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GG: karkat, i know what you're going through! you know i do.
GG: i have to do this though. i'm pulling out the big guns. it's really for the best, i promise!
GG: so...here it goes. the big guns. they're coming out! i'm getting them out! they’re sooo big! i can barely lift these huge guns.
GG: do it for me, karkat.
GG: please?
CG: KANAYA
CG: BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING, PLEASE, LET ME TELL YOU JUST ONE THING.
GA: What
CG: DIDN’T I TELL YOU NOT TO SAY ANYTHING YET?
GA: Whoops
CG: AS I WAS SAYING.
CG: I AM A TOTAL PIECE OF SHIT WHO IS NOT, NEVER HAS BEEN, AND NEVER WILL BE WORTHY OF YOUR TIME OR CONSIDERATION.
CG: ALSO, I'M SORRY.
GA: The First Part Was Not Necessary Or True But I Do Forgive You
GA: In Fact The Second Part Was Not Really Necessary Either But I Appreciate It All The Same
GA: I Am Just Glad You Are Okay
CG: YEAH. I MEAN, I'M GETTING THERE.
GA: I Am Glad To Hear That Karkat
GA: Is There Anything I Can Do To Help
CG: YEAH, THERE IS, ACTUALLY.
CG: COULD YOU...MAYBE CUT MY HAIR?
It’s not as pretentious as you’d feared it would be.
It’s kind of a crapshoot, honestly, these art exhibitions. Sometimes they’re in a grimy, poorly lit warehouse with hard, cold floors and leaky bathrooms. Other times, they’re in bespoke, renovated historic homes with no doors and fluffy, off-white carpet waiting to be ruined by a misplaced canapé.
This one is in a lively little downtown area, smart and progressive, with bottle shops and boutiques at the street level and overpriced apartments above. It’s comfortable enough, and you’re relieved as fuck to see there are several current installations—the whole building hasn’t been dominated by the work of the infamous D. Strider. Small miracles.
It is the opening night for his exhibit, however, and before you even reach the door you see several people you recognize, and very nearly hoof it back to the car. But Jade gets a far from gentle grip on your forearm and hauls you through the doors before you can breathe a word of protest.
And after that, literally every single person turns to stare at you.
No, that’s not an exaggeration.
Every person is looking at you—and there are maybe a dozen or so, some you know, some you don’t. Some you wish you had never met.
“What the fuck is the problem?”
TG: i know you don't read my messages anymore
TG: i mean i guess i don't know but i'm pretty sure you don't because why the fuck would you
TG: literally no one can blame you for not wanting to see the inane pathetic bullshit i'm laying down on the regular
TG: case doesn't even need to go to court we know what the jury is gonna think of this one
TG: book him boys he's an emotionally stunted man-child who would choose his own ego over the only thing in the world that makes him happy
TG: that's a class 1 felony case of insecurity
TG: sentence is living the rest of your days with your own fucking self
TG:
TG: so
TG: this is stupid
TG: god im so stupid
TG: ive got an exhibit coming up and
TG: i want you to see it
TG: i think you need to see it
TG: like you deserve to
TG: that sounds kinda menacing but what i mean is this is kind of for you
TG: i cant really explain it well but if you come i think youll understand
TG: but if you dont want to come then obviously nobody could blame you for that
TG: so
TG: yeah
The truth is, you always knew Dave was going to break your heart one day, but you didn’t let it stop you from falling horn over heels for him.
You couldn’t.
You’re weak (but you’re not as weak as you thought you were).
The awkward silence that greeted your arrival is broken, thankfully, by Roxy, who makes over you in an over-the-top-but-somehow-genuine way while John floats up next to you and begins to babble. It’s nice. It’s fine. The trend continues that way until there’s a little bubble of protection between you and Dave, a literal human shield because you’re the only troll present, besides Kanaya.
You don’t see the first photo until said fellow troll guides you away, and thank god she does it so deliberately, all the while telling you to steel yourself for the experience. Has Dave taken to photographing scenes of torture? Are their images of your late lusus’ steaming corpse? One would think so, from the way she whispers furtively in your ear before dragging you toward the back, where the gallery proper awaits.
But it’s actually so much worse. You immediately understand why everyone was staring at you.
Because that is you, there, edited all-to-fuck and he must have done something about your overbite because you’re pretty sure you can’t look that good in profile otherwise.
Next to that is your hoodie thrown over the back of a couch, all artistic and stylized and highly detailed in a way that makes your stomach knot so hard you actually can’t move for a second, but you have to, you have to see all of it, because beside that one there’s—
A hole in the wall Chinese restaurant three hours away where you had your first ‘date’ after you failed to get reservations for the place you’d wanted to go, and you couldn’t get another cab so you’d tried to walk to this bistro but it had started to rain, so you’d split dumplings and a can of Coke because of course you were still going to try to go some place fancy, except when you left is was still raining and you’d both ended up running and laughing and eating microwave dinners on the futon hours later—
Then there’s a shot you don’t recognize at first, but the music playing softly from the stereo in the corner jolts the memory (and breath) out of you. Your favorite song is playing, and this is a garden on your college campus—you’ve walked by this spot, with this song playing through your headphones, countless times. It’s a Japanese Maple, the red leaves the only color in the black-and-white shot.
The last one you manage to endure is a shot of a hallway door, half-closed, a trashed room visible through the crack—you recognize ramen noodle cups, empty soda bottles, an upturned hamper—and out of focus, on the wall framing the door, a framed photo of you both, and you’re sure there are details you’re missing but a sense of longing and pity makes your eyes sting so much you turn away.
There’s more (of course there’s more, there’s so much more) but your throat is closed up and you honest to god feel like puking. Jade doesn’t stop you from leaving this time, just comes out to the car moments later and takes you home.
TC: Y'aLl WaNt I sHoUlD bUsT a CaP iN hIs AsS?
CG: WHEN DID YOU GET OUT OF JAIL?
TC: :O)
CG: DON'T SAY HONK.
TC: :O(
One of the perks of your job is a hefty amount of paid time off, which you never take because you’re a stubborn jackass who both loves and loathes to work. You call in sick the next day and your boss clears you for a few days off after that, so you’re actually home when the phone rings, scaring you shitless. You pause The Sims so they don’t spontaneously combust while you’re gone, and answer it without looking at the caller ID because you’re really fucking stupid.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I’m here. Can you let me in?” It’s Dave. It’s definitely Dave.
You don’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds.
“Um, did you change your mind? That’s cool, I get it. I can leave—”
You groan, because you can practically smell shenanigans in the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dave swallows so hard you can hear it. “Oh, uh, there was—a comment card? Left at the show, you said to come by so we could talk but—”
You groan some more, long and low and exhausted, and bash your phone into your forehead a few times. “God damn meddling sons of bitches, all of them. Motherfucking—are you actually here? Now?”
“I am, yeah. I’m guessing you don’t want me to be.” He has the audacity to sound hurt about that, and heat shoots through you, angry heat, which is so satisfying and familiar and excellent you can taste it.
Then it fades. You went through this, the night of the exhibit. You’d come home and raged and ranted so hard you’d given yourself a migraine, because how dare he put you on display, put both of you on display, used your joy and your pain and mundanity for artistic expression. When you fell asleep that night, you heard that song again—your favorite song, your “song”—for the two of you. You’d never dreamt with sound before.
When you woke up, you couldn’t feel that anger anymore, couldn’t settle into it like a familiar coat, a layer between you and more complicated, agonizing emotions. They were his memories too.
They were his memories too.
“Give me a minute. I’ll let you in.”
(You will. You always will. You’re such a sucker. You’re weak.)
But you’re not as weak as you thought you were.