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Dave Strider didn't take the city bus often. And when he did, it wasn't usually at night. Yet, here he was, the time getting closer and closer to midnight, on an almost empty bus, trying to get back home.
He had been working over time at his shitty Dairy Queen job, making blizzards and shakes and taking orders for hours and was so ready to leave when his shift finally ended. He twirled his car keys around his index finger and whistled on the walk to his relatively shitty car, sliding into his driver seat. The car didn't start; the engine didn't even turn over. Which left him frustrated and pissed off and with two options.
Take the bus or start walking.
It was a hard decision, honestly. It would take forever for him to get home on foot, but he was also so against taking the bus. The weirdest people rode the bus at night. He didn't want to get involved with that shit.
But he took the bus anyway, because man were his feet tired from standing all day. He got on, paid the driver a dollar, and took his seat far away from all the occupants as possible.
The bus pulls to a stop and a dark haired kid gets on, paying in a handful of change. Dave doesn't know him, doesn't think he's seen him around at school. His hair is a mess and his clothes are a mess and his skin is tan and while he doesn't sit next to Dave, he sits close enough.
God, where does this kid shop?
The kid meets his eyes, a scowl on his lips. "Problem?"
"Did you get that shirt out of a dumpster?" Dave asks, unable to stop himself. He always made sure he dressed his best.
"Sí," replies the kid, crossing his arms over his chest. Dave can't tell if he's being serious or sarcastic, but he genuinely hopes it's the latter. "Do you always wear sunglasses at night, douchebag?"
Dave snorts. "Sí." The kid roles his eyes, obviously not liking the way Dave mocks him.
"What about the pants? Where do those come from?"
"My fucking closet, where do your's come from?" He's getting heated; Dave loves it. He's always loved baiting people.
He loves it so much that he can't help but slide in next to this Mexicano, the two of them now sharing a seat. The kid makes a noise in the back of his throat and moves away from him, making Dave smirk. "Problem, chick-o?" asks the blonde, nudging his new seat mate in the side with his elbow.
The kid mumbles something under his breath, not looking up at Dave while he does so.
"What was that?" Dave goads, cupping a hand over his ear. "I couldn't hear you."
"I said, it's chico, not chick-o. If you're going to make fun of me, you could at least do it right. ¿Verdad, pendejo?"
Dave laughs, pulls his feet up onto the seat. "Got a name?"
He's quiet, most likely comtemplating if he should even grace Dave with an answer. "Karkat."
"Karkat?" Dave questions. "That's not very Hispanic."
"Fuck you."
"I was expecting something like José, if I'm to be honest."
"Fuck. You." Karkat leans his head on the window, puffs his cheeks up with air and then blows it out in a huff. "Racist."
Dave shrugs. "Did you even brush your hair this morning?" He pulls at a piece of Karkat's hair and grins with Karkat slaps his hand away.
"Did your mother ever teach you any manners?" Karkat counters, facing Dave full on now.
Again, Dave shrugs. "Can't say that she has. My mother's not around much."
"Awh, poor baby," Karkat spits. "Get out of my seat, Strider."
A pale blonde eyebrow arches over the rim of his shades. So Karkat knows his name, which, of course, automatically means that Karkat goes to his school. Funny that he'd never notice this kid with awful clothes and an attitude problem. "It's a free country. Maybe that's a foreign concept to you."
He expects Karkat to lash out, to hit him, something. He can see Karkat thinking about it, sees him steaming. His face is red, his fist are clenched. And...nothing. Dave watches Karkat relax, watches him take a deep breath.
It's like suddenly Dave is sharing a seat with an entirely different person. Karkat scoots closer to him, curls a finger around one of his belt loops, tugs on it. "Dave Strider... sharing a seat with me, of all people. I'm so lucky." His voice is quieter, lower, softer, as if his words belong to Dave and only Dave. "I heard you like boys, Dave Strider."
"I'm not picky," he answers, swallowing his saliva. Karkat's dark eyes flicker down to Dave's lips, then back up.
"No?" Karkat's lips are hovering right about Dave's when he whispers, "What's your opinion on darker boys?" Dave can't stop himself from kissing him.
Karkat sighs into his mouth, and it sends shivers down Dave's back. He pulls Karkat closer, his tongue poking out to lick at Karkat's lips. He can't help but feel like he won some sort of game, getting someone like this Karkat kid to want him. He's definitely got it.
Dave's arms are around Karkat's back, holding him secure, and Karkat's hands are running up and down his legs, along his thighs. Dave considers taking the city bus more often if this is how it's going to be.
Karkat kisses expertly, the way his mouth and tongue move makes Dave a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, and he is so disappointed when the pulls comes to a stop and Karkat pulls away. "My stop," he whispers against Dave's lips, and stands.
"Maybe we can do this again sometime?"
But Karkat doesn't grace him with an answer this time, doesn't even look back. The bus pulls away, and Dave is left breathless.
At home twenty minutes later, Dave pulls off his shirt and throws it on the bed, then reaches in his pocket to remove his wallet so he can rid himself of his pants, as well.
He checks all his pockets twice. There is no wallet there.
Fucking hell.
---
Back at Karkat's place, Karkat counts fifty dollars and aquires three gift cards and a nude picture of porn star Damara Megido.
"Thank you, Dave Strider," he says to himself, pocketing the money and cards. He thinks he'll leave the wallet and Damara picture in Strider's locker Monday morning.