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You are Karkat Vantas, and you sit up the back in class. You never do your homework. You never do your classwork, either, and your teacher engages in the same futile battle with you daily to persuade you to at least sit in judgmental silence. So you slump in your chair, hissing under your breath, and you watch out the window. And sometimes, you watch her.
She sits in front of you. Sometimes her hair brushes against your desk, and, if you have a hand dangling nonchalantly there, against you. When she turns to speak to another classmate, which she does amazingly often, if you're very lucky that day, you can get a glimpse of her electric green eyes as they shine in the fluorescent lights of the classroom.
You remember the first time you spoke to her. It wasn't the first time she'd tried to make conversation with you, but it was the first time you replied. She asked you how you were that day. You told her exactly where she could shove her false concern. And then, for good measure, you called her a fuckass. The words didn't mean much to you, but since then, when she's deigned to lower herself to speak at you, she's always called you fuckass in return. You never answer her. You don't need her pity.
She still offers it, though. You can't seem to go a week without hearing her cheerful voice in your ear, all smiles and 'how's it going, fuckass?' when you're just minding your own business carving shapes into your desk. Like she even fucking cares how you are. She's just maintaining her reputation in front of her friends. The creepy goth chick who looks like she's trying to stare through you (someone should tell her platinum blonde hair doesn't fit her stereotype), that fucking asshole with the shitty swords and the derpy little fuckwit who sits up the front all the time.
You're not jealous. You're not. Just because she has some stupid shitty best friends club you're not invited to. Just because she has people who actually give a shit what she says, and you don't. Certainly not because she spends her time with them and not you. That would just be crazy. You're not crazy. You're just too good for this lameass school and its brain dead loser teachers and even more brain dead loser students. You're only here every day because there's nowhere else to be. Definitely not to watch her, with her perfect attendance record and her A+ grades and her hypnotic green eyes. Nope.
She is seriously always at school. You know this for a fact. She’s the first one there in the morning, and she stays in the library until it closes, and then she goes… somewhere. You wouldn’t know, not being a creepy fucking stalker. You’ve never even thought about following her home. Not more than once. Or twice. Only sometimes, okay? When you’re hanging out in the park at dusk and you see her walk past, eyes trained on the concrete in front of her. Which is, yeah, most days. Okay, yes, you’re barely suppressing your desire to be a creepy fucking stalker. But the point is, she is always, always at school.
You’re surprised one morning, when you walk into class and her seat is empty. You’re so surprised you walk straight back out again. Out the classroom door and out of the building and then out of school grounds. Your teacher will be thrilled. Unfortunately, it’s been so long since you weren’t at school that you’ve forgotten how you managed to pass the day without it. Well. Shit. Can’t go home, your dad’s there. Crabby old asshole. Can’t go back into school, there’s nothing there for you now and you’d rather slit your throat with one of that Strider douche’s shitty ass swords than get signed in late. You do have standards. So, with no money and nothing to do for the next six hours, you meander aimlessly in the direction of the park.
She’s there. You nearly have a goddamn heart attack when you come around a leafy corner and she’s just sitting right there under a tree. It takes you a full minute to come to terms with this information, and it’s not until after that you notice she’s crying. Something about watching tears fall from those pretty eyes makes your heart twist uncomfortably, and before you know it your feet seem to have decided of their own accord that you’re going over to sit with her.
You drop gracelessly down on the grass by her side, and stare at her expectantly. If you have to sit in the damp, under some tree that’s probably full of creepy crawlies and who knows what other shit, you deserve a goddamn explanation. Why is the perfect student curled up under a tree sobbing like a stupid baby when she should be in class, smiling that little smile she has and making her big eyes twinkle? You force your eyes to keep themselves locked to the watery green ones beside you.
She takes a while to start talking, but once she does it’s like someone opened some fucking floodgates or something and you’re being swept under a sudden rush of icky girly emotions. Apparently her dog died. Something tells you that asking something like ‘so fucking what?’ would probably get you thrashed. By a girl, no less. So you bite your tongue, and she tells you the life story of her stupid dead dog.
You’re not 100% sure why she’s telling you that her dog – Becky-something – was like her parent, because that shit is messed up, and it’s not like you even know her or anything. Or, well, you’d kind of like to think you know her. But she doesn’t know you. You’re some kind of super secret mystery. A detective novel she can never read the last page of. An enigma shrouded in secrets and stealth. She has no idea who you are. But it’s been like an hour and she’s still talking about this fucking dog.
She must be winding up, because she’s starting to use words and phrases like ‘recently’ and ‘then last week he…’. You might just be the happiest guy on the planet right now. You are seeing before you a glorious life not listening to pretty girls go on about their stupid creepy relationships with their equally stupid dead dogs. She thanks you for listening to her. You’re absolutely outraged. A thank you? All you get is a thank you?! For listening to this god awful tale of woe for what must have been hours?! No way in hell. She’d better have some kind of payment for this shit.
You freeze. Her head is on your shoulder. Her head. Your shoulder. They are touching. She is leaning her head on your shoulder. Very, very slowly you incline your face towards her head. Yup. Her hair smells beautiful. You are so head over fucking heels for this girl you think her hair smells lovely. You are a lost cause. Right now, however, you’re not sure you can bring yourself to care. Her head is resting against your shoulder, and it’s good enough for now.