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You tug at the hem of your skirt, the silk fabric sliding against your thumb and bunching up between your clenched fingers. You wish you weren't nervous, but as the rubbery texture of the diner booth rubbed against your back and Elvis played on repeat, you couldn't help but feel the flutter of butterflies in your stomach. You think about that for a second, indulging in the mental image of monarch butterflies in their vivid orange and reds swirling around your rib cage and perching upon your heart. You let a smile pull at your thin lips and brush your hair off your shoulders.
“TEREZI HEY HI WOW YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL AND I’M YELLing fuck sorry.” The voice sends an electric jolt down your spine but you replace the shock with a maniacal grin, twisting to face the sudden sound.
“Hey, Karkat,” you greet with a teasing lilt to your voice. You can feel your scarlet tinted sunglasses slide slightly down the bridge of your nose and you push them back, listening intently as he slides into the booth opposite. His feet nudge yours and you nudge back, glad to have a physical anchor. You tap the glass table top and then place your palm upward, and he takes the hint and holds your hand. The pads of his fingers are calloused and the folds of his hands run deep. Despite the sweatiness of nerves that you both possess, you can easily glide your thumb along the crease that curves from between his thumb and forefinger all the way down to his wrist in one single swoop.
“Terezi, you… you look stunning,” he said conspiratorially, his voice hushed and cracked due to yelling and puberty. You've never actually seen the dress, but when you bought it there was the delicate aroma of maraschino cherries embroidered into the fabric and it honestly reminded you of Karkat.
“Oh, Karkat, you make me sound like the bees knees,” you purr, a low throaty chuckle erupting unbidden.
Karkat laughed as well, loud and obnoxious and filled with that kind of contagious mirth you can actually feel creep into your system. “Oh absolutely, you’re the fucking cat’s meow or some shit.”
You bat his hand softly and mutter out something along the lines of “Oh, shucks, you!” You ask him to grab a mint slurg for you with blueberry syrup swirls. You like to mix it all together and imagine it’s the literal taste of teal. It’s minty, sweet, and kind of off putting until you get used to it. It’s also disgusting when coupled with most anything other than a cherry garnish, and as you chew the end of your straw you realize you wouldn't have it any other way.
"What did you get?" you ask, a smile curling around your straw. You can taste the smear of your black lipstick on the straw, a little waxier than your red lipstick. You wished somebody would make them better flavors, like cherry or strawberry, but you have the feeling that won't be invented any time soon (and certainly not by you). Blueberry mint fills your mouth and leaves an odd aftertaste, the oddball mixture confusing your tongue. As you perch your chin on one hand, you mix your drink with the other, feeling the slower syrup saturated sections blend with the rest of the shake.
"Cherry, as usual. Nothing else tastes good compared to this fantastic fucking fruity smoothie. The deliciousness is a goddamn miracle bestowed upon all of us grubfucking mortals so that our lives can seem less meaningless and shitty. Thanks, jesus!" he exclaimed in a mockingly cheery voice, his words every once in a while slurred due to the previously mentioned smoothie that coated his tongue. "Oh, yeah, and you can take the maraschino shit if you want or something." Your smile softens as you feel him open your palm and place within it a familiar slick sphere of deliciousness. "Too sweet for me anyways."
Your fingers curl around it as you place it in your mouth, the taste of artificial flavoring and syrupy sweetness coating your tongue. It's absolutely heavenly as your teeth sink into the bright red flesh and release even more sugary goodness. Despite having no need to, you close your eyes and feel your eyelashes brush against your cheeks. You swallow down the remaining pieces, following soon after with a blinding grin. Your fingers slide along the smooth surface of your glass, picking up condensation underneath your chilled fingers. It sometimes makes you feel embarrassed that finding things has become more a game of trial and error than anything else and often leads to your fingers dipped in gravy or cheeks smeared with vanilla bean frosting. Normally Karkat doesn't help you, knowing all too well that your pride and need to be independent far outweigh his own chivalry. But right then you could feel his fingers guide yours tenderly to the tip of the straw and you never felt so fragile. It was sweet, surely, but you weren't sure you liked it. It's not in your nature to be taken care of. It's just... not.
"Thanks, Karkat," you murmur, guiding the gnawed tip the the straw to your lips. Blueberry blasts and minty mist fills your senses, with the most perfect undertones of cherry.
"No problem," he humbly replied, his hand shying away. You can hear the ruffle of a foreign fabric as he shifts in his seat, and you beckon for him to come closer. He leans forward, and you get a rather large whiff of fresh leather.
"Oooh, a leather jacket, you bad boy!" you cackle, splaying your fingers along the complicated seams. It's hard for you to picture it accurately, what with all the zippers and fabric sliding through your fingers, but you can rather easily determine that it's brand new and fairly expensive. "How'd you get your hands on that, tough guy?"
"I've been working. I know, big shocker. The crowd goes silent due to mass confusion, permeated by the small whispers of 'how in the ever loving fuck did that guy get a job?' and then slowly trickles out of the stadium to give it only a two star rating in the papers," he rambled, only pulling away once you've gotten your fill of touching his jacket curiously. "Sollux, that glorious shitstain, got me a gig helping him build custom televisions. I'm paid maybe an eighth of his wage since my parents are chicano, but I think it's the most money I'll see in my life." His exhilaration was palpable, the excitement in his voice seeping into your skin and making you feel giddy as well.
"Karkat, that's fantastic!" Your hands encircle his wrists as you grin wryly. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth to know Karkat will never have the same opportunities as yourself simply due to a skin color you can't even see. You pull one hand back to find your straw again and sip from it, washing the vile taste of racism from your mouth. The other hand remains around his wrist, however, and you can feel a blush creep into the skin there. "I'm so proud of you."
"Yeah, well, it's whatever," he replies back, sucking up the last dregs of his drink through his straw. You love the sound the air bubbles make as they go through the straw, the melody of sucking in what isn't there. It's so gratifying and delectable that you smile lazily as it graces your ears. Your feel your legs brush against each other as they cross at the ankles, Karkat's own legs tangled with yours. "I know you're about to ask, but I'm not going to taste that blue tinted catastrophe you call a milkshake. Probably tastes like broken dreams and Marilyn Monroe's hairspray, as in horrible and brain cell destroying." You roll your eyes behind your glasses, pulling away from guzzling your drink.
"Says the guy who's too chicken to try it," you mock, lifting the shake to see how much is probably left. It feels like only the last dregs, to your chagrin. "Last chance to try some terrific teal!" you warn, waggling your fingers in what you hope to be the vague direction of the milkshake as a form of advertisement.
"No way, I have standards," he retorts. You can hear him crossing his arms, the leather rubbing against leather.
"Well I obviously don't if I'm on a date with you," you reply with a laugh, earning a playful kick under the table. "Just kiddin', just kiddin'."
"Wanna scram?" he offered, placing a few bills on the table. You hear the rustle of them as he holds them down with his glass.
"Sure thing, kookie. Wanna make the scene? I heard there's going to be a drag race at five. Or there's a bash at Janey's and she's always a blast," you suggest, sliding out of the booth and linking arms with him.
"I think I got a better idea, dolly." It feels almost weird to hear him call you dolly instead of things like scooch. You like it, though. You like how the pet name rolls so easily off his tongue. You like how when he's really tired after a couple flicks, he rolls his r's. You like how when he was drunk and you pretended to be, he said to you "Desde que te conocí no hago nada más que pensar en ti." You like that you don't even know what that means, but how he said it made you light headed and filled with the desire to hear more. You like how solid he feels right next to you, his arm entangled with yours as the uneven sidewalk slaps against the soles of your shoes. You like him, a lot. More than just like, you suppose, but you don't think you know what more than like even is.
Your skirt brushes against your knees as you walk, the fabric ghosting along your skin. Sunshine warms your skin and splashes along your shoulders, where a plethora of freckles lie. The memory of them is a faded one, but sometimes you pretend that you can feel them as you touch along the pores of your skin. It's a mere fantasy, and one you don't indulge in often. Only when your sad and wish you could do things like see someone's face or enjoy a sunset one more time. That doesn't happen often, more often than not you find yourself grateful for being blind with the knowledge that it has done nothing but bring you and your mom closer. You don't think you could give up being able to smell emotion, taste color, feel not just skin, but the slightest twitch of muscle. No amount of sunsets can replace moments like the one your in now, with your hair sweeping along your shoulders in a gentle breeze and your cheek resting against your boyfriend's shoulder. You guess he's your boyfriend now. The thought brings a smile to your face that you hope he can feel through the leather of his jacket. You, Terezi Pyrope are going steady with Karkat Vantas. Neat-o.
He nudges you around a corner and you move with him as fluidly as you can manage, your feet sinking into something much softer than bluestone. "Grass?"
"Yeah, I got a present for you and I figured we could mess with it in the park," he admitted, walking you a little farther in before your legs bumped against a bench. You shake your head, pointing to the ground.
"I think I'd prefer to lay down, if that's alright."
He laughs and says sure, flopping onto the grass and tugging you down with him. You can hear the wind rustle the leaves of trees towering above you, you can feel the long blades of grass tickle your skin. You end up finding yourself most comfortable when your head is propped up against his chest and your legs are interwoven with his and you can feel your breathing in tandem. The posture is familiar to you, you've both been curled up like this more times than you can count for the last couple years. Looking back, it seems almost comical how long it took for you both to start dating. Not much has even changed, really. He's still a goof and you both tease each other incessantly. You still tussle with him sometimes and he still makes fun of your weird taste in food. The only difference is that now there's nothing holding you back from leaving black marks on his cheeks and lips when he presents you with "The Murder at the Vicarage" in braille, though it took quite a bit of fumbling to find his face. There's nothing stopping you from lovingly mussing up his hairdo while he reads his own copy aloud to you and you rub your finger lovingly along the crisp pages. After a little while you take his hand in yours and move his finger in time with the words, wanting to share the feeling with him. You laugh at his witty commentary and he laughs at your dramatic reactions to plot developments. Every time he got frustrated about not knowing enough English to read it all smoothly, you gently took the book from his hands and just laid with him instead, talking to him about what he thought might happen next and who should marry whom and reminisce about all the fun they've already had.
"You remember the first time you ever got drunk?" you say with a smirk, arm draped over his chest. He laughs and you can feel the vibration of it coarse through his body and make your arm giggle.
"Ah, man, that was one fucking trainwreck. I thought my dad was going to murder me that night, er, well, morning. Early morning. Like asscrack of dawn kind of morning. Wouldn't trade it back for the world, though, craptastic hangover and all," he mused, his hand curled in your hair. "Remember how I couldn't stop speaking Spanish? Everybody looked at me like I had candy corn growing from my head or something else equally bullshit ridden."
"Do you remember what you said to me?" Your fingers pick at the folds of his shirt, the clothing bunched up to expose a sliver of his hips you brushed against once before shyly pulling away. You hear the word no reverberate through his chest, your ear pressed against his ribcage. "It sounded something like.. desday kay conosertay no ago nada mas kay penscar entity?" He's wheezing by the time you're done trying to sound out the words, abdominal muscles tight under the pads of your fingers.
"I don't know what you just said, Terecita, but it sure as fuck wasn't Spanish," you slap his chest halfheartedly, laughing along with him. "Okay, okay," he mutters as he catches his breath. "Now I'm taking it as a challenge. Desde que something no hago nada más que pensar something," he mused, rolling his shoulders. It took him a couple minutes, you could tell he was sounding out the words with his mouth when you touched his neck and the muscles that coiled beneath the skin were bouncing up and down along with his chin. "I said... since I met you, I do nothing else except think of you. Sort of. It's hard to translate." Either his skin is flushing or your own blush has crept into your palms, your not sure. Either way, the next couple minutes were filled with a weird tension.
"So you've liked me all the way since back then, huh," you think aloud, breaking the silence.
"Longer." His words are filled with awkward embarrassment, and you can just tell all he wants to do is bury his head in a pillow and yell about how "The Matchmaker" didn't prepare him for these kinds of situations.
"Wow, took you long enough to ask me out, ya doofus." He chuckled at your words and you snickered with him, the breeze cooler as dusk descended. You shiver and Karkat gives you his brand new leather jacket. The inner lining warms you, and you tug it around your body like a blanket. When you lay back down, you can feel his breath on your neck and your fingers poke into his side, letting you know he's laying down on his side (probably propped up on one elbow). His fingers cup your cheek and his lips brush against yours and your breath hitches in your throat because this kiss is so much different than any other kiss you've ever had. It's intimate and your heart isn't beating right and when did your fingers end up curled into a fist in his shirt? You press back against his lips, your glasses pushing up and off your face as you tilt your nose away from his. He coaxes your mouth open with his and you can taste him on your tongue. He doesn't taste like strawberry milkshakes or maraschino cherries or grenadine syrup. He feels unique, unlike anything you've tasted before. He pulls away before you do and you can feel the tightness of your knuckles in his shirt and you can hear your laboring breath. His own heavy breathing mingles with yours and you rest your forehead on his. "Wow," you mutter, not having anything more coherent to say.
"Yeah," was the intelligent reply Karkat gives. You start giggling and he follows suit a split second after and soon enough it snowballs until the both of you are breathless and cackling like hyenas. Nothing is really funny, you both are just filled to the brim with giddiness. "We should do that again, sometime," he says once he's regained his breath, his body still looming over yours.
"Definitely." You give him a chaste peck on the lips and pull away before he could reel you back in. You'd probably make out with him for the whole night if you didn't call it quits. "What time is it?"
"Well, based on the trajectory of the moon against the sun and the northern stars positioning near our atmosphere, I'd say half past pretty fucking late," he snarked, body protesting as he untangled himself. You snort and let him help you up, his arm looped around yours. You stand a little closer as he walks you through the white picket fence ridden suburb, running your fingers along the vertical slabs of wood and feeling the paint chipping underneath your fingers. Neither of you can see very well in the darkness (ha), so you stumble a lot more frequently than normal. You don't mind, it draws out the date longer. You feel familiar steps underneath your toes, the cobblestone uneven underneath your soles.
"I had a great time, Karkat."
"Me too."
"Think you can come over tomorrow?"
"Yeah, I think I can manage. It's not like we live right the fuck next to each other or anything."
You grin, pulling him in for one more kiss. His mouth is soft and you can feel the slightest stubble on his cheeks.
"Later, nookwhiffer," you taunt, swinging open the front door. He walks away backwards just to catch a last glimpse of you before he leaves.
"See ya, bone bulge," he yells back from the side walk, and you can't help but let out one last uncontrollable laugh as you slip inside your house. Your fingers brush against his jacket and you don't ever want to take it off, the fabric already a fond reminder of your very own Karkat Vantas.
You chuckle to yourself in the dark, feeling your way to your bedroom. "Seems I just got jacketed," you say to yourself with a smile. "Who would have thought?"