Work Text:
The campus library is packed, in the way that campus libraries are always packed—there’s one person sitting at each table, nose shoved in a book or laptop. Usually, the latter. Kids these days with their damn tech and gadgets.
(Never mind that you’re here to mix some sicknasty beats ‘cause your roommate won’t shut up long enough for you to concentrate.)
You get it; you’re Dave Strider and people are vying all over the place for your attention, but a guy needs his alone time. Which is why you’re here, at the library, with your laptop and headphones and sweet portable turntables. The whole kit-n-fuckin’-kaboodle.
And that is why you really need your own table. Time to review your options.
There’s Serket with an array of notebooks and dice scattered in front of her. She glances up from her D&D guidebook and gives you a death glare that says: I fucking dare you.
Moving on.
There’s Terezi—cool as shit, but the point of this trip is to not get distracted, and there’s probably not a thing you could do that would annoy her enough to ditch the table.
The rest you don’t really recognize but they all seem pretty engrossed in their studying. Shit. You need an easy target, someone that will—aha, fuckin’ bingo.
Your eyes land on a vaguely familiar face, hunched over a pile of books that, even from this distance, still read as trashy harlequin romance novels. The two of you don’t share any classes, but you’re pretty sure you recognize him as the dude who regularly gets into shouting matches with the professors. You’ve heard him in the hallways on more than one occasion. He’s got a short fuse, and that’s exactly what you need.
That table is as good as yours.
See, the thing is, you’re efficient in the art of being obnoxious. Some might call it a character flaw, but you call it a tactile survival advantage. Case in point—this exact scenario. You don’t bother with sitting at the far end of the table like a normal, polite person would. No. You sit in the chair right next to him and start unloading your bag, pulling out every cord and wire, even the ones you don’t need.
Especially the ones you don’t need.
He’s already looking at you like you’ve lost your mind. Damn. This might be easier than you thought.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he whispers, but it comes out as more of a hiss, jabbing his finger to another table like he’s banishing you to the Shadow Realm. “Go sit over there!”
“Nah,” you say, and continue unpacking. “This is my spot, dude. It’s got the plug-ins for all my shit here. See?”
To demonstrate, you plug your laptop charger into one of the sockets in the middle of the table, and then your phone charger, and then your turntables, and then your portable battery that’s already fully charged. You turn back to your unwilling companion and find that he’s no longer looking at you like you’ve gone bananas.
Now, he just looks like he wants to commit a federal crime. Namely, murder.
“All the tables have sockets, dumbass.” His voice edges a little louder this time and you can practically see the steam rolling from his ears. They’re all pink and adorable.
“Yeah, but I like this one.”
“You—“
“Shhhhh!”
You both look over to the receptionist desk, at the librarian who’s violently shushing you with a finger to her mouth. Textbook librarian shit. You give her a little wave of apology and go back to setting up, ignoring the sharp glare poking you in your peripherals.
Damn. If looks could kill, you’d be a corpse.
Honestly, you almost feel bad. The guy looks pretty exhausted. His hair’s a mess of wild, tangled cowlicks. His clothes look rumpled and worn. There are dark circles under his eyes that you can relate to. You’ve got your own—but you keep them covered with sweet shades. No one needs to know that you haven’t slept in days. Ain’t their business.
Just like it’s not your business whether this guy needs sleep, or if he just perpetually looks like this. Cute, but grumpy.
You should probably stop thinking gay shit about him too. Like cute and adorable. Gay shit kinda comes with the territory of being gay though, so you’re not really to blame there. But you don’t even know if he’s into dudes, so maybe these thoughts are still hella inappropriate.
And, regardless, he’s not going to be into you in like, point two seconds.
You put on your headphones—the biggest, clunkiest pair that you packed—and boot up your software. You keep the sound muted though, even as you let your latest track play. This is currently all for show. Mostly ‘cause you’re really curious as to how he’s gonna react when you start beatboxing under your breath.
The answer is, rancorous.
“Shut up,” he hisses.
You pretend you don’t hear him.
“You’re going to get us both kicked out—and I, for fucking one, am busy doing shit that’s actually important.”
Okay, you can’t really let that one slide. You pause the song that you aren’t even listening to and lift one side of your headphones. “What was that?”
“Shhhhh!”
Again, the old librarian shushes you so hard, it looks like she’s going to burst a blood vessel.
“I said I’m working,” he huffs, quieter than he has been. And, in what you’re assuming is an act of defiance, he aggressively picks up his book and stares at the pages.
He’s not really reading it, you can tell.
“Book’s upside down,” you inform him, and he groans, slamming it against the table. The resulting smack echoes throughout the library.
Almost immediately, there’s a scrap of the chair against hardwood over by the check-out counter. She’s not completely out of her seat yet, but you can tell she’s threatening it, and if the two of you push her, you’re both gonna be out on your ass.
Which kinda defeats the whole purpose of, y’know, being here.
You should probably just do what you came to do and swallow your hubris. He’s clearly not going anywhere. You didn’t really bank on him being just as stubborn as you are. The problem is, now you’re intrigued.
Which, again, kinda defeats the whole purpose of, y’know, being here.
Goodbye, concentration.
You gently shut your laptop and pull out your notebook and trusty red pen, scribbling out a note like you’re in the third grade.
He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head—but at least he still pulls a pen from his pocket. Score.
You give a quick glance at his stack of romance novels. Yeah, you highly doubt that.
He blinks and, yeah, he’s totally blushing. Double score.
If Karkat was blushing before, he’s practically glowing now. Bright red—which happens to be your favorite color.
Okay. Shit, c’mon, Strider. You’re losing ‘em. Do something impressive.
He wrenches the notebook from your hands. “Fuck you,” he whispers, “I don’t look like that.”
You hold a finger to your mouth, imitating the librarian, and watch as his eyes drop lower, and then back up again. Flustered.
Which, admittedly, kinda makes you fluster too.
Shit.
You go back to doodling, but you notice that Karkat now has his pen ready. Why he’s holding it like he’s about to stab you, you’re not sure. Except that maybe he is.
People are staring, and that’s probably because the two of you are wrestling over a notebook in the middle of the library. Karkat ribs you in the side, and you let out a louder “oof” than you mean to. Across the room, you hear snickering and realize that Serket and Terezi have moved to share a table, and now they’re watching you and Karkat like a nature documentary special.
Embarrassing. No one needs to be privy to your awkward mating dance.
Which, yeah. That’s totally what this is. You still want Karkat to leave, but now you kinda want to leave with him and maybe take him to lunch.
“Okay, I surrender,” you whisper, and he lets you out the headlock that he has you in. A small price to pay to regain control of the notebook.
You flip to a new page.
Karkat kinda sits there, frozen outside of the silent face journey he’s going on. You’re not really sure what that means for you. Maybe ya’ll are on two separate pages and this hasn’t been a bunch of playground flirting.
Finally, he goes for his pen.
Oh.
That’s.
Fuck, now you’re blushing.
Uh. What?
Okay, you definitely just wrote that with your hand and this pen doesn’t have an eraser and, even if it did, you’re fucked because he’s already read it. Oh, well. Time to go whole fuckin’ hog.
“Hell yeah. You fuckin’ got it, bro,” you say, top volume. “Let’s get outta here.”
“Shhhh!”
The librarian stands and points to the door, but it doesn’t matter. You already have half your equipment shoved in your bag, and Karkat’s got his books loaded up, backpack slung over his shoulder.
He’s all blushy and cute when he shouts, “We’re leaving! Jesus Christ!”
You keep the notebook tucked under your arms. You’ll be sure to give it to ya’ll’s grandkids one day or something. That’s romantic, right? Whatever. You’ll consult the expert on your date.
“This is a date, right?”
“Obviously.”
The two of you leave, which still defeats the purpose of coming here, but hey.
You’re not complaining.