterflies & Hurricanes”. There's also the fic playlist. I was bouncing around naming this one “Lida Rose” from The Music Man, but I ended up going for something more emotionally coherent.
Notes:
Just a short, fluffy chapter before the date. UwU
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday, 21 February 2022
Text message chain between Dave Strider and Rose Lalonde:
-----
In most respects, Karkat’s apartment isn’t large enough to get wildly messy. He doesn’t have enough to his name to worry about such matters, either, but he still does. He wants everything to be perfect, and he’s enlisted Sollux to make sure it is.
Right now, Karkat is scrubbing down the kitchen sink. It’s been at least a month since he last did so, and it’s probably needed a good wash for some time. As he finishes, he throws away the thoroughly soiled sponge and trudges to the sofa, snagging a cheap beer on the way. When he sits beside Sollux, the recently repaired hinges whine. He props his feet on the table and pops open his drink.
“I doubt Dave will care if your place is a little dusty, KK,” Sollux mumbles.
Karkat concurs with a nod, but today’s tasks are quickly snowballing into a compulsive sort of sunk cost fallacy. If he cleans everything but the sink, won’t that look strange? And the same will be true if he were to vacuum the floor without dusting off the coffee table. Cleaning one thing without doing the rest only emphasizes the dirt elsewhere, after all.
“So, uh…” Sollux clears his throat. When he stretches his legs out, he inadvertently knocks a book off the coffee table. After so much time with Dave, Karkat half expects a jump when the object hits the floor, but Sollux doesn’t react at all. “I don’t mean this in a bad way, to be clear, but… What do you see in the guy? He’s perfectly nice, but I just can’t…” He runs his tongue over his oddly pointed canines, an old habit from childhood. When he notices Karkat’s darkening expression, he pushes whatever he’s trying to say to the front: “Like, personality-wise, you two are just so wildly different.”
“That’s it?” Karkat sets his bottle on the floor by his feet. “It’s just personality?”
“Okay, yeah,” Sollux turns his head, pointedly avoiding Karkat’s gaze as he admits the obvious, “I’m honestly kinda thrown by the whole situation, yes.” After downing more of his drink, he looks back to his friend. “But I’m mostly talking about how he’s just so… I don’t know. He seems more like me than you, and we both know that dating me didn’t work out.”
“Oh, he’s definitely the same grade of thorn in my side as you are,” Karkat huffs. The tension he’d felt building has been disarmed, but he’s still mildly wary. “And we were stupid fucking teenagers. Name a single teenager who had everything figured out.”
“I dunno. Tavros, maybe?” Sollux shrugs.
“Tavros doesn’t fucking count. That dork was a miniature events manager by fifteen. No fucking wonder the yearbook, prom, and student government freaks all tried to murder each other for him. He can organize the fuck out of an event.”
“Yeah,” Sollux snorts, and his shoulders shake with a momentary burst of laughter, “He can make any event his bitch. He’d have a whole itinerary for a toddler’s birthday if you let him.”
More of the tension fades. Karkat leans back, sinking only slightly into the cheap padding of his couch. “But my point is that we didn’t work because we were teens. And we were both infinitely more stubborn and wholesale stupid than Tav, so…” Here, he pauses. When he rubs his chin, he feels stubble; he cringes and makes a note to shave tonight. “I don’t know. I mean… for one thing, he’s cute. At least… I think he’s cute.”
“Vaguely twiggy, lanky, and glasses?” Sollux smirks and raises his half-empty bottle in a faux toast. “Yeah, KK, that’s your damned type.”
Karkat flicks Sollux on the side of the head before continuing, stubbornly ignoring his friend’s whines: “I guess I just feel…” he begins. He stops. He finds himself struggling to put his words in order, and he realizes that he’s been doing more and more of that lately. Whenever he’s around or even talking about Dave, he’s taking time to think before he speaks. He feels less and less like a constant fuck-up. “He never complains about me being a whiny bitch.”
“Which is amazing,” Sollux quips. “Because you’re the whiniest bitch I know.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t like being reminded about it all the fucking time!” Try as he might to suppress it, a deep sense of annoyance still rises into Karkat’s throat. It starts to simmer, only to be distracted by a low yawn from Sollux.
“Well, KK,” he says, “You’ll be happy to know he seems to feel the same way.” He downs the rest of his bottle in one massive gulp, releases an uncouth belch, and laughs at his own antics. “Every fucking time I’ve hung out with the nerd, he talks about you. It’s almost annoying, but it’s also sort of sweet.”
“As if you’d know anything sweet that isn’t leaving a cavity in your teeth.” Karkat leans over and picks up his bottle of beer. He considers taking a sip, but he ends up turning it around in his hand. He watches as the light dances off the glass and reflects against his palm. Beneath the obvious browns and reds, he sees shadows of blue, green, and purple. The scintillating display vaguely reminds him of how Dave often paints his pottery — with layers of darker, cooler colors along the bottom half. He realizes that he hasn’t actually seen Dave’s studio in weeks, and he finds himself missing that odd, earthy aroma.
“Hey!” Tanned fingers snap in front of Karkat’s nose, forcefully dragging him from his thoughts. “I know I make a lot of sex jokes, but please don’t pop a boner for your boyfriend in front of me. That’s sort of freakish, man.”
Karkat reacts by shoving Sollux’s shoulder. “Make up your fucking mind, you stupid bastard! Do you want me to be happy or not?”
“Happy enough to stop complaining, but not happy enough to be tenting on your sofa would be really nice,” Sollux huffs.
And Karkat, feeling lighter than he has in years, lets forth a booming laugh. It’s a sound that he rarely lets slip, and it always reminds him of home. He thinks of the days after Kankri left for college, when his father finally had time to tend to his youngest son’s needs. A sense of calm and warmth spreads through his chest as he rises to his feet and grabs Sollux by the back of his shirt. “Come on, jackass, let’s finish cleaning this place up.”
Despite several loud whines of protest, Sollux allows himself to be hauled to his feet. “Why did I even agree to come help you? I could be making bank at my job.”
“But you’d rather be here,” Karkat goads.
Sollux laughs and throws a dustcloth, rolling his eyes when it misses its mark. “Fuck you, KK. You better buy me some bitching dinner after this.”
After almost a lifetime of friendship, Karkat knows exactly what to offer: “Giorgio’s Pizza?”
“Oh shit! For real?” A wild, ravenous light glows behind Sollux’s eyes. With intentionally comedic clumsiness, he salutes his long-time friend. “Well, yes, sir! I’ll do whatever the hell you want for free Giorgio’s!”
Unlike Sollux’s clumsy lob, Karkat’s tossed wad of washcloths hits Sollux squarely in the face. “Great. Then let’s finish getting this place to look less like a depressed bachelor’s wallowing pit.”
-----
Pesterchum chat between Karkat, June, and Rose:
GROUP CHAT [WHAT THE FUCK DOES DAVE LIKE TO EAT?] STARTED
KARKAT: I JUST CAME TO THE ANXIETY-INDUCING REALIZATION THAT I HAVE FAILED TO CONSIDER A RATHER IMPORTANT ELEMENT OF THE PLANNED DATE TOMORROW.
KARKAT: DESPITE MY OTHERWISE METICULOUS PLOTTING, I OVERLOOKED THE MENU. SO, I HUMBLY ASK THEE, DEAREST NERDS: WHAT THE FUCK DOES THIS BASTARD ENJOY EATING?
JUNE: omg, dude! 😅
JUNE: you’ve gone on, like, sixty dates with dave and you DON’T KNOW what he likes to eat? kinda cringe. ngl.
ROSE: It is, indeed, quite perplexing that you have yet to discern what sort of food Dave likes. It’s not as if he has a particularly complex or refined palate. I might even argue that he has the same culinary preferences as a toddler.
KARKAT: I KNEW I PUT YOU INTO MY PHONE AS “TWIN BITCH” FOR A REASON, ROSALIND! THANKS FOR CONFIRMING MY SUSPICIONS.
ROSE: Actually, my name is short for a much more uncommon family name, Rosalba.
JUNE: no offense, but that’s a sorta freak ass name…
JUNE: sorry. 🤷♀️
ROSE: No, no.
ROSE: You are quite correct, and I concur. I don’t know why my mother so stubbornly insisted on giving me this abhorrent name.
KARKAT: IT’S SO TOUCHING TO SEE MY OLD AND NEW FRIENDS BONDING.
KARKAT: (ALTHOUGH, CONSIDERING YOUR STATUS AS MY LEGAL EMPLOYER AND YOUR RECENT TREATMENT OF ME, I AM BEYOND HESITANT TO DEEM ROSE A “FRIEND”.)
KARKAT: BUT CAN WE *MAYBE* REFOCUS OUR ANT-SIZED, DRUG-ADDLED, MICROPLASTIC-ROTTED BRAINS ON THE SUBJECT OF THIS CHAT? THE GROCERY STORE CLOSES IN TWO GODSDAMNED HOURS, AND I WOULD LIKE TO RETURN TO MY DOMICILE IN A TIMELY MANNER.
JUNE: i kinda forgor…
JUNE: what we were talking about…
KARKAT: THE DATE, YOU ASBESTOS-HUFFING CHUCKLEFUCK! *WHAT DO I MAKE FOR DAVE TO EAT?*
ROSE: Karkat, dear, I think it might be productive for you to quickly try some deep breathing exercises. 👍
KARKAT: 🖕
JUNE: i think that may be wasn’t the best idea, rose. 😬
ROSE: Hm… Indeed.
ROSE: Note to self: Dave’s boyfriend is not very fond of deep breathing exercises.
ROSE: Anyhow, I suppose I should answer the question. Frankly, that man will eat anything. If you gave him a plate of the greasiest, most rancid slop on the planet, he’d devour it whole and tell you it’s like the fanciest and most delectable hors d'oeuvres.
KARKAT: THANKS FOR THE LEAST HELPFUL ANSWER IN HISTORY, ROSE. 😤
ROSE: That’s my specialty! 🫡
KARKAT: WELL, UNFORTUNATELY, JUNE, YOU’RE MY LAST FUCKING HOPE OF SALVAGING THIS MISGUIDED AFFAIR. I CANNOT BELIEVE I’M ASKING YOU FOR ADVICE, BUT HERE I AM. I GROVEL BEFORE YOUR IGNORANCE.
JUNE: ok so i feel like i should maybe be insulted by that? 🙍♀️
JUNE: but uuuuuuuuh…
JUNE: honestly, dave just likes that “good, old-fashioned american” food.
JUNE: give him a burger or something. idk.
ROSE: I suppose an occasional burger will not be too much of an issue. I approve. Just be sure to balance it out with healthier side dishes.
JUNE: you know what?
JUNE: i’m really starting to see why dave sometimes called you an “over bearing psycho bitch” sometimes.
ROSE: Guilty as charged. 👌
ROSE: And my only “crime” is trying to keep that idiot alive. He has all the self-preservation of a toddler.
KARKAT: WELL, I AM NEITHER A FAMILY THERAPIST NOR A PERSON WHO FEELS THE NEED TO *BE* ONE. AND EVEN IF I WERE TO FIT THAT CLASSIFICATION, I THINK I’D NEED AT LEAST ANOTHER FIVE FUCKING DECADES OF EXPERIENCE TO UNTANGLE WHATEVER SORT OF BULLSHIT IS HAPPENING… THERE. SO!
KARKAT: THANK YOU BOTH FOR YOUR TIME. YOU MAY SHUT UP NOW.
USER carcinoGeneticist HAS CLOSED THE CHAT
Tuesday, 22 February 2022
Text message chain between Dave Strider and Sollux Captor:
Notes:
holy shit! over 100 kudos! thanks! \(￣︶￣*\)) i've updated the past chapters to have hidden text for anyone using screen readers on the plain text version.
Chapter 37: And There Was Music
Summary:
Chapter title from Barbara Cook and Robert Preston's version of “Till There Was You” (from The Music Man). The same version is used in the playlist, but you can also find covers by plenty of people.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday, 22 February 2022
For the first time since he started dating Dave, Karkat’s eyes are drawn to something other than his boyfriend’s natural sense of style. The moment Dave enters the apartment, his gaze immediately focuses on the rigid support brace wrapped around a pale left wrist. It’s one of those clumsy, felted, one-size-fits-all things found in drug stores. Rigid plastic, encased in light gray fabric, wraps around Dave’s hand and extends up approximately half of his forearm, stubbornly preventing the joint from moving. It’s the only part of his attire that doesn’t match his carefully cultivated look, and the color is dark enough to clash with his white suit jacket.
Figuring that interrogating Dave immediately after he enters the apartment is rude, Karkat opts to toss out a joke: “Who’d you beat the shit out of this time, you bag of rancid rot?”
Dave’s brows rise. There’s a momentary pause before a snort of hoarse laughter. “I was attacked by ninja assassins,” he deadpans.
“I see.” Karkat nods. Curious to see how Dave will spin this absurd reply, he plays along. “And why, Mr. Strider, were these assassins targeting you?”
Not surprisingly, Dave seems to have the story figured out. He twists his face into a surprisingly sincere frown as he responds, his voice stern, “They work for the IRS, of course. You get one fucking number wrong, and they send ‘em after you.”
“Mm-hm.” This time, Karkat’s nod is similarly solemn. “But you must have been an exceedingly adept fighter, seeing as your wrist is the only casualty.”
“Meh,” Dave shrugs. He opens his mouth to continue his story, but his composure finally breaks. His laughter — his genuine laughter — isn’t very loud. It’s closer to a harsh, rasping whoop that shakes his shoulders and fills the air with a pleasant, soft warmth. “Fine! Fine!” He raises his hands in the air, surrendering to facts, and shakes his head, “I ate shit at work. Bad falling technique bit me in my ass. Don’t worry, though,” he winces slightly as he moves to propel himself towards the sofa, “it’s just a sprain. It’ll be fine in a few days. Maybe next week.”
“What a shame,” quips Karkat, “I was hoping you’d gotten a concussion. Maybe it would’ve knocked some fucking sense into your head.” A smirk spreads across his face as he plods to the kitchen area. The oven door whines as he pops it open to check the cheese and beans casserole inside. After closing the appliance, he digs through the overhead cabinets. The portable grill is currently buried beneath a mountain of underused pots and pans; it takes a fair bit of wiggling, prying, and mumbled curses to free it. Once it’s down, he plugs it in to let it heat up. According to the manual, a document he reviewed for the first time last night, it needs at least twenty minutes to reach the “ideal temperature for maximum deliciousness.”
When Dave pops into view, Karkat jumps.
Dave winks. “I would’ve offered to help with that, but, y’know” — he points to the still-open cabinet, — “I can’t reach all that high.”
A thought passes through Karkat’s mind and tumbles, impulsive and wild, from his lips: “But if you stood up…?”
“Oh, hell,” a wide grin pulls at Dave’s lips, “I’d be able to reach that, yeah.”
Admittedly, a brief visual inspection would’ve been enough for Karkat to know the answer. Dave’s gaze is already roughly level with Karkat’s shoulders. If he is, as he once claimed in a tipsy text message, two inches above six feet, then he’s a full foot taller. Part of Karkat never wants to see Dave upright. He’s grown accustomed to being taller, and he gets a mild confidence boost from it. Then again, he wouldn’t be wholly opposed to seeing what Dave looks like on his feet — if only to satisfy his curiosity.
“Watch it, Casanova,” Dave shoves the portable grill aside just before Karkat’s hand lands squarely on top. He then cups his hands over his mouth and imitates a static-laden walkie-talkie: “Earth to Vantas! Earth to Vantas! What the fuck are you doing?”
“Shit!” Karkat steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I got distracted.”
“I can tell.” Pale brows rise above rectangular plastic glasses frames. “C’mon. Why don’t we hang out away from the hot appliances?”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Embarrassment rises as heat to Karkat’s cheeks, and he silently follows Dave to the sofa. He sits, and Dave stops on the other side of the coffee table. “How was Alexandria?”
“Not all that interesting, t’be honest.” Pale fingers idly toy with a black nylon string. Hazel eyes sweep the apartment, seemingly sizing it up. “I assume the same is true here?”
“Aside from Sollux busting his nose on the pavement, yeah.”
Dave’s eyes settle on a leather scrapbook on the coffee table. His hands hover over it, and he grabs it only after seeing an approving nod from Karkat. He pushes his glasses up before flipping through the pages, and a small smile settles on his features.
Karkat doesn’t need to look to know what Dave is studying. It’s the only photo album he claimed from his childhood, a meticulously arranged timeline of when his father took him to India.
“Kinda wild how you just stopped aging at sixteen, Kat.”
“All Vantases do that,” Karkat shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back, resting his feet on the table as he reminisces: “It was the year after Kankri left for good. I was still in high school, so we had to go in the summer. Gods above, it was hot as hell. But it was fun. I honestly can’t remember my father ever paying as much attention to me as he did on that trip.”
A tinge of sadness flits across Dave’s face; his brows twitch. “Back when I was six,” he says, never raising his gaze from the glossy pages, “when Pops was sober, he took me to Nashville. Probably ‘cause all his favorite country stars lived there, y’know?” He pulls his wallet from his pocket and digs through its contents. Eventually, he pulls out a small, faded, and severely wrinkled photo. He sets it on the table before returning to the scrapbook in his lap.
Beneath scratches and stains, Karkat sees a small child with most of Dave’s hallmark features. He has the same dimple, the same eyes. And an older man — stern-faced, tan, and sporting a scraggly goatee — holds him. The only trace of joy on the man’s face is a vague upward tilt at the edges of his lips.
“That’s just ‘bout the only time I remember enjoying time with that deadbeat for more than a few hours. It felt… nice, I guess?” Even now, decades after the fact, there’s a hesitant lilt in Dave’s voice. “It was weird. Before and after that, I’d only known him as the monster in the house.” When Karkat puts the photo down, Dave eagerly returns it to his wallet. His gaze hesitantly moves up, stopping when it meets Karkat’s. “Is that what it’s like? Real dads, not the one I knew… is that what they’re like?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Karkat wants to say.
He’s not used to having somebody worse than his own father as a starting point. And in truth, his father was never really awful; he never abused his sons. But he rarely showed anything but bungling attempts at affection. He tried to play the jury, the executioner, and the friend.
So, after a moment of thought, Karkat tries a different approach. He peels back more of his veil and, with just the tiniest bit of hesitancy, he lays more of himself before Dave. “June’s dad was more of a father to me than Baba. Whenever I had a bad day, I went to the Egberts. Weird, I know, but I’d imagine that’s what a good father looks like.”
“And not yours?” Dave’s right brow twitches once more, highlighting the thin scar that bisects its surface.
“Baba was never good at mediating conflicts,” Karkat admits, “and there were a lot of conflicts.”
“With a brother like Kankri?” Dave’s smirk is bittersweet. “Yeah, I’d imagine.” He flips through the last few pages of the album before setting it back on the table. “Sorry for dragging down the room. It’s my specialty, I guess.”
Karkat shakes his head. He breathes in, holds the resentment that’s bubbled in the back of his mind for decades close to his heart, and releases it as he exhales. “Honestly, it’s nice to talk about that bullshit sometimes.”
Dave’s quizzical expression suggests that he doesn’t understand Karkat’s viewpoint, but he nods nonetheless.
When Karkat’s watch goes off, he stands and starts prepping the burgers.
Dave follows.
Another conversation, this one more banal and meandering than the last, begins. Whenever the two men aren’t playfully insulting each other, they’re laughing at stupid jokes or random internet videos.
A relaxed and thoroughly enjoyable atmosphere settles in the apartment. It persists through dinner and sits comfortably as Dave and Karkat settle by the sofa for a movie.
Admittedly, neither man has a particular desire to watch Silver Linings Playbook. It’s little more than background noise, and it handily fulfills its role as the chatter continues. By 8:00 p.m., the topic has changed for the umpteenth time. Karkat wraps up his recounting of June’s antics after her wisdom tooth removal.
And Dave responds with a smile, but it fades quickly. He wants to say something, but he keeps stopping himself. Finally, after a solid minute of awkward verbal fumbling, he clears his throat. “So, on the topic of surgeries…”
Karkat’s brows furrow. Until now, he’d forgotten Dave’s texts. Like a loyal dog, he obeyed his orders: He forgot the issue entirely. Now, it hits him with the force of a speeding train. “Oh, yeah… fuck…” He folds his arms across his chest and stares at a fading patch on the right knee of his jeans. “Have you gotten an update on that?”
“Yeah,” Dave rubs his hands together. “You’ve been worrying about me, haven’t you?” His eyes are locked firmly on his lap. “Rose has, too. Maybe you and her should form a support group, yeah?” he smirks, but the expression is a thin ruse for his anxiety.
Over time, Karkat has learned to read Dave. Despite his blasé act, his boyfriend is an open book. When he’s anxious, he fidgets; his eyes wander.
All those boxes are checked, and Karkat’s worries are enough to overpower his need to smooth out the social wrinkles. “Of course I am, you miserable jackass. I’d be more concerned if I wasn’t worried, and I hope you would be, too!”
“Hm,” Dave nods. He leans his elbows against his knees and starts gnawing on the totem at the end of his necklace. The fingers of his right hand trace an idle line down the back of his neck as he continues, his tone carefully disconnected from the reality of what he’s saying: “Rose’ll be coming down in a few weeks. They… uh… Yeah, it’s surgery.”
“Oh.” Despite the physical warmth in the room, Karkat feels like he’s been plunged into Arctic waters. He opens his mouth to say more.
Dave interrupts him. “How much do you want to know?”
“All of it, preferably.” The reply leaves Karkat’s mouth with too much venom. He cringes, rubs his hands over his face, and breathes a long sigh. “Sorry,” he adds, “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
If Dave was bothered by the outburst, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he scratches the scar at the base of his neck. “It’s… uhm… So, hey, there’s good news. It ain’t something that requires another serious spinal surgery. God knows I’ve had enough of those to last me a lifetime.” His thin smile is as hollow as his voice.
At this point, Karkat will happily take any silver lining. “Well, that’s a fucking relief.”
“Sort of,” Dave shoves himself upright and folds his arms across his chest. He’s intentionally distancing himself from the topic, and he continues to do so as he pushes on, giving Karkat no time to interrupt: “Apparently, my throat’s filled with scar tissue. It’s been festering for years, but it’s just gotten too bad to ignore.” He holds his hands out like he’s gripping a broom. “See, your throat should be like this, right? Well, mine’s gotten too narrow near the bottom.” The lower hand closes, looking at if it’s squeezing something. “Got it?”
It takes Karkat a solid minute to scrape together enough sanity to nod and squeeze out a quiet reply: “Yes.”
“Well, that ain’t exactly great,” Dave jokes, but this distraction is as futile as the rest. “They want to… uh… They’ll cut that tight part out, connect what’s left, and sew it back together.” He lowers his hands and removes his glasses long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose. “They say it’ll help with my breathing. Might improve my voice, too, but we’ll fucking see. They said that three surgeries ago, so…”
“So…?” Karkat parrots, unsure of what else to say.
“It’s not a major surgery,” Dave reassures.
And the effort fails.
“They’re slicing open your fucking neck, Dave. That’s pretty godsdamned serious.”
“Well, yeah, but the alternative was potentially life-altering spinal surgery.” Dave’s right hand idly runs down his neck. “That’s what I thought it was, by the way. I thought we were doing another shunt revision, and recovery from that’s a bitch and a half. Did it ten years ago and…” When he realizes this is making the situation worse, he backpedals. He tentatively reaches out and puts his hand on Karkat’s shoulder. “Look. Hey, Kat, look.”
Karkat pushes through the knot in his stomach long enough to obey. Dark brown meets hazel.
“I don’t want this, neither. And the best way you can help is to not freak out, alright? I’m doing that enough for all of us — me, you, and Rosey. It’s…” he bites his lip and rubs the side of his neck. After a moment, the hand on Karkat’s shoulder offers a firm squeeze. “Please, dude, I need you to be my optimistic side. And I know that sounds fucking insane, but…” His gaze wanders, lowering until it focuses on his knees.
Karkat’s eyes are burning. After a few seconds, he realizes he’s crying. He starts biting the skin at the tip of his right thumb.
Dave breathes in, and a muffled whistling noise rises from his chest. His other hand, pale and warm and commanding, grabs Karkat’s right wrist; a gentle force pulls his hand away from his mouth. “This is what you signed up for, dude. That’s just the sucky truth. I’m… I’m so fucking tired of it all, y’know? I’d just like for it all to settle, to never have to go under another goddamn knife. But that ain’t how it is.”
Slowly, Karkat nods.
“Please,” Dave says, his voice painfully raw and hoarse and shaking. “I have enough anxiety to go ‘round. You and Rose can form your own little support group, but I need you to be someone I can depend on for this.”
A rough thumb rubs away a trail of Karkat’s tears. Dave’s voice softens; that smooth, honest intonation returns. “I’ve been through more surgeries than I can count. And if Rose buckled every time, I would’ve given up two decades ago.” He slowly withdraws his touch and leans against his knees. When he buries his face in his hands, he heaves a hoarse, rasping sigh. “I don’t need another reminder that I pull down everyone I know, alright? I know I do.”
Dave’s voice cracks. A low groan of pain accompanies a single, muffled sob. “I see it in you, too, Kat. The way you look at me whenever something goes wrong. I know it’s ‘cause you care. I get it. But I wish you didn’t have to. I wish Rose didn’t have to.” He suddenly sits upright, turns, and slams his right fist against the table. When he’s done, he runs his fingers through his hair. “Sorry.” He flexes his fingers. “Didn’t mean to lose my shit there. That was pretty fucking lame of me.”
“I think you’re entitled to it, honestly.”
Something about Dave’s position — arms crossed, shoulders squared, and jaw set — screams to be left alone. So, reluctantly, Karkat stays in place. He picks at a loose thread in the seam of his pants and focuses on a fly buzzing around the nearby overhead light.
“It’s…” Dave clears his throat. The act prompts a series of dry, rasping coughs. When they stop, he rubs his throat and tries again: “It’s not for a few weeks. Late March. They want to fix it ASAP.” When he turns around, there’s a sheepish half-smile on his face. “Sorry for killing the mood, by the way. I just wanted to get that unpleasant shit out of the way, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Karkat forces himself to smile, and he hopes it’s more genuine than Dave’s hollow grins. “I appreciate you telling me, though. And I mean that as genuinely as possible.”
“It’s what you asked for, ain’t it?” Dave cocks his head to the side and settles back into his former spot. The wall is going back up. A familiar, subtle crackle returns to his voice. “So… you still want to keep this shit going, or did I pull an Old Yeller on the party?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s that bad.”
Dave’s expression and demeanor soften further. The tension in his shoulders starts to dissipate. “And, hey, I have something for you to pay you back.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of semigloss tickets. “Someone told me you like musicals. Well, I’ve got two premium season passes.”
Karkat’s eyes widen. Part of him — the tiny scrap of coherent thought he has left — feels bad for being so easily swayed. Then again, he’s never seen something so extravagant in his entire life. Seeing a single show every two years was a special treat. A premium pass, a slip that promises entry to every show for the upcoming year, may as well be a pipe dream.
And Dave effortlessly switches the mood by leaning into the excitement. A casual smile spreads across his face as he dangles the tickets in the air. “C’mon, now, big boy. Don’t drool all over them before you get to cash ‘em in.” He waggles his brows and pulls back a few feet when Karkat reaches out. “Who’s going with?”
“Sollux,” Karkat answers, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You, of course, you stupid bastard!” He reaches out again. This time, Dave hands the tickets over. Even knowing they’re just fancy pieces of paper, Karkat holds them like a precious relic. “If you want to go, of course.”
And Dave responds with his own flippant snark: “No, I bought two tickets because I hate music. I’ve never touched anything musical in my entire life, y’know!” He smirks.
For now, the pure excitement of the moment overrides Karkat’s anxiety. The mood shifts, and the tension dissipates. By the time Karkat sets aside the tickets, the discussion has moved to brighter topics. And it stays there for the rest of the night, until Dave reluctantly departs to return home.
Notes:
Japan really popped off when they invented Kaomoji, huh? (• ▽ •;)
Chapter 38: Tell Me What Your Heart Says
Summary:
Chapter title from Trans-Siberian Orchestra's “Forget About the Blame”. There's also the “Moon Version” — same lyrics, different singer.
Chapter Text
Sunday, 27 February 2022
On one hand, Karkat Vantas will freely admit that Sollux’s emotional intelligence is lacking. In fact, most of his friends have the social awareness of a gnat — and that may be an insult to gnats. “Birds of a feather flock together” holds true for his friend group, so most of his friends are maladapted nerds. More importantly, none of them are as “in tune” with him as Sollux. (Save, perhaps, for Kanaya, but asking her for emotional advice is akin to playing hot potato with a primed grenade.)
Thus, he finds himself in his current predicament: He’s thrown across his sofa, staring at the ceiling, and venting to one of the most underequipped men on the planet. He cannot conceive of a worse person for the job, but Sollux is the only viable option.
A hollow pop is followed by a hissing fizz. “So,” Sollux lisps, drawing out the vowel, “you’re worried about Dave?”
“Obviously.”
“And you’re handling it by…?”
“Getting drunk with you and lying on my floor.”
“And talking to me?”
“Unfortunately.”
Sollux laughs.
Karkat drags his hands over his face. After a minute more of stewing in his anxieties, he sits up. He downs some more cheap beer and stares at Sollux.
His friend is, as always, resting his feet on the coffee table. Arched brows are knit together, nearly touching above a prominent nose. “I’m not sure I follow what’s happening here. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know,” Karkat admits, and the words feel foreign in his mouth. He’s always had a good hold of his emotions. He may not have great control over how he feels, but he can always articulate it when asked. His interest in psychology stemmed from his seemingly innate ability to name emotions at a glance, including his own, but every minute he spends around Dave injects a new wave of uncertainty into his mind.
And even Sollux acknowledges the peculiarity of the statement. “You don’t know? You don’t know? Well, fuck, KK, how do you expect me to help without knowing the problem?” Like Dave, he gestures wildly as he speaks. He presses against his chest and waves his hands in the air, splashing a few drops of nasty Carapacian onto the laminate floor.
“I was rather naïvely hoping you’d have a sudden burst of emotional intelligence. Some sort of revelation, perhaps. Stupid fucking me, of course!” Karkat stumbles to his feet and drinks the last few drops of his beer. He throws the now-empty bottle into the plastic recycling bin by the sofa as he passes. “What, you never worry about Aradia?”
Sollux shrugs. “I feel like we’re apples-ing some oranges here.”
“Yeah.” Karkat drops into the empty spot on the sofa. He buries his face in his hands and massages his thumbs against his temples. Warmth is spreading through his bodies, pushing a tipsy haze to his extremities. “But you don’t worry about her at all?”
“Karkat, my man, Aradia could body you without breaking a sweat. Why the fuck would I worry about her?”
“Fair.” A long sigh punctuates Karkat’s concession.
Sollux shakes his head and sucks air through his teeth. A lanky hand smacks Karkat on the back of the head, and a nasal laugh fills the room. “C’mon, you gloomy bastard.” He stands long enough to retrieve another beer, which he promptly deposits in his friend’s lap. “Drink up. Let’s take the Captor approach to problems.”
“Ignoring them?” Karkat supplies.
After raising his nearly empty bottle in the air, Sollux nods. “You bet your ass.”
Part of Karkat wants to refuse the offer. Suppressing his feelings has never gone well for anyone, least of all him, but… The sparkling liquor is a welcome relief. It tastes like a mix of gasoline and piss. There’s nothing pleasant about drinking it. The effects, however, are blissfully mind-numbing. After a few tentative sips, he caves to his vices and chugs.
Tuesday, 1 March 2022
Pesterchum chat between Dave and Rose:
turntechGodhead [DAVE] began pestering tentacleTherapist [ROSE] at 22:02
DAVE: holy shit you really can hold a grudge. but so can i. genetics i guess.
DAVE: sorry about uh hol up lemme check
DAVE: three days ago.
DAVE: so please accept my peace offering.
USER turntechGodhead UPLOADED A FILE: sowwy.png
DAVE: hello?
DAVE: rose?
DAVE: rosey posey?
DAVE: rosalba?
ROSE: God forbid a woman enjoy a spa day without being pestered by her whiny brother, huh? 😒
ROSE: But I suppose I accept your apology. I also owe you one. I didn’t mean to pry so deeply.
ROSE: I will work on bettering my impulse control.
USER tentacleTherapist UPLOADED A FILE: apology.png
DAVE: …
DAVE: ngl rose i think my apology was better but whatevs. it’s the thought that counts right?
ROSE: 🖕
DAVE: wow! that’s the fucking spirit! 👍
DAVE: glad to see we’re back to normal.
DAVE: ok so anyhow i wanted to ask if they mailed the surgical pamphlet to the wrong address again. because doc ambrose says i *should* have it by now but as you can see i clearly do not have it.
ROSE: Actually, Dave, I do not “see” anything. I am not present to behold your display of pamphlet-less woe. You have also failed to attach any sort of photographic evidence of your current status. Thus, I cannot attest to how “clearly” you lack the informational pamphlet.
USER turntechGodhead UPLOADED A FILE: bruh.jpeg
ROSE: *Now* I see your predicament.
ROSE: Well, shouldn’t you have gotten that information at your initial consultation on February 25? If you didn’t receive the requisite materials, do let me know. I will complain to the appropriate officials.
DAVE: oh my god can you stop going karen mode on my behalf?
DAVE: i *did* get the “requisite materials” but i kinda
DAVE: ha ha ha
DAVE: well you see
DAVE: the problem is
DAVE: that
DAVE: well
DAVE: i sorta lost the pamphlet. 👉👈
ROSE: …
DAVE: …
ROSE: How the *fuck* do you survive without me?
DAVE: i dee kay. 😞
ROSE: I sometimes ponder the implications of our joint living situation. Perhaps I “babied” you too much. Your infinite incompetence may be my fault, and for that I sincerely apologize.
ROSE: Then again, our family has never been particularly “sane” about anything. I’m sure some of your predicament is genetic. Such factors may also explain our predisposition for and ongoing problems with codependency. Fortunately, the latter issue *had* been resolving well with distance. Alas. 🤷♀️
ROSE: In any case, I may as well answer your inquiry. Yes, I do have a pamphlet. It was not “delivered to the wrong address”; it was delivered exactly where it was needed. Allow me a few minutes to scan and send the information.
DAVE: holy wall of pretentious loquacious vomit batman! you could’ve just said yeah or nah.
ROSE: Do you want the materials or not? 😒
DAVE: 🤐
USER tentacleTherapist UPLOADED A FILE: stop-losing-shit.pdf
DAVE: you scanned it upside down… 🙃
ROSE: …
ROSE: 😠
ROSE: Then turn your phone… upside-down?
DAVE: but that’s extra work… 🥺
USER tentacleTherapist UPLOADED A FILE: fuck-you.png
ROSE: Please see attached image for more information. I will not be doing any more work for you. I have professional matters to attend to, Dave.
DAVE: at 9:00 p.m.? 🤷♂️
ROSE: Yes! See, I have an incredibly important meeting with Mrs. Not You.
turntechGodhead [DAVE] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [ROSE]
Friday, 4 March 2022
Karkat understands why Dave insists on cramming in as much work as he can. On a logical level, it’s more than reasonable. He needs a comfortable financial safety net to keep him afloat after the surgery. Emotionally, he finds himself flailing. Days rapidly blend together, forming a monotonous march of idle anxiety with periods of mindless work. In some ways, he’s grateful for the distraction; in others, he wished time passed more slowly.
When Dave suggests they meet at the local botanical garden for lunch on Friday, Karkat seizes the opportunity like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. He agreed far too eagerly; he seemed too desperate. Then again, he is desperate. More and more, he’s finding Dave’s presence to be like a drug. He craves it — all of it.
This time, Karkat overdresses. He arrives in his gray suit, as ill-fitting as it may be, and finds Dave in jeans and a pullover. Normally, such a social faux pas would spoil the entire outing; around Dave, it’s little more than something to laugh about.
The warmth from before has faded. Temperatures have dropped, falling back into a more conventional range. The air is crisp and cool, but it’s not uncomfortably cold. From time to time, the sun peeks through the low-hanging clouds, casting the world in a wash of gold. The gardens are still mostly bare; the flowers have yet to bloom. Still, there are splashes of color.
Once, years ago, Karkat hid his anger in his family’s garden. He learned the names of countless plants. Now, as he wanders down one of the park’s cobblestone paths, he points to a burst of dusky yellow growths on a nearby tree. The colorful growths look like wispy fingers reaching into the late winter air. “How much do you know about plants?”
“I know what weed looks like,” Dave shrugs and leans back in his chair. His right thumb idly massages his left wrist. The bulky brace is gone, but he still has a pressure wrap around the joint. “I grew up in downtown Houston, Karkat. I didn’t exactly do much gardening, y’know?”
Karkat nods. He doesn’t bother hiding his relaxed smile as he regurgitates long-buried facts. “Well, then, dumbass, let me educate you. That’s witch-hazel. Hamamelis virginian. It’s one of the few things that flowers in winter.” He then points to a cluster of mottled green leaves near the walkway. Pastel pink flowers sprout from its leaves. “Same for Christmas roses, Hellebore Orientalis. Both are popular options for anyone who wants more life in their garden over the winter.”
A small smile crosses Dave’s face, breaking his otherwise indifferent expression. “Didn’t know any of that. Didn’t know you did much gardening, either.”
“Kanaya introduced me to it,” Karkat admits as he buries his hands in his pockets. “I used to do it for stress relief. Of course, it’s been years since I’ve had a proper garden. I don’t exactly have any fucking space in that shit-hole of an apartment.”
“My yard’s pretty depressing. Feel free to come over and fix it up. I tried keeping up with Rose’s stuff, but,” a trace of regret flits across Dave’s features, “I’m not great at it.”
“I could stay,” Karkat wants to say, “I could stay and fix it all.”
Dave, fully unaware of his boyfriend’s thoughts, readjusts his position before folding his arms atop the angled, motorcycle-esque attachment mounted to the front of his wheelchair. “If my sis has a green thumb, then mine’s black as shit. I just kill every plant I touch. Not sure why.”
Karkat shakes his head, clearing out his lingering, idiotic dreams of living with Dave. “So… you want me to fix more of your bullshit.”
A smile and a pair of finger guns precede Dave’s reply: “You fucking bet, dude.” When his right leg starts twitching, he winces; he doubles over when the movement grows stronger.
Karkat wrings his hands together. Before, when they barely knew each other, the spasms were peculiar and uncomfortable for their novelty. Now, they feel like a knife sliding between his ribs. Normally, they end after a few seconds; this one stretches out for more than a minute. A mix of concern and anxiety drives him to speak: “Can I do anything?”
A hoarse wheeze accompanies a slow nod. Dave breathes in before speaking through gritted teeth. “Just lift my leg up a little. Hands under the knee. Less painful that way. Anything else stretches too much. Hurts more.”
Karkat nods. He commits the instructions to memory and moves forward. His initial touch is met with a sharp inhale and a muffled yelp. Even knowing that it isn’t his fault, the knife in Karkat’s chest twists. Still, he pushes ahead. He lifts Dave’s leg and holds it in place until the movement slows to a stop.
Over the next minute, Dave’s breathing evens out. His tense shoulders loosen. He flexes his fingers and leans back in his chair. “Thank you,” he says, his tone uncharacteristically soft and genuine. “You’re… uh… Not even June would do that, y’know. I get why. It’s scary. It’s weird. But it’s nice knowing I have someone other than me to help with that shit.”
“No problem.” Karkat wanders a few more feet ahead and settles into a bench. The wood is cold and rigid. It’s not a comfortable spot, but it offers a lovely view of the Japanese garden through a thicket of witch-hazel. He folds his hands and leans his elbows against his knees, unconsciously mirroring Dave’s preferred mode of relaxation. “Do they always hurt?”
“The spasms?” Dave stops in front of Karkat. After checking to make sure nobody needs to use the path, he relaxes. He lets his hands drop away from the motorized attachment’s handlebars. His left arm idly drapes over the back of his chair; his right hand beats an idle waltz against the corresponding pushrim. “Mostly yes. Sometimes no. Don’t make much sense, really.” A lopsided smile accompanies the answer.
“And what causes them?”
Dave pauses. There’s a moment of hesitation before his reply, as if he doesn’t want to involve Karkat in the topic. That uncertainty melts slowly; his furrowed brows soften. “My body still feels shit. Pain, cold, and all that. The signals are still there, but” — he presses the tips of his thumbs together, forming a straight line, “think of this as my spine, right? Normally, you get signals going back and forth. But when you break that,” he moves his left thumb away with a snap of his wrist, “nothing gets through. Or, in some cases,” he touches just the upper edges of his thumbs together, “just a little gets through.”
Finally, he lowers his hands. He pointedly looks away, focusing on a distant gazebo, as he concludes the explanation. His left heel rises slowly, moving just enough to reposition his leg. “When something fires off the nerves, that signal wants to get through. Human bodies want to function, no matter how fucking broken they are. And when they don’t, well,” he shrugs, “you get a spasm.”
“And how do you stop them?”
“You don’t.” Dave frowns. He rubs the back of his neck and laughs; the sound is the perfect balance between bitter and sweet. “I’ve tried just ‘bout every drug. They don’t work on me. Not sure why. The only one that does makes me too damn sleepy to function, so… I just deal with ‘em.” Again, he pauses. That hesitancy creeps back into his voice; his shoulders tense, and his left hand moves to hover over the wheel of his chair. “Why?”
“I’m curious,” Karkat lies.
As usual, Dave catches on immediately. “You want to help,” he counters. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “You’re really, really sweet, Kat. Rotting my fucking teeth out, aren’t you?” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I want a boyfriend, not a nurse. M’kay?”
“I…” Karkat wants to say more. He wants to push back, but he knows it’s not his place. If there’s one thing he’s had to beat into his head over the past two decades, it’s that he can’t force his will onto others. So, reluctantly, he nods. “Yeah. I understand.”
Dave smiles and clicks his tongue. “Good boy.” He leans forward enough to pat Karkat on the knee before nodding towards the main building. “Anyhow, I’m hungry. You want to go for lunch?”
Again, Karkat nods. He stands and follows Dave.
The walk to the café takes about fifteen minutes. Without Dave, Karkat probably could have cleared as much ground in a quarter of the time. Not that he minds; he’ll happily take any time he can get with Dave. He grabs it all and holds it to his chest like a life-giving force, desperately clinging to every second — and it still slips between his fingers, blurring into the mundane nature of the day. Even as they place their orders and discuss inane shit, Karkat’s heart flutters. His mind rests in a bed of fluffy, light bliss.
His need to be around Dave is turning into an obsessive dream. He wants more than friendly chatter and promises of an ongoing friendship. He wants it all — he wants everything about Dave. Yes, he adores his talents. Regardless of its source, Dave’s confidence is intoxicating. His artistic side is endearing to a fault, as is his effortless musicality. But Karkat wants everything — flaws included.
When the waiter drops off his turkey sandwich, Karkat finally manages to wrangle his racing mind back into his body. A few seconds later, he finds himself staring at a glossy medical pamphlet.
“You said you wanted to know it all,” Dave mumbles. Again, he’s looking away; it’s obvious that he would prefer if Karkat stays out of his medical matters, but he still makes the effort to include him. “Well, there it is.” His fingers beat anxiously against the white tablecloth. “One week hospital stay minimum, two months of low activity. Maybe more.”
Karkat flips through the booklet. He winces at the various diagrams of the surgery and squints at the array of terms he’s never before seen. “When is it?” he asks, but he keeps his eyes firmly focused on the incomprehensible text.
“Two weeks.” The thumping beat stops. Dave’s fingers are now combing through his hair. He gnaws on the bright red totem at the end of his necklace; it’s starting to show faint signs of wear. “I… Please don’t be offended when I say this, but” — he doesn’t need to finish.
“You don’t want me there,” Karkat mumbles, and the words leave his lips like ten-ton stones.
“I don’t.” Dave’s reply is straightforward and honest. “I really, truly do not want you there. I… I don’t want you to see me like…” he removes his glasses and rubs his hands over his eyes. Instead of putting them back on, he lets them sit by his plate. “It’s not a personal thing, Kat. The only person I want there is Rose.”
“What if…” Karkat digs his nails into the fleshy portion of his palms. The discomfort drags the bulk of his anger back, away from the edge of the leash, but it still lingers. “What if I want to be there?”
A long pause precedes Dave’s response. He tears through half his meal, obviously stalling, before formulating what he wants to say. “Then show up after I’m knocked out. And leave before I’m awake.”
“Would I even be allowed to?” The drop of resentment that dilutes Karkat’s question is unintentional, but he doesn’t feel like taking it back.
“I’ll tell Rose you can come, yeah.” Dave shakes his head. “I’m sorry, by the way. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I just… I don’t want you to be my nurse. I hire a team for a reason. I need that extra help, but… not from you.” His attempt at a reassuring smile looks more like a constipated grimace. The absurd display is enough to loosen some of the tension in the air as he continues, “Don’t mistake this for me pushing you away. But I… I need more time, I guess.”
Three, two, one…
One, two, three…
“More time?” Karkat asks, forcing his voice to remain even.
“To be comfortable with…” Dave rubs the back of his neck. His left hand reaches out and idly rests atop the detached motor accessory. “I don’t want you to deal with it — my medical shit, okay? Not because I don’t care, but because I do. Because you don’t deserve it.” Here, a nervous smile crosses his face. “I’d rather you check out my ass to admire it, not look for pressure sores, y’know?”
As stupid as the joke is, Karkat’s desperate search for a social outlet drives him to laugh. The tension unwinds like a music box — slow, steady, and strangely mechanical — until it returns to the usual, amicable neutral. After a few more seconds of thought, Karkat nods. “For a crass, perverted idiot, you’re actually really thoughtful.”
Dave, like always, regains his conversational footing with ease. He smirks and folds his hands behind his head. “‘Course I am,” he winks. “How else do you think I pulled all those hot cheerleaders at Houston University?”
A snort of laughter slips through the tension. Karkat flicks a tomato from his salad, and it bounces off Dave’s chest.
The anxiety subsides. And Karkat, partially driven by his desperation to grab hold of every fleeting moment with Dave that he can get, lets the conversation fall back into the realm of stupid, asinine nonsense.
Notes:
[turns the romance and drama knobs up at the same time]
Chapter 39: Will I Meet Tender You?
Summary:
Chapter title from the English translation of Aoi Teshima's Summer of Farewells (Sayonara no Natsu/さよならの夏)” (used in From Up On Poppy Hill). It's credited to composer Satoshi Takebe in the playlist.
Notes:
I forgor to add “Hotel California” to the playlist, but it's there now.
Chapter Text
Thursday, 10 March 2022
Group Pesterchum chat:
USER tentacleTherapist ADDED USER carcinoGeneticist TO GROUP CHAT [F.W.O.D.S.A.]
JUNE: uuuuuuuuh… shouldn’t we change the name if karkat’s here?
KARKAT: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?
USER ectoBiologist CHANGED GROUP CHAT NAME TO [F.W.O.D.S.A. (AND KARKAT!)]
ROSE: Ah, yes, the acronym!
ROSE: Welcome to the “Future Widows of Dave Strider Anonymous” support group.
JUNE: and karkat!
ROSE: …
ROSE: Erm… Yes. And *you*, I suppose. That seems to be a rather blatant fact, but June seems insistent that we point this peculiarity out. Do ignore the morbid name. It hails from an old joke Dave likes to crack. He often says that my overbearing nature imitates that of a “future widow”.
ROSE: Anyhow, think of this as your “safe space” (for lack of a better term) for venting your frustrations about Dave’s apparent inability to take anything seriously.
ROSE: And feel free to ask any questions about matters he doesn’t wish to discuss.
KARKAT: IS ALL OF THIS FUCKING NECESSARY? IT SEEMS LIKE A WHOLE ASSLOAD OF HOOPLAH.
ROSE: Yes, it is.
JADE: yep! 😃
JUNE: yeah, it’s kinda essential if you’re friends with that idiot.
KARKAT: IS THERE ANYONE ELSE IN HERE I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT? ANY *OTHER* EXES BESIDES NERD SUPREME?
User gardenGnostic [JADE] is an idle chum!
ROSE: Not really. Roxy sometimes pops in, but she’s a busy, busy bee. She is also not an ex, so don’t worry about that.
ROSE: Now that I’m thinking about it, most of Dave’s exes are in Houston. Understandably, he doesn’t speak to any of them at this point. Especially not Deacon.
JUNE: all my homies hate deacon. ☹️
KARKAT: …
KARKAT: HOW IS IT THAT EVERYTHING DAVE TOUCHES MANAGES TO BECOME THE BIGGEST CLUSTER MIGRAINE ON THE PLANET? TRULY, IT’S HIS SPECIALTY. IS IT THE EMOTIONAL CONSTIPATION, OR HIS INTRACTABLE REFUSAL TO ACCEPT ANY FORM OF VULNERABILITY?
KARKAT: HA! WHAT A STUPID QUESTION! IT’S VERY CLEARLY *BOTH* OF THESE IDIOTIC TENDENCIES DRIVING THIS DRAMA.
ROSE: And don’t forget his “charming” propensity for stonewalling!
JUNE: and his “cooler than you” attitude! 🙄
JADE: he’s really just clueless. 😅
User gardenGnostic [JADE] is an idle chum!
ROSE: Anyhow, we all agree that our beloved David is the world’s most hapless dumbass.
ROSE: Welcome to the commiseration club.
ROSE: I’m sure you’re also worried about his upcoming surgery. Everyone here has been informed of the impending event, so…
KARKAT: WAIT…
KARKAT: BACK THE FUCK UP.
KARKAT: IF THIS GROUP IS “ESSENTIAL” FOR ANYONE WITH THE INSANE NEED TO MAINTAIN DAVE’S IRRITATING PRESENCE IN THEIR LIVES, *WHY* AM I ONLY BEING ADDED IN *NOW* — AFTER DATING HIM FOR WEEKS?
ROSE: Wow! Huh! Would you look at the time! I’ve got a meeting to attend.
User tentacleTherapist [ROSE] is an idle chum!
JUNE: 😓
JUNE: don’t look at me! i only had name change permissions here, yo! 🤷♀️
KARKAT: 😒
Monday, 14 March 2022
The Strider-Lalonde dynamic has been ridiculously complex for the past fifteen years — or perhaps a bit less, if one is to be technical about the measurement of time. Once, in the first half of Dave Strider’s life, it was simple. He stayed away from Rose, and Rose stayed away from him. Any interactions they were forced to have were uniformly strained and implicitly hostile. He did his best to push her away, assuming that all the lies his father had told him were right — that she was, like their mother, a “jealous harpy” with a “heart of ice” and “a thirst for blood”. He saw her as his adversary, a reminder of his former femininity.
The crash changed things.
Slowly, the veil dropped.
With his mother largely too drunk to handle his care, Dave was forced — kicking and screaming and resisting with every ounce of agency he had left — to accept Rose’s help. Maybe it’s the nature of caregiving, but it became increasingly difficult to view his sister as his enemy when she was the sole force keeping him from rotting away in his bedroom.
And he appreciates her help; he always has. His hatred for her was never that deep. But part of him resents her presence. She’s a reminder of the things he can’t do. She’s the omnipresent, physical embodiment of his limitations. Her concern often becomes a barrier of its own, and over the past few months, he’s grown accustomed to solo living. Now, he’s being forced back into a box.
Still, he fakes a smile and greets Rose with the usual handshake — high, low, and a fistbump. He wonders if she, too, feels the tension in the air.
No, probably not.
“David,” she says, her voice a step higher than usual, “what did you do to my tchotchke cabinet?”
Dave doesn’t need to look to know what his sister is referencing. Once filled with fine porcelain and wizard figurines, Rose’s beloved Queen Anne display cabinet is now stocked with assorted skulls and peculiar geodes.
He smiles, pushes forward, and stops when his footplate bumps Rose’s shins. “My house now, Rosey.”
“Yes, that much is obvious.” Rose shakes her head and sets her overstuffed purse on the dining table. The act disturbs the carefully cultivated stack of spam mail, and approximately two dozen magazines fall to the floor. The resulting thump prompts a tired sigh and a click of Rose’s tongue. “My god, you live like a slob.”
“Yeah, well,” Dave follows his twin and stops a few feet behind her. He isn’t in the mood to be inadvertently clobbered in the head by her second purse, which currently dangles from her shoulder and rests level with his face. “I’ve been trying to make money before I’m knocked back down for a few months, y’know? Can’t rely on you for everything.”
“You could!” Rose’s reply is as predictable as it is bright. She’s being helpful, but it feels patronizing.
Dave squirms. He readjusts his position and backs away a few more feet. Bringing up his discomfort will only lead to arguments; he knows that much. So, instead, he changes the topic. “Got anything else in your…” he looks out the window and shudders upon seeing a maroon minivan, — “oh. You… rented a van, huh?”
“Of course.” When Rose turns around, her other purse swings outward. Her hands rest on her hips, and the look on her face is a mix of confusion and annoyance. “Don’t give me that pout, Dave. You know you can’t be throwing yourself around like a sack of potatoes after this surgery.”
“I guess I just didn’t think ‘bout it that much yet,” Dave admits. After flexing his fingers, he rubs his palms against his knees.
“I can tell.” Rose’s eyes narrow. She heads for the door, heels clicking against the floor with the same staccato percussion as drumsticks against plastic, as she continues, “I only have one more bag. Don’t worry about it. I suggest you return to work.”
Dave nods.
He doesn’t need permission to do as he pleases in his own house, but he feels compelled to act as a good host. True, this was once Rose’s house, but she’s a guest. And he reminds himself of this fact constantly. Eventually, she’ll leave. Eventually, he’ll get his domain back. But for now, he slides back into her shadow.
Friday, 18 March 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Sollux:
End of text message exchange.
-----
Karkat has never liked hospitals, but he’s not exactly afraid of them. Rather, they make him deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it’s their tendency to use whitewashed walls and impressionistic art that’s just blurry enough to seem otherworldly. Perhaps it’s their status as the liminal space between life and death. Whatever the cause for his disquiet may be, the fact remains: He’s only here for Dave.
Knowing that the surgery is over helps; it’s the first step to easing his anxiety. Now, as he sits in the cramped waiting room, he faces the second hurdle. Rose has been taken back, but he was instructed to stay in place. He understands the choice, and he knows that Rose, as Dave’s sister, takes priority. At the same time, he can’t help but feel like he’s entitled to something more.
Across the way, in a wooden seat with scratchy upholstery, an old man is snoring. As he inhales, the bag of Cheetos on his stomach falls to the floor. Orange-hued bits scatter across the floor. A few chairs to the left, a child is playing a game on her mother’s phone. The cacophony of plinks and clangs seems too irreverent for this space, but nobody else is complaining. At most, the child garners occasional sideways glances.
A snippet of a lullaby plays through the overhead speakers. Somewhere, someone has given birth. Seconds later, there’s a code blue. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Karkat sees a team of haggard medical professionals stumble down the hall, lanyards flapping about wildly.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his father’s old mala — one of the few housewarming gifts Karkat actually kept. The wooden beads are smooth beneath his fingers, and he knows none of the associated prayers. He cycles them through his grasp and focuses on how the wood slowly grows warmer. Once, he could hear the quiet clacking as they filtered through his fingers; now, it’s a dull, distant sound.
Eventually, the door opens.
Rose says nothing; she merely tilts her head towards the hallway.
Karkat shoves both the mala and his hands into his pockets as he stands. Before leaving, he collects the cheap plush alligator he’d bought at the hospital’s gift shop. He presses his lips together, forcing himself to take an oath of silence, and falls in step with Rose.
Aside from footsteps, only her hushed voice fills the air. There’s other chatter, too; the voices of doctors, nurses, and other visitors exist, but Karkat’s mind filters them out. The minute Rose starts speaking, he moves to keep her on his left side. He misses the first few words but reassures himself that they’re unimportant.
“He’s in rough shape, Karkat. He’s never handled surgery well. We’re not sure why.” A nervous smile tugs at her lips, and she pulls at the stretchy band that secures a pink tourmaline bracelet around her left wrist. “We often joke that he could be perfectly groomed before a surgery, and he’d still come out the other side looking as if he’d slept in a dumpster.”
Karkat nods. And he learns something new about Rose.
When she’s nervous, she follows Dave’s lead: She talks. “It’s ironic, actually. They went in to fix damage from his multiple tracheotomies, and they had to do another. I’m sure Dave will also find some humor in the situation, but he likely won’t be too pleased with the result.” When the elevator opens, she turns to the left. “I’m sorry it took so long to collect you, by the way. Dave’s initial awakening was… unpleasant. He panicked. They’ve sedated him again. If he wakes up, then…” She stops before a door, and it looks like all the rest.
But it’s more palpably terrifying. It’s Dave’s door.
“He said he didn’t want me here,” Karkat meekly volunteers.
Rose shrugs. “We… discussed the matter. He’ll tolerate your presence, at least. Just… don’t panic when you see him. He can’t speak, not yet. But he’s fine.”
Again, Karkat nods. He involuntarily squeezes his eyes shut as the door opens.
Distantly, in the back of his mind, he remembers seeing his grandmother. She died when he was a toddler, but his father had insisted that he should see her. He sat on her lap in the hospital, watching idly as she reacted to nothing.
A gentle shove sends him stumbling the few steps it takes to cross the threshold. And Karkat finds himself in a room with muted green walls and tightly drawn curtains. He stares at the figure in the bed, and his mind spins.
It’s Dave. There’s no denying that it’s Dave. The form has the same sharp jawline and tousled blond hair. The scars are there. It’s Dave, but at the same time, it’s not. He’s completely still, and his brows are relaxed. There’s a peaceful look on his face, an expression Karkat has only seen on rare, fleeting occasions. His head and clavicle are encased in a brace that prevents him from straightening his neck. A plastic attachment is mounted at the base of his throat, covering that indented scar of his, from which snakes a hissing, white tube. Each hiss raises his chest; every sigh lets its fall. The edges of red, angry swelling poke from either end of a thick bandage that rests just below his Adam’s apple.
“You can come closer, you know.” Rose sits on the far side of the room, but she’s situated directly beside Dave. Her hands are folded atop the plastic bedside railing, and her chin rests against her flattened knuckles. When she gets no immediate reply, she offers a nervous smile. “He’s fine, I promise.”
Karkat hesitantly creeps forward. The closer he gets, the louder the hissing gets. It fills his head and overpowers his thoughts. Still, he approaches the bed. He silently tucks the plush alligator under Dave’s left hand. Now, it seems like a stupid gift. Surely, he could’ve gotten something better…
Dave stirs slightly. His eyes open, but they’re unfocused. He’s not awake — not really — but he’s cognizant enough to turn his gaze towards Karkat. His brows furrow. His mouth opens, but no sounds come out. “Fuck,” he mouths. His right hand reaches for his throat. The placid expression disappears. When the machine forces Dave to inhale, he winces. His right hand grabs the railing; his knuckles grow paler than usual.
Rose springs to her feet. “Stop, dumbass. Don’t pull out your lungs.” She sets Dave’s phone in his lap. Then, without explanation, she abruptly stands and heads for the door. “I’ll summon a respiratory therapist. Karkat, do make sure that tube stays in place. He will die without it, whether he likes it or not.” And on that ominous note, she leaves.
Dave, meanwhile, fumbles with the bed’s controls. He knows what he’s doing; that much is obvious. The bed lowers, and he stops when he’s able to see Karkat without turning his head. When his left hand falls to his side, his gaze drops. He studies the plush alligator, and a weak smile crosses his face. He fiddles with his phone and manages to type a message. Shortly thereafter, a robotic voice reads his statement: “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Karkat blinks.
Dave types, pausing during inhales.
In some ways, Karkat feels stupid for thinking of Dave as some sort of infallible force. He’s seen him show pain before; he knows some of his vulnerabilities. But this is different. It’s uncomfortable and raw; it rubs against everything he knows about his boyfriend. He keeps expecting to hear his voice, and the empty air that fills that void has all the warmth and give of a long-dead corpse.
The voice — distinctly cold and certainly not Dave’s — speaks again: “I should’ve let you be here in the first place. I was being selfish. My fault entirely.”
“No, I understand why you didn’t want me here,” Karkat admits. “It’s…”
“Uncomfortable,” Dave mouths. When his chest rises, his grip on the railing tightens. His shoulders tense. “Fuck. Fuck!”
For once, Karkat hates being able to read lips.
Mercifully, the door opens.
The doctor accompanying Rose discusses something, but Karkat filters out the specifics. He catches brief snippets, chatter about decreasing pressure and making breaths shallower. There’s a tense verbal argument. Then, a pause. A machine beeps a few times, and Dave’s shoulders relax.
The doctor leaves.
Rose sits in her former spot. “There,” she announces, her voice filled with faux aplomb, “is that better, Dave?”
A shaky thumbs-up serves as a reply.
“Is…” Karkat’s instinct wants to spread to Rose; his heart knows to speak to Dave. He shakes his head and corrects himself: “Are you okay?”
Another thumbs-up. A hoarse, rasping sigh. After a moment of typing, Dave’s stand-in voice responds, “They always set the pressure too high. My lungs aren’t used to it. Don’t worry about it.”
Something inside Karkat breaks. “I will worry about it, dumbass!” he snaps as he springs to his feet. “I care about you, Dave. As much as I hate to admit it, I love your insufferable ass. So, yes, I will worry about you.” As the flashover subsides, Karkat realizes that his fingers are wrapped tightly around the left railing of Dave’s hospital bed. His own voice — loud, rough, and all too angry — echoes in his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rubs his fingers over smooth wooden beads.
And Dave responds with a nervous, crooked smile. Now, every exhale is a sharp puff. His chest falls quickly between slower, longer breaths. It looks less comfortable than before, but it somehow works for him. He types without interruption, but the voice that comes forth is still wildly foreign to Karkat’s senses. “Okay,” it says, unaffected, “join the Strider Stress club. Back of the line. Pick up your pass at the door.”
“Don’t worry,” Rose smirks, “he’s already in the group chat.”
“Of course,” Dave mouths. He lets his phone drop onto his chest and closes his eyes.
The tension breaks, but it doesn’t subside. As far as Karkat is concerned, it never will. As long as he’s in a hospital, there will always be a creeping discomfort.
And maybe Rose senses as much. After tucking the plush alligator under Dave’s left arm and moving his phone to his right hand, she glances at Karkat. A relaxed, relieved smile slides across her face. “You can go. He’ll be asleep for most of the day.”
It’s an explicit offer, something bordering on a demand, but it still seems cowardly.
Like Dave, Rose reads through the hesitation. “He’ll be fine, Karkat. Go home. Rest. Give my idiotic brother a day or two to sleep off the sedation.”
This time, Karkat’s need for a release overpowers his loyalty. He offers a stiff nod and a forced smile. “You’ll text me if anything changes?”
“You can be sure of it,” Rose nods.
With explicit permission granted, Karkat turns on his heel and exits. In a few hours, he knows he’ll regret this choice. He knows he’ll feel like a coward. But he needs some sort of relief from the suffocating discomfiture in his stomach, and this is his out.
Chapter 40: Let Him Fill My Life
Summary:
Chapter title from the English translation of Édith Piaf's “Mon Dieu”, not the English version. That has entirely different lyrics.
Notes:
Chapter warnings in this for many things, including internalized ableism, mentions of past abuse, reliving past abuse, and trippy nightmares. It's all in Dave's head, but italicizing an entire chapter seemed kinda funky. So I just italicized the header instead.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Late March 2022
Sedative dreams are nothing new to Dave Strider. His first fell somewhere in the early days of January 2006, and every surgery since has been followed by trials born from vivid imagination. They’ve ranged from relaxing getaways to mind-numbing horrors, and he can already tell that this round will lean towards the latter scenario. At the very least, finding himself in an empty concrete room doesn’t inspire many warm thoughts. The presence of his Ego as a smirking, shades-wearing douchebag isn’t sparking much joy, either.
“‘Sup?” asks the Ego, his pale pink lips pulled into a self-righteous smile. His arms are crossed over his chest, and an obnoxiously bright red cape is draped over his shoulders. “Miss me? Come on, I know you did.” He disappears, only to reappear behind Dave. He hooks his arms beneath Dave’s armpits and hauls him to his feet. “Up you go, you pathetic lug.”
The world spins. After fifteen years, the additional height is disorienting enough to prompt a wave of nausea. After vomiting on the plain concrete floor, Dave drags his hands over his face. “Fuck you,” he snaps. “I’m only stuck with you because I was forced to skip a few doses of duloxetine. The minute that’s back in my system,” he snaps his fingers, “you’re gone.”
“Maybe,” shrugs the Ego. “But we’re both trapped in your head for now, so…” he sets his palms against the ground and pulls upwards. An eight-toothed red gear, approximately three feet across and half an inch thick, rises from the otherwise featureless slate gray earth. Once it’s fully emerged, it naturally turns sideways, hovering in the air like a flying saucer. A gentle push from the Ego sends it floating in Dave’s direction. “Catch, bitch.”
After suppressing another wave of nausea, Dave obeys. He holds out his left hand and lets the odd disk stop against his palm. Its surface is cold; the texture is familiar.
This is a giant, elaborate record.
His brows furrow. “The hell am I doing with this?”
The Ego mimes the act of scratching two disks at a turntable setup.
Dave blinks.
“Really? Don’t make me do all the fucking work, dude!” The Ego closes in on Dave. A hand a few shades darker than pale reaches out and spins the gear-shaped item.
The world melts.
Dave stands at the edge of a concrete roof. Looking down, he sees the unending bustle of Houston traffic. The unforgiving sun scorches his back and burns his neck. If he had ever felt any attachment to his father, he’d call this “home”; instead, he considers it a prison. He moves his left leg, but he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. A hand yanks him backwards moments before he falls forward.
“Woah, there, dumbass!” yelps the Ego. “Let’s not kill ourselves, intentionally or otherwise.”
The force of the pull sends Dave tumbling onto his back. Soon thereafter, he sees the more annoying iteration of himself hovering over him.
“Y’know, maybe I should just give you back that wheelchair, huh?”
“Yeah,” Dave huffs. “That’d be super fucking nice, actually. More used to that than legs. You’d’ve known that if you were me.”
“I mean…” the Ego drawls, “I am you. Just a different version of you.” He snaps his fingers.
Mercifully, Dave finds himself back in his usual place. Letting his fingers find a pair of rubberized pushrims is like blinking. It’s a natural, instinctual part of his life.
When he turns around, two things immediately catch his attention. The first is the red gear, which now hovers on the opposite side of the roof. The second is a version of himself that he’s spent decades suppressing. Between him and the apparent target, there’s a young child — a child who’s pale, far too skinny, and curled into a ball.
The Ego pops into view to Dave’s right. His hands are in the pockets of his garish red sweatpants, and a lopsided smile twists across his face. “Remember when we had long hair, dude? Absolutely fucked, right?”
“I don’t want to be here,” is Dave’s immediate reaction.
“No?” asks the Ego.
“NO! Get me the hell out of here!”
“That’s your job.” With a blasé shrug, the Ego disappears.
And Dave is, as usual, left to fend for himself. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to collect his thoughts. The ghost of a memory grabs him by the throat, and he acts without thinking. He leans back and imitates a crow call. Soon thereafter, a familiar bird — pitch black and missing its left eye — lands at his feet.
The child’s hyperventilating stops. Shoulder-length blonde hair shifts as they turn around and stare at the crow. Hazel eyes, rimmed red with tears, study the feathered beast before staring at Dave. Then, the child disappears. The disk drifts to Dave, stopping an arm’s length away.
After a moment of hesitation, he spins it.
This time, the shift is minimal. The roof has gained new cracks and dents. A new AC unit is mounted in the northeast corner.
Once again, the disk is gone. After a few seconds, it reappears, positioned behind a face Dave never thought he’d see again — one not unlike his own, but framed with graying stubble and marked by an increasingly unkempt goatee. Light brown — no, borderline orange — eyes widen as they fall upon Dave, and a simple order is barked into the air: “Strife!”
Seconds later, Dave sees a flash of metal. When he looks down, he sees a sword jutting from his chest.
“Shit, man,” the Ego unhelpfully narrates from atop the new AC unit, “haven’t had one of these nightmares in years, have we?”
“Kind of busy dying over here, jackass,” Dave sputters.
Somewhere, in a world disconnected from his mind, he hears shouting.
“I can fix this,” the Ego says, his voice desperate, “let me just…”
Another shift; this time, it’s accompanied by a brief, stinging pain in the back of Dave’s throat.
He finds himself in his childhood bedroom.
White cinderblock walls are adorned with shitty Polaroid photos, newspaper clippings, and cut-outs from his father’s porn stash. Empty boxes, crushed soda cans, and discarded bottles litter the floor. Navigating the space is akin to sprinting through a field of landmines. Dodging one thing only unearths another. Every few seconds, he’s leaning over to toss something out of his way.
“You ever think about how annoying it would’ve been to go back to him?” muses the Ego, now perched atop a mostly bare bed. His hands are folded behind his head; his left leg rests casually atop his right knee. “I mean… not like you were gonna climb twenty-one flights of stairs anymore, right?”
Realization hits. “Where’s the little guy?”
A pale brow rises above the otherwise impenetrable mask of reflective Ray-Ban sunglasses. “‘Bout two jumps ago, man. Already forgot? He’s busy playing with One-Eye.”
“Oh.” Dave pauses.
In some ways, this room feels like home. It’s familiar and nostalgic, at least. He knows where he is. When he opens the bedside drawer, he finds exactly what he’s looking for: a set of asthma inhalers, some stolen ecstasy tablets, and a half-eaten bag of stale chips. In other ways, this room is a prison. Every thump he hears puts him on edge. Every shifting shadow makes him jump. When the overhead light flickers, his cowering is pure instinct.
A fist bangs against a mercifully hefty door.
Dave closes in on the bed. He grabs the Ego by the collar and throws him to the floor, waiting until he’s flopped onto his back to yell. But where he expects a face like his own, he sees a terrified fourteen-year-old. He hesitates. “You’re…” he begins.
And the younger version of him — the young boy with a swollen, bruised face and a bloodied nose — stares back with wide, terrified eyes. “Who are you?” he demands. “Look, if you’re one of Pa’s friends, I don’t know nothing. Promise.”
Dave’s heart falls into his stomach.
For half of his life, he’s kept these memories locked away. They’ve been shoved behind a padlocked door, and he assumed they’d never see the light of day. Now…
“Who are you?” repeats his younger double.
“You,” Dave answers. “I’m you. I guess. Or… I was you. Sixteen years ago, I was you.”
The teenager frowns. His brows furrow. “No. That ain’t it. You’re… you’re a man. You’re a grown-ass man.”
“Yeah?” Dave cocks his head to the side. “We grew up.”
Thin fingers comb through hair that’s cut far too short to be flattering. Hazel eyes hesitantly stare into the future. “So…” says the teen, excitement filling his voice, “we grow up to be a man? A real man?”
For a moment, Dave is speechless. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”
“Well, yeah!” The teen bounds forward and rubs his fingers over the stubble covering Dave’s chin. A wide, wild grin breaks across an otherwise taciturn face. “Holy shit. Pa’s gonna be so pissed about this!”
“Ain’t there another issue here, or…?” Out of the corner of his eye, Dave sees a red gear spin.
Now, he finds himself in the middle of a dark suburban street. The smell of gasoline burns his nose. The heat of a nearby fire presses against the back of his neck.
“No,” he mumbles. “Come on, dude! This ain’t cool. You’re really bringing me back here?”
As he descends from the sky, the Ego shrugs. One hand pushes up his shades; the other keeps the red gear still. “Formative moment and all that, right?”
Dave doesn’t dignify the statement with a reply. Instead, he forces himself to turn around. He locks eyes with himself, fifteen years younger and a world apart. He remembers the brown leather jacket he was wearing. It was a gift from Jake, one of the few things that was ever truly his. It was sliced away by the EMS team. Not that he would have wanted it back. It would have been impossible to wash away all the blood.
“Yo! Catch!”
A stray handlebar lands in Dave’s hands.
For a minute, he feels that addictive rush. Wind combs through his hair, massaging away the fear he’d inevitably face when he returned home. The pur of a motor between his legs lets him imagine himself as something more than a child without a place in the world.
“It’s a kid!” A woman, her form cloaked in shadow, screams as she stumbles onto her front porch. “Holy shit.” She rushes to the younger Dave’s twitching body and rests her hand on his shoulder. “Oh God,” she mumbles, anxiously performing the sign of the cross with her free hand. “You’ll be okay, kid.”
This time, the setting shifts slowly. Reality melts like an unsealed painting covered in turpentine.
“Did we ever figure out who saved us?” the Ego asks.
Dave rubs the beck of his neck. “I… don’t think so. She didn’t want to be involved.”
“She sent us that blanket, though!” As if to illustrate, the Ego waves his hands in the air. For a moment, the image of a hand-knitted red blanket appears. “It was so soft, so fucking warm.”
Admittedly, it’s rolled up and lovingly tucked away at the back of his dresser’s bottom drawer. But Dave will never say as much, especially not to the performative fool hovering in front of him. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes an irritated sigh. “Where are you taking me now?”
The question answers itself.
Dave opens his eyes. He finds himself in his current hospital room, but he’s not in his body. Instead, he’s staring at the empty spot where his bed should be.
Rose is half-asleep in an armchair.
Karkat is pacing back and forth.
“You love him, don’t you?” asks the Ego, his voice surprisingly sincere.
“That may be the dumbest question you’ve ever asked,” Dave quips. When he turns to look at his alternate self, he finds little more than empty space. The gear hovers in the air, seemingly waiting for its master, but nobody is at the helm. “Hey! Shit!”
“Come on, now,” Rose’s voice pulls Dave’s attention away from his current predicament. She sounds calm, but that steadfast confidence is the only thing keeping her from breaking down. “Stop worrying so much, Karkat.”
“Stop worrying?” Karkat spits. “STOP WORRYING?” He closes the distance between him and Rose with a few heavy steps. “He was choking on his own fucking blood, Rose!”
Dave’s breath hitches in his throat. A stabbing pain at the back of his skull forces his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he finds himself in a different hospital room. The walls are a dingy, mottled shade of lavender. He knows where he is; he knows when he is.
He stares at himself — young, despondent, and barely able to squeeze out more than two words at a time between breaths.
“Kill me,” begs the teen. “Please. Please. Turn it off.”
Time has worn the pain away, leaving only an empty hole where this memory was once a gaping wound. Dave feels nothing as he stares at himself. He studies his various splints and casts with detached intrigue. Now, he knows what they’re all for; then, he resented them. The massive, angry bruise that once consumed most of the left side of his face has subsided; now, only the area around his eye socket is clearly swollen.
Everything is just as he remembers it.
And when Rose answers, her voice is fifteen years younger. It doesn’t have the slight New England affectation she picked up during college. Though lacking in confidence, it’s filled with the same sense of burning conviction. “No.”
“I don’t…” Inhale. Exhale. “I can’t live like this.”
Rose reacts like a viper catching its prey. She towers above Dave’s bed and looks down upon him with a mix of resentment and rage. “I will not watch my mother spiral deeper into the bottle because you cannot live with the consequences of your mistake. Do you fucking understand me, David?”
“Yes,” Dave speaks alongside his past self.
Even now, fifteen years later, this moment defines him. He may have sequestered away his side of the story, but he will never forget Rose’s persistence.
Another shock of pain, this time along his right side, spins the world around. The red gear appears inches from Dave’s fingertips, and he pushes the disk without hesitation.
The air is warm. The full moon casts gorgeous, silver beams across the Egbert family’s perfectly manicured backyard. Unlike the other memories, Dave can’t quite recall this one. It’s like a distant, hazy snapshot of a past that isn’t quite his own.
Someone did this. Once, a handful of years ago, someone was here.
But was it him?
His stammering, alcohol-drenched voice answers the question. But he doesn’t see himself, not this time. Instead, he finds himself staring at a teary-eyed June Egbert.
“You don’t. You don’t want me!” his own words grate against his soul. “No, June, shut up. SHUT UP! I’m telling you right now, you do not want me. I won’t… You won’t want me in a year. Nobody does!” A bottle shatters at Dave’s feet, splattering beer across concrete pavers. “Look at me! Just fucking look at me, dammit!”
Dave presses his thumbs over his eyes.
He doesn’t remember this.
He doesn’t remember breaking up with June.
All he remembers is waking up one morning with the worst hangover he’s ever had in his life. When he texted her, she informed him that they would stay “friends with benefits”, but she never revealed any more than that.
A single thought crosses Dave’s mind: “Did I do this?”
“C’mon, man!” June’s voice is thick with anxiety. She tries to do what she always does, what she does best: She tries to laugh it off. When that fails, desperation takes over. “Dave, buddy, you’re my best bro. I’ll always want you around!” Then, she stumbles back, as if she’s been shoved, and slips on a discarded beer can. When she falls, she lands squarely on her elbow. “Ow! Dave, what the fuck?”
“That’s all I do, June! I hurt you, I hurt Rose, and I hurt myself. Just… do what’s best for you. Cut the head off the beast.”
The missing piece falls into place.
Dave blinks. When he opens his eyes, he’s struck by the familiar wave of chronic pain. He flexes his fingers and stares at the flickering fluorescent light over his bed. He ponders the unpleasant sensation of having a plastic tube shoved down his throat and contrasts it against the unusual ease with which he’s breathing. He wonders if this is how it used to be. Once, years ago, had he really been able to do this without thinking?
“Hey.”
A familiar, coarse voice draws Dave’s gaze to the left. His eyes land on Karkat, and he smiles.
Karkat reaches out and readjusts the bed. He moves the blankets around and wraps them around Dave’s shoulders.
Something soft and fluffy brushes against Dave’s hand. When he looks down, he sees a familiar shape. It’s a squishy, red alligator toy, but he’s not entirely sure how he recognizes it.
And Karkat seems to sense the confusion. “You… uh…” He taps the tips of his fingers against his thighs. “You must not have been fully cognizant. You named it ‘Nak’. I bought him the day you were admitted.”
The last few words hit Dave like a baseball bat to the back of the head.
“The day you were admitted.” That implies that…
Dave’s brows furrow. He licks his lips and idly runs his right hand over the alligator’s head. “How long’ve I been out?”
“You’ve been talking to us, actually!” Karkat’s statement is oddly bright. “You don’t remember?” A hint of laughter colors his words as he continues, “They had Grey’s Anatomy playing yesterday. It was an old episode — I mean old as fuck. Dempsey was still on it, and you were telling me all about your childhood crush on the guy.”
Dave, too, tries to laugh, but the act pulls uncomfortably at his neck.
“It’s the… uh…” Karkat taps his watch. “It’s the twenty-eighth, by the way. Of March. In case you’re still wondering.”
“You can understand me?”
A smirk pulls at Karkat’s lips as he points to his right ear. “Half deaf, remember?”
Knowing now that laughing is a bad idea, Dave settles with rolling his eyes and flipping Karkat off. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“No, no,” tuts Karkat, his grin growing wider, “they said not for another two weeks. But I’m flattered that’s the first thing you want to do!” His left hand idly reaches out and brushes some hair out of Dave’s face. His touch is soft and warm, but it feels like ecstatic lightning against Dave’s skin. “You… uh… You scared us, Dave. Rose and I.” His smile fades. He scratches his neck as he moves away and drops into the armchair at the foot of the bed. “Well… mostly me. Rose said it wasn’t very uncommon.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shit! No, I’m not asking for an apology, you fucking dingus, I just…” Dark brown eyes lock onto the floor. “I think it was a few days ago. I’m not too sure anymore. You… that thing in your neck. It started bleeding, and Rose wasn’t around to tell me what the hell was going on, and…” he buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t sob, but the muffled whimpers are even worse. “I thought you were dying, Dave. I… I really thought I was watching you die.”
A sinking feeling fills Dave’s chest. He feels as if his heart is being systematically broken apart. He wants to reach out, to comfort Karkat, but the array of wires and tubes prevent him from doing so. Even trying to sit up pulls uncomfortably against his already aching muscles. So, instead, he clicks his tongue.
Karkat looks up. Watery dark brown meets hazel.
“I’m sorry,” Dave repeats, wishing against logic that he had a functional voice. “Is it too much?”
Karkat’s brows furrow.
And Dave is quick to clarify his statement: “I don’t want you worrying yourself sick. I’m fine. I’m awake.”
After rubbing his nose against his sleeve, Karkat nods. A nervous smile crosses his face. “Rose went home an hour ago. We’ve been taking shifts. I do nights.” As if to confirm the statement, Karkat points to the pillows and blankets stacked on the table near the armchair. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone beat me over the head with a brick.”
“Understandable.” Karkat’s attempt to suppress his laugh fails, and a strange, goofy smile flashes across his face. “You look tired.”
Dave offers a non-committal hand wiggle.
“Sleep, then, jackass.” Karkat retrieves a well-worn and strangely familiar stuffed crab from the table. He sets it atop Dave’s chest before sprawling out in the armchair. “Take Crabbo,” he yawns. “There’s no room for the bastard over here.”
Part of Dave wants to protest the idea of additional sleep, but the energy required to hold a conversation is rapidly wearing him thin. With a reluctant tut, he closes his eyes. And as he drifts into a more restful slumber, he remembers why he recognized the second offering: It’s always in Karkat’s bed, and whenever he fixed the sheets, he placed the toy on the pillows.
Notes:
BEHIND-THE-SCENES FUN FACT! I wrote this and the last chapter in one long, shrimp fettuccine alfredo-fueled bender. Yeehoo! Did you see a medical inaccuracy? I plead “my degree is actually art history, and all of this info is a combo of more recent research with a fuckload of Discovery Health documentaries that I watched circa 2006–2012.” Suspension of dees bees leaves or whatever.
Chapter 41: Blackfish Are Sporting Again
Summary:
Chapter title from Stan Roger's “Free in the Harbor”. Also available on the playlist.
Notes:
Sorry for being mean to Dave.
(I'm not really.)Here's fluff.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 30 March 2022
It took every ounce of self-control Karkat had to push through a half-day of work on Tuesday. Stocking shelves and rearranging dusty records felt viscerally wrong, but it was necessary. His empty wallet begged for relief, and Rose could handle Dave. At the end of his shift, Jake gave him a pair of fancy “hi-fi” headphones.
Now, clutching those very same headphones, Karkat exits the hospital elevator. Dave’s room has been moved again, and he follows Rose’s directions to avoid getting lost in a seemingly endless maze of pastel periwinkle hallways. Straight down the fourth floor, third left, second right, and tenth door on the left.
When he arrives, he’s mildly surprised to find Dave out of bed. He’s propped up by a formidable army of pillows in the armchair, which has been moved to the left side of the private room. The plain blue patient robe has been replaced with a pair of sweatpants and a wrinkled gray button-down. The brace holding Dave’s head in place is gone, too. But even more surprising is the sound of a voice — harsh and quiet and raw from disuse — that’s unmistakably his.
“Rose just left,” a pause. An inhale. On the exhale, Dave continues, “Lunch with Kanaya.” Pause. Wait. “Don’t you know?” The next inhale pushes his shoulders forward, and he braces his upper body against the armrests. A lopsided smile crosses his face as his gaze settles on the box in Karkat’s hands. “Did Jake send those?”
“Yeah,” Karkat shrugs. He sets the box in Dave’s lap before pulling up one of the decidedly less comfortable wooden seats. The minimal padding barely covers its rough, sharp edges, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, over the past week or so, he’s grown accustomed to these seats. He can’t call them comfortable, but they’re far from intolerable. “Nice new trick, Strider. When did that happen?”
“Talking?” Dave readjusts himself.
“No, your miraculous ambulation. What the fuck else would it be?”
A pale grin grows wider. “Yesterday.” On the next exhale, he lets forth a low sigh. “No long speeches, but” — the next word catches in his throat. His brows twitch. When he exhales, he starts where he left off: “but short chats are fine.” With this, he pops open the box and examines the hefty headphones. He studies them with a keen eye. “Nice. Hi-fi.”
“Meaning?” Karkat folds his hands and leans his elbows on his knees. It’s a habit he finds himself indulging in more and more, and he idly wonders if he picked it up from Dave. “Remember, jackass, I have the musical knowledge of a brick.”
“High fidelity. It’s…” Dave pauses preemptively. “Basically a high-end designator,” he concludes. Every now and then, his exhales are accompanied by involuntary vocalizations — small sighs or indifferent hums. He waits for a few minutes before speaking again, and the slightest hint of annoyance underpins his words. “Speech only works on exhales. And I don’t control the timing. It’s all pre-programmed.”
“It’s nice to have some time to actually say something back, actually,” Karkat jests.
The raised brow from Dave suggests that the joke didn’t quite stick the landing, but there’s still a flicker of a smile. “Don’t get too used to it. They start scaling it back tomorrow.”
Karkat nods. As always, his minor misstep sticks to his brain. It’s a tiny speck of shame that he forcibly brushes aside as he searches for a new topic.
Most of the oddities in this room have been explained away by Rose. The slowly pulsing wraps around Dave’s legs promote continuous circulation. The infrequent beeps are reminders for him to turn or change position, and the currently unused IV in his right wrist is a “just in case” measure. There is, however, one thing new in the room.
Beneath Dave is a light blue, tarp-like fabric. The long end flaps are carelessly thrown across his lap. It vaguely resembles the slings at his house, and Karkat thinks he knows its purpose. Still, it’s something to talk about. “Nice new blanket.”
“Hm?” After a moment of thought, Dave responds with a hoarse hiss of laughter. “Transfer sling.” He clarifies the statement by pointing to a rolling lift in the corner. Then, he hooks his fingers through one of the reinforced loops at the end of the fabric. “I’m on strict low-activity.” The next pause isn’t as jarring; the longer he speaks, the less obvious the inhales become. “Three months. Maybe six,” he shrugs. “Better than being dead, I guess.”
“You guess?” Karkat goads, somehow managing to keep a straight face.
“I still have to tolerate you.”
“Touché.” Here, Karkat stops.
He has nothing particularly notable to discuss. His life has been largely uneventful, and most of the “events” have revolved around Dave. Noting such things seems both redundant and unnecessary. Certainly, Dave doesn’t want to hear about the various issues that have kept him in a haze of sedative-addled semi-consciousness for the past week. And it’s just as well that he doesn’t; Karkat doesn’t exactly want to talk about it, either.
But that’s part of the beauty of Dave’s presence.
Karkat doesn’t feel the need to fill every silence. He’s comfortable existing in the same space as Dave, saying nothing, and doing his own thing. It’s been a facet of their relationship since the beginning, when he was determined to stay as impartial as possible.
He does, however, take the opportunity to admire his boyfriend. He watches sunlight filter through pale, undyed strands of hair; every movement seems like a dancing string of ethereal energy. He studies how Dave’s relaxed smile reveals his dimple and pulls at a small scar at the right corner of his mouth. He watches how Dave’s chest rises and falls with rhythmic, predictable ease; how his left foot sometimes taps out a flickering, faint, and seemingly mindless standard beat.
It all pulls him closer.
Closer.
Until, without reason, Karkat finds himself inches from Dave’s face. He stares at a nicotine-stained smirk.
Apparently, hesitating was not the right answer. Dave grabs the front of a well-worn sweatshirt and pulls Karkat into a brief, rough kiss. His other hand idly runs through wild black hair. Then, the grip releases.
Karkat steps back. His heartbeat pounds pleasantly against his eardrums. His lips tingle with energy. He tries to suppress his pleasure by smoothing out his hair. “Don’t get yourself too worked up,” he tuts, “no sex for two weeks.”
Again, Dave laughs. He rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. His next exhale is a low yawn. “Wake me up when Rose is back,” he mumbles.
And Karkat complies.
Thursday, 31 March 2022
Text message chain between Karkat and Dave:
End of text message chain.
Friday, 1 April 2022
Today, Karkat stops by the cafeteria before he heads for Dave’s room. It’s a vaguely unwelcome interruption to an otherwise tried-and-true routine, but it’s a necessity. At least, that’s what Rose said.
And the stern look on her face seems to confirm as much.
In some ways, she looks a lot like Dave. Her brows furrow the same way, and her jaw sets when she’s thinking. Before any sort of serious discussion, she unconsciously squares off her shoulders. However, unlike Dave, she’s aware enough of her body language to avoid folding her arms across her chest; instead, she sets her hands atop the table. Pink nails rap against textured plastic as she clears her throat. “I suppose I should just trim the conversational fat, hm? It seems that your goals and my goals are intertwined. We both care deeply for Dave, and I certainly understand your compulsion to help.”
Karkat, already vaguely on edge from a near-miss with a careless Tesla driver in the parking lot, tugs at the frayed cuff of his black sweatshirt. The weather may be warming up, but he’ll get as much use out of his winter wardrobe as he can. (And by extension avoid having to bring out his summer clothes.) “I’m hearing a ‘but’ in this statement.”
“Yes,” Rose says, and a hint of a Southern drawl shimmers at the edges of her voice. “The problem with Dave is that…” a tiny smirk flashes across her face, “Admittedly, there is far more than one problem with my incorrigible twin brother. But that is neither here nor there. The primary issue I wanted to discuss with you is his stubborn streak. I’m sure you’ve perceived as much.”
“My head would be firmly up my own ass if I haven’t,” Karkat scoffs. He takes a tentative bite of the chicken on his plate. It’s as flavorless and dry as it looked, though it’s far from the worst thing he’s ever eaten. His four-dollar investment compels him to keep eating, even if the experience is a step above chewing on raw cardboard.
“Splendid!” Rose’s expression brightens considerably. “Congratulations, Karkat, you’re already ahead of June!”
“I’m winning a social awareness race against a fucking rock. Good to know.”
The statement draws a surprisingly Dave-esque snort of laughter from Rose. “I see why my brother likes you. He’s managed to find someone with the same dry, rude sense of humor.” Her observation is punctuated by a wink. Then, her expression returns to its former state of rigidity. “That said, I do want to warn you that Dave can get a bit… hm…” A pink-hued nail taps against full lips. Light brown eyes wander, seemingly searching for what to say, before a thoughtful hum rises from Rose’s throat. “Dave has a tendency to push people away when he’s annoyed with them. I don’t know if you’ve experienced as much, but it’s a tendency he has. He’s always had it, even since we were children.”
Karkat finds himself reliving a somewhat recent memory — Dave’s drunken mid-February rant. He shovels another bite of his flavorless lunch into his mouth before responding, “No, I’ve seen it.”
“I apologize on his behalf, then,” Rose tuts. “Unfortunately, those tendencies only intensify when he’s recuperating. Despite unlearning much of what our toxic excuse for a father taught him, Dave has never dropped his stubborn pride. So, do be patient with him. I would say that he’s trying, but…” again, she rolls her eyes and smirks, “we both know he isn’t.” With that said, she relaxes. Her gaze settles upon Karkat’s plate, and her brows twitch. “That… looks borderline inedible.”
“Oh, it is,” Karkat confirms. He forces himself to swallow one final forkful before deciding it’s not worth his time. “And here’s the horrific part, Rose: That’s not the worst chicken I’ve ever had the displeasure of eating.”
“Holy shit,” Rose mumbles, eyes widening in shock. “I don’t think I want to know what beat out that slop.”
“You don’t.” With just half the chicken breast left, it’s easy for Karkat to discard it. He folds the styrofoam plate in half, finishes off the last of his water, and grabs the bottle of apple juice he purchased for Dave. “Should I expect anything different today?”
There’s a brief pause as Rose reviews events from the past few days. Eventually, she shakes her head. “Not really, no. Although I would like to request a bit of a reprieve, if you don’t mind.”
Karkat jams his trash through the surprisingly stiff flap covering one of the cafeteria’s garbage bin containers before answering: “Clarify, Lalonde?”
“I would like to spend a day with Kanaya tomorrow. Can I entrust my brother to you for the duration?” Rose’s question is accompanied by an over-the-top pout. When she’s not maintaining her usual sense of professional stoicism, she almost matches Dave’s peciliar energy.
And Karkat serves it back to her with equal vigor. He rests the back of his hand against his forehead and heaves a dramatic sigh. “Really?” he huffs, “You want me to spend a whole day with that idiot?”
Rose doesn’t miss a beat. She offers a reassuring pat on Karkat’s shoulder and a facetious, cooing sigh. “I know. It’s truly a gargantuan task. Surely, you can handle it?”
“I suppose, Lalonde.” This time, Karkat doesn’t bother suppressing his smirk. “I’ll watch the insufferable bastard for a day. Enjoy your time with Kanaya. And here’s a tip for you: She’s a huge fan of Cuttlefish Cuties.”
“Ah!” Rose’s mouth opens, forming a small ‘O’ of realization. “I knew I recognized some of the songs she plays in her car! Of course!” She pops herself on the forehead and laughs. “Thank you, Karkat.”
-----
Text message chain between Dave and Rose:
End of text message chain.
Notes:
Reminder that I technically don't have an update schedule. Just keep an eye out for the update emails, I guess? Thanks for all the kudos and comments. ヽ(✿ﾟ▽ﾟ)ノ