Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Delivery Instructions: send your cutest delivery boy

Everybody stares at one another for half a second before there is an almost audible shrug amongst the six of you.

“I’ll go.”

“Ahaha, yeah, okay.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

You sigh, pinching the space on the bridge of your nose and rocking on the balls of your feet a moment. “Hey, dickweeds. Maybe we should go by whose fucking turn it is?”

“Then it’s my turn.”

“ED, you’re a fucking liar and you’re totally wrong, so there’s that.”

“You guys are dumb. Send me.”

“You’re a girl!”

“It’ll be funny!

The squabbling is too much. You very calmly separate yourself from the group, go over to the check-out station, scroll down to select: VANTAS, KARKAT and then quietly assign yourself the order and check it out. Nobody seems to notice, except, perhaps, for one of your managers, who glances up and gives you a silent thumbs-up of approval.

As the receipt prints, you eye the order- it’s going to a D. Strider, so you have no way of telling the gender of the customer and frankly it doesn’t matter to you anyway. You shove the prints into your pocket and calmly return to your station at the cut table. The argument continues around you as you do a practiced 4-way cut on the pizza in front of you. Eridan and Vriska go back to folding boxes, Sollux resumes stocking the pop cooler, but they still bitch between the three of them for at least five minutes before Equius just gives the most resigned sigh and everybody seems to quiet down.

Alternian Pizza is Out of This World! and its logo is a creepy space alien girl with a shitload of hair and a bodysuit. Everybody calls her the Condie, but you’re not sure why and you don’t think you care enough to ask.

“Ain’t no use arguin’, motherfuckers,” From the front of the store, your daytime manager turns round on his heel, haphazardly tossing dough into something kind of pizza shaped. He’s a cool guy- Gamzee is his name, he’s excruciatingly tall (like 6’4, something like that) and middle eastern and he wears his long, dark hair tucked into a beanie hat with the Alternian’s logo on it. “Cos I’m pretty motherfuckin’ sure Karbro just checked it out, sooooo…”

“You what-” And then you feel a light thunk as something, you assume a pizza box, hits you in the back of the head. “Kar, you’re a fuck.”

“Nononono, this works, see?” Vriska pipes up eagerly, tossing her reddish-brown ponytail over one shoulder as she picks up the box, “Karkat is like, the least cute, it’ll be funny!”

You feel your ears burn as you look over your shoulder at her. “…really bitch?”

Vriska Serket is the only girl that works at Alternian’s and generally people tend to not fuck with her. She’s taller than you and kind of skinny with glasses and the grin that she fixes you with is absolutely nothing but evil. As a woman in what is generally regarded as a man’s business, she elbowed her way into her niche and stayed firmly put.

“Yeah!” She continues, “I mean- send the short ginger kid instead of one of these… heartthrobs.”

Said heartthrobs exchange looks. Sollux rolls his eyes, Eridan scoffs and takes a stack of boxes over to be labeled with the proper orders.

“Is this order in, Equius?” You raise your voice somewhat to ask him, and he doesn’t look up but replies anyway.

“Yes. It will be out in couple of minutes.”

Equius is… Native American you think, or mixed at the very least. He’s hugely muscular with dark hair that he keeps in a ponytail (as required by everybody who has long hair) and his polo shirt practically strains around his biceps. He’s the other manager, working beside Gamzee doing in-store work.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glances up at Gamzee, saying something that you can’t hear over the pizza oven. Gamzee laughs quietly, nodding, and you wonder what they’re talking about.

“Order up, fuckwads.” You look behind you expectantly at one of the three other drivers, and Eridan, who sighs, agitatedly puts down the pizza box he’d been folding and trudges over to the check-out station. He’d pissed off because he’s not taking the order you have the receipts of shoved into your pocket.

Sollux takes Eridan’s place folding boxes, grinning to himself, and you exchange looks with him and shake your head. Sollux might be your best friend here, he’s somebody you knew before you even got this job and probably his fault that you have it anyway. Hey KK, my job is hiring. Come deliver shitty pizza with me.

And you’d gone sure what the fuck ever, not expecting to get a call back since you don’t have any experience actually with a delivery job yet at the same time, here you fucking are.

He didn’t tell you about the twats you’d have to work with, your manager who’s always high when he comes into work, the other manager who doubles as the goddamn security when it’s 1 in the morning and drunk people wander in. Then there’s Sollux, there’s you, there’s Vriska, there’s Eridan, the dude who you’re pretty sure only has this job out of something to do since his family has money pouring out of their ears, and then there’s Tavros, who isn’t working today but he does in-store shit part time seeing as he can’t drive.

The order comes out of the oven, you stare at it before cutting it because ew.

Anchovies, pineapple, banana peppers on half. It looks perfectly awful and you make sure that everybody else knows this.

“This is seriously the grossest looking thing.”

“Innit though?” Gamzee laughs, “The banana peppers one? Man, I don’t get why people put that shit on pizza, bro, it’s like- all watery and shit- DRIVE SAFE MOTHERFUCKER!”

“Shut up!” The door chimes as Eridan leaves with his order. Gamzee does this literally every single time Eridan leaves, because apparently one time he got into a car accident while out on a delivery and Gamzee has never let him live it down.

You can’t say you blame him. You’d have probably made fun of him, too.

Once the order is packed you put it into a warmer bag and then stuff your receipts into the front pocket of the bag and zip your coat up. It’s cold out- it’s winter, after all, and your car manages quite well on the road for being as much of a piece of shit it actually is.

“See you in a few, Karbro.” Gamzee calls cheerfully after you, in a much different tone than he does with Eridan, and you appreciate it. Gamzee is cool. He’s older than you and has big gauges in his ears and a couple tattoos on his forearms, Sollux buys pot from him and he’s taken you out back for a quick puff off his one-hitter more times than you can count. He seems to like you, and you like him too.

It’s cold outside, you step gingerly around your car. Eridan’s still here, he’s futzing around with his GPS with the car running, and you flash him a little nod of acknowledgment as you get into your car and put the warmer bag on the passenger’s seat. You always keep your seat warmer to HI on that side, it keeps pizzas warm much better than the shitty bag does.

Punching the address into your GPS, you realize it’s not far. It’s a very classy apartment complex for rich people, which makes you question what kind of person you’re about to be delivering to. D Strider was probably some rich bitch who was going to tip you 1.20 or some ridiculous amount because it’s her dad’s money or something like that.

You turn up the radio and tap your fingers to the beat of the song on the radio. You think it’s Katy Perry plus some rapper you’ve never heard of. Every song on the radio seems to have a rap part to it, whether or not they’re absolutely necessary is totally out of your hands.

D Strider can probably go suck your dick. You just know you’re gonna get a shitty tip because you’re not that cute, like Vriska said. You have fluffy red hair and a face full of freckles and dark eyebrows and hazel eyes and ew. Not cute.

You text Sollux while at a stoplight.

I’M PRETTY SURE I’M GONNA GET STIFFED.

He doesn’t reply, he’s probably still in the store or busy or something else. Gamzee doesn’t ever really care if you text during work but you’d better be goddamn sure that there’s nothing else you’re SUPPOSED to be doing instead of working, so you must be discreet.

D Strider might not even be a real person, come to think of it. D Strider might be like, two or three college aged chicks who got the idea from Tumblr or something and thought it would be cute to see who would be delivering their food. They probably thought you actually gave a shit, which was great, but you don’t. It’s a job, not a fucking beauty pageant, and you frankly want to give the bitch a piece of your mind but that’s bad customer service.

The apartment complex is enormous. And it’s one tall building, going straight up. You’ve been here a couple of times, the staff is always friendly and they’ve ordered pizza to the front desk on more than one occasion.

“Evening!” The girl behind the counter says as you approach the lobby, “Roads okay tonight?”

“They’ve been worse,” You grunt, looking down at your receipt. “I need… apartment 12A.”

“Elevator around the corner, you’re gonna go all the way up to the top. 12^thfloor.”

You head around the corner, boots squeaking on the tiled floor. The elevator’s already on this floor, you push the button going up and then hit 12. It’s a long, quiet ride up in which you can hear the same radio station that was on in your car on the muffled loudspeaker in the elevator itself.

9, 10, 11, 12. Ding.

You step out into the hall to find it elegantly carpeted and just kind of really nice in general, there’s a mirror on the hallway that you’re sure is for decoration and you face it for a moment as you decide, left or right? You’re looking for apartment A now, and quick inspection decides that you should be going right.

You stay quiet as you approach the door, then, clearing your throat, you knock sharply.

No noise from inside, no I’m coming! or One sec!

The door just… opens, and the guy standing there is not what you’d expect.

Your mouth runs on autopilot: “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good, thanks, you?” He’s tall, lanky looking, in a white and red shirt with a record on it and dark jeans. You let your eyes rake up to his face, staring at him. Sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors. Sunglasses indoors, at night. You could have socked him. His hair is blond, there’s freckles on the bridge of his nose.This is D Strider? This? Really?

All the while you’re taking in his appearance, you’re opening the bag and passing the order over to him. “Here’s that, then I need a signiature real quick-” Once the boxes are safely in his hands, he leans back to call to somebody you can’t see.

“Dirk, c’mere and take this, I gotta sign! One sec,” This last bit is to you, and he shuts the door partially so he can hand off the boxes to whoever this Dirk person is (maybe that’s D Strider, but you don’t ask). You take the receipts out of the bag, tucking that under your arm, and wait until you have his full attention before offering him both slips and the pen.

“Sign the top copy for me and the bottom one’s yours to keep.” You recite as he takes them.

You anticipate the silence. People never say anything to you while they’re signing for their shit, it’s just the way stuff works. But-

“So, you’re the cutest delivery boy, huh?”

Heat runs to your face and you shrug your shoulders. “Probably not. They were all being little fuckin’ drama queens about it so I just took the order.”

Maybe Maybe Not D Strider laughs, nods, and passes you the slip back. “Dude, good answer. Have a good one, man.”

You shove the slip back into your pocket, ears burning, and back away from the door, nodding. “Yeah, have a good night.”

You don’t say a word all the way down the elevator. All the way out through the lobby, all the way out through the parking lot to where your car idles roughly in the February cold, throwing the empty warmer bag into the passenger’s side door and yank the door shut, it creaks complainingly and slams.

And, finally, almost tremulously, you look at the receipt.

ORDER: 29.02

TIP: 30.00

TOTAL: 59.02

SIGNIATURE: David Strider

Merchant Copy

p.s. you’re totally the cutest delivery boy I’ve ever seen. major props. drive safe dude

And then you shove it back into your pocket, thinking your face might actually explode, and without a word, turn the radio up and head back to the store.

Chapter Text

It became a huge running joke and now everybody called D Strider your boyfriend because he gave you thirty dollars for a tip and that was just ridiculous.

“Thirty?!” Eridan had exclaimed, “What kind of bullshit is that!”

And then the next time D Strider had ordered, he’d insisted on taking the delivery and then Dave had only given him five, and he’d come back into the store absolutely boiling with anger. You took another delivery to him later that week, he’d given you thirty again. One time he ordered when you weren’t working and Sollux had told him, “KK’s not working but he misses you,” which, when Sollux told you, had made you blush all the way to your ears.

He became this gag, this fucking thing- once a week at the very least he’d order something and everybody working would go, “Hey! Karkat’s boyfriend put his order in!” And everybody would laugh and Vriska always seemed to laugh hardest. You’d take the delivery, exchange monotonous pleasantries with Dave, take your thirty bucks, and go.

“What’s your name?” He asked you once. “The dude with the glasses said it was KK. Like, KK Slider?”

“It’s Karkat.” You corrected him.

“Oh- I’m Dave.”

“I know. I see it on the receipt.”

Briefly, there had been a handshake that he initiated and left your palm feeling itchy after being touched. All the way back down the 12 flights you’d stared at your hand and wished you’d never met Dave Strider.

One time you had to ask him, out of necessity than anything else: “How do you afford this?”

“What?” He looked up from signing the receipt, using his doorframe as a hard surface.

“This. The thirty dollars you’re signing me over for. Every fucking week. Won’t you run out of money at some point?”

“Nope.” He passed the receipt over to you, “See you next week, Karkat.”

Upon getting downstairs you’d peered at the receipt. He signed his name Dave Strider, xoxoxo

FuuuuUUUCK.

He really was flirting with you then.

What were you supposed to do at this point? Flirt back? That’s a joke. You don’t know how to flirt. You’re not rich enough to spend 30 dollars every week on a stranger. You aren’t cute enough and you don’t, like, ever smile. What is there to flirt with?

“I don’t get it.”

“S’matter, motherfucker?”

It’s about an hour to close. You can hear Vriska doing the dishes in the 3-compartment sink in the kitchen while you and Gamzee stand in the open mouth of the back door. There’s nothing out back this way, just an alley where the corporate truck pulls up every Thursday at 8:00 pm and delivers your supplies for the next week.

“Like seriously. I don’t even know this dickweed. I don’t see why he keeps doing this crap to me, and I don’t see why it matters so fucking much to everybody else in this place because frankly whatever this guy is feeling is just stupid and it’s none of their goddamn business.”

“Tchhh,” Gamzee waves a hand noncommittally and goes back to packing the one-hitter pipe he’s always got with him. It just looks like a cigarette so he keeps it tucked into his smoke packet so that nobody will be any the wiser- not like it matters. Gamzee’s the manager, he can do whatever the fuck he likes as long as Equius doesn’t find out about it, because Equius will kick his ass and make sure he gets his hours cut. “I dunno, motherfucker. You think he’s really interested?”

“Are you fucking serious? He signed his receipt last week with x’s and o’s.”

The Turk snorts, pushes a tiny nugget of weed into the end of the one-hitter and then puts the end of it in his mouth. “Sounds like he’s got the hots for you, bro. You into that kinda thing?”

“Into what kinda thing?”

“Into bros, bro.”

“Oh-! Uh- fuck. I don’t know, maybe? That’s a dumb question, don’t ask it.” You hear him light the one-hitter as you avoid your eyes, staring out into the frozen alley. The area just outside the door is frozen solid with a slick sheen of black ice, and you frown at it while you bite at your inner lip. “…I don’t know, okay? He’s weird.”

You feel Gamzee’s hand take yours and push the one-hitter into it. You sigh and breathe from it, just once, maybe enough to take the edge off, then pass it back. When you exhale, it comes out as a huge plume of white that is a mixture of both smoke and the vapors caused by the cold. You feel like a dragon for just a second.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, motherfucker.” Gamzee drawls, tapping the end of the piece and then stowing it back into his pack of Marlboros, where it hides perfectly camouflaged among the rest of the smokes. “If you’re into it, you’re into it. If you ain’t, you ain’t. Ain’t nothin’ to worry your pretty little head over, motherfucker.”

He pats you on the head rather hard and you swat at his hand. “Don’tfuckingtouchme, first of all, second-”

There’s a beeping from inside the store that means there’s a new web order coming through. Gamzee’s shoulders slump and he sighs, giving you a forlorn look which you return with a little halfhearted shrug to accompany.

A little buzzed, you follow him back into the store, passing by Vriska who is up to her elbows in soapy water and dirty dishes.

“Son of a fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Gamzee sings as he trudges back out into the empty storefront, checking the computer screen for the received order and then stopping, turning round, and looking at you. “…it’s for you.”

“What, really? That insufferable douchecanoe is ordering when we’re an hour from closing?” You could spit you’re so mad, but at least the delivery isn’t far from your store and you can at least make an extra thirty bucks tonight and you get to see Dave so-

-woah, back right the fuck up, let’s try that paragraph again.

You could spit you’re so mad, but at least the delivery isn’t far from your store and you can at least make an extra thirty bucks tonight.

Yeah.

Right.

“I’m frankly embarrassed,” You sigh, leaning on the cut table and watching Gamzee start to toss dough. “Sorry- I guess, about him.”

“You ain’t his keeper, dudebro. He does what he fuckin’ wants.” Gamzee shrugs, absentmindedly tossing the stretched dough up into the air and then catching it flawlessly before continuing. “And you do what you fuckin’ want.”

“…I hope he doesn’t really like me.” You sigh, pressing your forehead against the stainless steel table. “I really fucking hope not. I could do without all of that bullfuckery for a lifetime. Thirty dollars!”

“Yep,” Gamzee chuckles, “Thirty bucks.”

The order takes about fifteen minutes to bake and then you shove it all into a warmer bag and check it out and leave, feeling sour. And yet.

And yet…

You feel your throat get dry as you ascend the elevator to the 12^th floor. Your palms sweat, your stomach starts to do the weird flippy-flop thing, and you clench your jaw so hard that it clicks as you pace down the hall heading to apartment 12A. Your teeth grind, you stop in front of the door, breathe in, pause, breathe out. Like your anger management therapist says to do.

Breathe in, breathe out, knock on the door.

Dave opens it. He’s in his pajamas, which consist of red and black plaid lounging pants and a t-shirt with booty inspector on it.

And, as always, those… infuriating sunglasses.

“Do you like, ever take those off?” You ask him, opening the warmer bag and passing over the pizzas, which he takes and then wordlessly ducks out of the doorframe to put somewhere you’d assume is a kitchen counter.

“Take what off?” He asks, returning to the door and looking mildly confused.

“Your goddamn sunglasses. It’s 9:30 at night.”

“Oh-” Dave shrugs. “…nnnope, not really.”

“Why, though? Like, really? Do you have an eye condition? I’m not asking to be an asshole I’m genuinely curious,” Which is something that you say when you are asking to be an asshole and really don’t fucking care about his reasoning for it.

You pass him over the receipt and your pen, and he seems to be taking a really long fucking time signing it. “Nope. They’re just cool shades.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“Huh?”

“No, seriously.” There’s no stopping your mouth, oh god, it just keeps going. Maybe it’s the single hit of weed that’s made you lower your inhibitions but you just keep fucking talking:  “You’re, like, awful. You think it’s funny to keep giving me these huge tips because I’m the cutest delivery boy,” Big air quotes with this one, “And you keep fake-flirting with me like, for what, to be ironic? You think you’re gonna drag me around by my feelings because you know every time I come up here I get flustered as fuck and you probably think it’s really hilarious. Give me back my fucking pen and quit tipping me so much it’s goddamn embarrassing.”

“…nah.” He hands you the pen and receipt back. “I’m gonna keep flirting with you ‘cos I feel like it and you’re cute as hell so why the gosh darn diddly goddamn should it matter to you if I wanna actually pay you what your services are worth?”

You’re not sure why that clams you up so suddenly but it does, and when it does, you just shove the pen and receipt back into your pocket, pull the brim of your hat down a bit, and step back. “…have a good night,” You manage, turning tail and heading back down the hall, probably hurrying a bit more than you need to. You can hear him shut the door behind him, and, in the elevator, your face burning, you sit down on the floor and stay there for all twelve floors.

You think about going back up and apologizing.

Then you think about driving your car down the wrong lane into oncoming traffic.

And then, finally, as you leave the lobby and step out into the cold, you think about the receipt, which you look at once the car door is safely shut behind you.

ORDER: 34.92

TIP: 30.00

TOTAL: 64.92

SIGNATURE: 342 555 1493

Merchant Copy

You could have fucking screamed.

 

Chapter Text

It turns out that Dave doesn't really like texting much. He much prefers to Snapchat.

 

You will never, ever, ever tell a soul that you only got a Snapchat account so that he can communicate with you. And it's never anything important, either, he sends you pictures of his house, his face, the view from his apartment, various objects in his bedroom, all that kind of thing that doesn't matter much to you but you always send him snaps back. Your face, your work hat, your middle finger.

 

And yet he continues to order from you, once a week. It's nearly becoming scheduled now.

 

It has been nearly two months since you met Dave Strider. Maybe more like a month and a half. But that's still almost two months. That's thirty dollars a week, sometimes sixty, for six weeks. He's practically paid your rent for the upcoming month, and while you'd never ever admit to him that the help is appreciated, it is. Though you're not sure, still, what he's trying to do.

 

Until one day he sends you a Snapchat that just says:

 

next time imma kiss you ok

 

And you promptly send him back a snap of your face with the words:

 

NO YOU WILL FUCKING NOT

 

And then the infuriating bastard sends you one back, and it's not even captioned, just his face making an exaggerated sad frown and you groan and throw your phone back into the center console of your car and ignore it for the rest of your shift.

 

He orders from you the next day, just as your shift is starting.

 

“Karkat's boyfriend ordered.” Vriska is labeling pizza boxes, putting the freshly printed stickers on each box and then stacking them neatly to one side, awaiting the pizzas that are going to go in them.

 

“Fuck that,” Eridan snorts, counting his tips. He was the opening driver today, having gotten there at 10:30, and now he's just waiting for Equius to finish up with a customer so that he can clock him out. “Hope he chokes on a dick.”

 

“Wow!” Sollux jeers from the cut table. “Someone's butthurt as all hell.”

 

“I'm gonna punch you in the cock, Sol.”

 

“Buhhh I'm so scurred, Ed.”

 

“Will you kindly watch your language?” Equius hisses, closing the register with a cha-ching and rounding on Eridan. “I don't think that kind of lewd expression is very necessary, do you?”

 

Eridan opens his mouth, no doubt to tell Equius to shove it, but thinks better of it. You glance up, hearing Tavros laugh quietly to himself from his spot at the make line, putting a pizza into the oven. “Your guy orders, some, really, really gross stuff on his pizza, Karkat,” He comments, looking up at the computer screen and tapping the space bar to scroll to the next order.

 

“He's not my boyfriend!”

 

This is a bit more loud than you intend, and the customer waiting in the lobby gives you a strange look that you brush off as your face grows abruptly very hot. Vriska snorts, coming round the other side of the cut table and patting you rather hard on the shoulder. “Chill out, Karkat, nobody cares if you're seeing this guy-”

 

“Don't fucking touch me I'm not seeing him why don't any of you get that?”

 

“Enough.” The single word comes in the form of a quiet growl from Equius, who has returned to the make line and is now tossing the dough for Dave's order.

 

Everybody quiets down, and you retreat to the back of the store, mortified, dreading every minute between now and seeing Dave, and, as they tick by, you occupy yourself with flattening the cardboard boxes from today's stock and only look up when you hear, “Driver up!” from the front.

 

Trudging, boots dragging, you pace towards the front of the store, take the order, shove it into a warmer bag, check it out, cram the receipt into the pocket and get the fuck out of there. You fume, boiling mad, the whole way, trying to take deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth like your therapist said but it's no use. You practically tremble with rage all the way up the elevator, up all 12 floors, and then, you turn around and you face it. Apartment 12A.

 

God, please, anything but this.

 

You stop in front of Dave's door. You take a breath. And then you knock, just once.

 

Barely five seconds passes before Dave opens the door, and you don't look at his face this time, even as he says, “Sup?” and leans on the doorway. You give him his order without a word, afraid that if you open your mouth, something awful is going to come out of it, and you worry, you worry endlessly. “One sec,” He leaves the doorway, puts the pizza somewhere unseen, and then returns to where you stand with the warmer bag slung over your shoulder now.

 

Hands shaking, you offer him the receipt and pen and he scribbles on his tip and signature and then passes it back to you.

 

What you don't expect his his hand closing around your wrist as you take it back, and you look up rather sharply to find his eyes on you, at least you'd assume so. They're hidden behind those fucking sunglasses as always and you want to just reach up and take them off and break the damn things.

 

“...what's wrong?” He asks you after a moment's silence. You pull your arm back, shoving the pen and receipt into your pocket.

 

“Nothing. I gotta go.” You turn around, you feel yourself suddenly jerked back as he grabs you by the hood of your jacket and you stumble. “Dave!”

 

“Karkat.” He replies calmly, spinning you round by your shoulders and putting you right back in your spot in front of him. Your breathing is shaky. Oh god. “I asked you a question, dude. Chill out.”

 

“Nothing,” You wish your voice didn't sound so fucking strangled, you wish you weren't breathing so quickly, you wish, you wish- “I'm fine.”

 

“You're a shitty liar.”

 

“No I'm not.”

 

“You can tell me stuff, you know. I'm your friend, dude, you can talk to me.”

 

“...Dave, don't worry about it. I barely know you.”

 

For a moment, Dave seems to falter, and he shrugs a shoulder uselessly and then, almost in a mumble: “...you... could know me better.”

 

You draw in a breath and hold it.

 

“I mean,” He continues, “...I'd like to know you better. If... that's cool.”

 

“...people are making fun of me at work because they keep insisting that you're my boyfriend and I know that's not true and I'm just really fucking mad about it.” You let your breath out all in one go, one long fell sentence, and the silence that hangs in the air afterward is deafening.

 

You feel a hand take yours. You feel yourself swallow your heart, and there's a little subtle noise as Dave reaches up with his other hand and he takes off his sunglasses and you look up. He has the longest eyelashes you've ever seen, dark and thick like a movie star, and the thing that startles you most is his irises. They're red. They're so fucking red. They're red like blood, his pupils dilated and relaxed looking.

 

They're mesmerizing. He's mesmerizing. He's... Dave is... he... you...

 

...you don't know what to do. He tucks the aviators into the collar of his shirt in a rather businesslike manner and then looks down, you swallow against a dry throat as he meets your gaze and God his is so intense.

 

“...I...” You choke on the single syllable, heart pounding in your ribs.

 

He leans down. The hand that's not occupied in yours comes towards you, you can feel him skim his thumb and forefinger down one side of your face and he brings you up as he leans down and you melt as his lips meet yours. His breath on your face, your eyes sliding shut, and you feel yourself dissolve into the earth beneath you and you die, right then and there.

 

And then all at once it hits you like a fucking truck, the reality of it all, and the ethereal, dreamlike quality of your mind evaporates and you pull sharply away from him with a strangled noise. Panting, suddenly, you stare up at him, wildly confused, and he looks startled and embarrassed with his face red.

 

No. Not like that.

 

“You fucking idiot, I could just punch you-” You manage, before then staggering the step between the two of you and throwing your arms around his shoulders, hauling him into a breathless kiss that he reciprocates with every fiber of himself, you can feel it in the way he grabs round your waist and pulls you flush to him. The attraction is intense, it's real, it throbs hotly in your chest and you feel like you could throw up your heart. Dave. Dave. Dave Dave Dave Dave. David fucking Strider. Fuck.

 

You don't know how long you stand there, mouths moving smoothly together as the environment around you becomes surreal and droopy. You cling onto him like he's the only solid thing there, you can feel one hand of his come up, remove your hat, wind through the red hair hiding under it. You need this, you need him, you need...

 

...you need to feel needed. To feel wanted.

 

Is this what it's supposed to feel like?

 

His tongue skims your bottom lip and that's all it takes for you to finally have to come up for air, and you pant, clutching his forearms with a certain shakiness to your touch, and, as you stare up at him, you watch this damn grin spread over his face and you could just smack it off of him.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Do you wanna go out sometime?”

 

“No.”

 

“I told you I was gonna kiss you when I saw you.”

 

“I hate you so much.”

 

“You working Friday?”

 

“I'm busy.”

 

“Come over at like, 8, okay?”

 

“I'm busy.”

 

“Or I can pick you up. Text me your address. We can go get dinner and see a movie or something.”

 

“I'm fucking-...” You sigh heavily, close your eyes. You're still in his arms. Fuck. “...as long as we go dutch, you absolute awful fucking jerkass.”