Chapter Text
He didn’t know what else to do. Everything was crumbling around him, but he felt frozen still. He didn’t want to think about the day that had brought him here. In fact, he was making quite the effort to not think at all.
You never learn, do you Dave? You’re responsible.
He had paced around his shitty apartment enough to call it a 5K. He could feel so much energy in his body he swore part of him was about spark.
The photos on the table, the walls, the rooms, the memories. Yeah no, he had to get out of here. So, into the cold weather he went.
He needed a distraction. Something fun and flashy to keep his shit attention span from drifting to the hours prior. Okay, it was a Saturday night there had to be a million things going on, but no matter how hard he tried his brain was full of static and he couldn’t even form a thought to fix it.
He stood under a streetlight trying to ground himself with the cold metal on his skin. He rubbed his face and neck with his hands until he grabbed onto his necklace.
His necklace. Rose had given it to him for his first birthday on his own. A small disc modeled after the broken record he had kept on his wall. She always bugged him about it and how odd it was to keep, but after some time, even without you telling her, she realized there was some significance.
God no, don't think about that, think about Rose.
Rose Rose Rose. No don’t go there I can’t handle being psychoanalyzed right now or I’ll snap. Did she? fuck- wait?
Rose.
Rose knew a place. There was this club-bar-lounge thing— he couldn’t ever tell the difference anyway, that Rose went to a lot. He always assumed it was some occult goth club where they summoned Eldritch horrors for kink parties. It wouldn’t be off brand for her. Now it was the only location he could think of. Anything else took too much mental effort away from not thinking about anything.
He started walking. After about 5 minutes he realized he didn’t know where it was or what the place was called. He kept walking through the streets frantically scrolling through old text messages to find the name.
Scroll scroll scroll scroll BINGO!
Maps. Walking directions. Go.
25 agonizing minutes of walking and not thinking later, he was at the door. It was one of those doors partially in an alley and down a flight of stairs. He had almost missed it. Luckily he found himself in front of a tiny door sign. It was the right place.
The Green Moon. He opened the door.
Well, there were no demons fucking so this is already going better than expected. However, bright and flashy lights were also missing Expected given Rose’s taste.
The walls were all a deep green, certain portions looking almost like velvet. Tables and people were everywhere. Black and gold decorations hung around the room. Molding, picture frames, mirrors, you name it. Gold rotary phones on shelves and black trim was everywhere. All leading to a giant green crystal high on a wall, jagged and incite set into an old-school spotlight. And below it was a stage.
Hardwood, elevated from the ground. Deep green curtains instead of the typical red. Then he finally noticed that there were no overhead speakers. No music playing from a dj. It… it was all live. A full band was set towards the back of the stage. Standard band stuff, drums, guitars and such. But there were multiple types of saxophones, a grand piano, and even someone on the cello. What the fuck, he doesn't think he’s even seen a cello in person before. It was beautiful. The smooth relaxing music instantly gave him what he wanted, putting him slightly at ease. It was a far cry from most of the clubs his college friends dragged him to. The flashing lights and blaring music usually did more to overstimulate him into numbness or give him an anxious headache. But no, this… this was good. It was small, intimate.
A woman sat atop a stool playing the violin. An upbeat tune the crowd was clapping and cheering to. And the crowd. There were people everywhere. He couldn't take two steps without bumping into someone, but somehow it didn’t feel cramped. The massive mirrors that made up the ceiling of the room made it feel endless; the low lights made it cozy.
It was only then did he realize he had never been to a bar by himself before and he had no clue what to do other than stand there like an idiot.
Fuck what do they do in movies? Um? Bar!
He shuffled his way to a lone seat at the bar. His hands grazed the dark wood and looked at the mirrors on the wall behind all of the shelves of bottles. Like everything in the building it looked like something intricate and elegant that had been well used and broken in.
He was so enamored by the interior design it seemed he didn’t notice someone was talking to him
“Huh?” He sputtered sitting up.
“I said ‘What's up? Can I get ya something?’” the bartender asked him.
Welp, he hasn't thought this far ahead. He had only turned 21 a couple months ago. On his birthday his friends ordered his drinks for him. And before then he took whatever someone could get their hands on. So, he sat at the bar realizing he didn’t know what he liked or what anything he ever had was even called. No one in his family drank. Wait no scratch that. No one in his IMMEDIATE family drank. Which is to say that Bro didn’t.
The bartender looked at him, noticing his hesitation.
“You don’t know what you want at all do you?” He asked with a smile that was only a little judgmental, “You look young as shit, you just turned 21, didn’t you?”
“Pfft no of course I know what I want.” He half bluffed, “What do you take me for some idiot who just wandered in?”
“Wow,” he said impressed, “most people hide their obvious lies with a silver tongue but you really said fuck it huh? Lead is cheaper anyway I hear.”
He wasn’t going to say he wasn’t cute. Short and disheveled. Hair all over the place and drowning in an oversized black turtleneck.
Okay have you ever not been able to do something? You fight and fight for it, but once you actually can get it you get cold feet? Yeah? Well, that was Dave’s attraction to men in a nutshell. Back when he turned 18 and moved out, he finally decided to stop with the internal angst and admit he was bi. Half for self-comfort and realization, and half so his army of gay cousins would stop making fun of him for being the token straight.
It really was a whole production. He had all the hits: longing for your best friend, staring at the ceiling with color changing lights at 3 am, questionable internet searches, and a whole lot of over dramatic crying that makes him want to crawl into a hole. But he was completely over it all and there was ABSOLUTELY NO RESIDUAL BAGGAGE. No sir, he was fully ready to be part of the four-piece Strilonde queer value pack.
And then… his next three relationships and or casual hook ups we're all women. Look it’s not like he was avoiding it, he was totally cool and ready to jump in on the whole guy kissing thing but… Hey, that’s just how the cards were dealt. He’s not gonna say he didn’t like those girls because he did. And he, of course, totally did NOT chicken out every chance he had an opportunity to flirt with a guy at a party and decide the opposite side of the house was actually a really cool place to hang.
Hey, accepting things in theory is one thing. Accepting them in practice is another.
But this dude, something felt different. He caught flashes of metal as he zoned back in realizing he was mixing a drink. He had a ring on almost every finger, and they seemed to twinkle as he moved his hands in the dim light.
A glass hitting the table knocked him out of his daze once again.
“I said this one on the house.” The bartender gets his attention, “It is what I call a training wheels drink. Not super strong and statistically there is no way you won’t like it.”
“Hmm how can I be sure it’s actually good,” Dave asked, “While I totally am well versed in the theory of alcohol my practice is considerably smaller. I don’t know I’m my weak palette could handle whatever magic you’ve put together.”
He laughed with his whole chest, “Oh please it’s cinnamon whiskey sparkling cider and cream soda. It was my inexperienced high school/college drink of choice except I’m giving you something better than fireball. A ‘fucked up and evil apple pie’ as I like to call it.”
He looked as he picked up the glass, trying to figure out how to drink it without looking like an idiot. He finally said fuck it and drank.
“Hmm”, surprisingly not bad.
“It’s almost like I know what I’m talking about!” He said clapping his hands together.
The bartender went to attend to something else while Dave sipped at his drink. For the first time he realized he was alone. He had no friend with him to share drinks or conversation. He began to feel anxiety well up in his chest as he became overwhelmed with a case of “what do I do with my hands?”
Once again the bartender stepped over to his rescue.
“Okay not to be a stereotypical bartender,” he asked while casually starting a drink, “but I know our clientele pretty well, and you don’t look like the bachelorette party “let’s bar hop” type that fills out the rest of the crowd so… What brings ya?”
Oh wow, not many ways to dodge that. Quickly Dave tossed out a, “ What do you take a head count every night? You really manage to keep track of everybody like that.”
“Well a gay bar/lounge with a speakeasy aesthetic is pretty specific. If it’s up your alley, once you go one time you will want to go again. Which is to say we have a lot of semi- to full regulars. And you can’t just see us on the street and walk in so you had to seek us out. I like to know why. Also, it’s called being polite, and you have still not answered my question.”
“Wow, keen eye for distractions. I’m impressed.”
“My previous point still stands.”
“Eh, I was just looking for something to do. Was feeling… claustrophobic in my apartment. Remembered a friend of mine mentioned this place. So I just… kinda said fuck it you know.“
“Hmm,” he said, looking Dave up and down. He felt his skin prickle. He couldn’t tell if he was checking him out or scanning his soul. Regardless, both options made his blood pump a little faster. And oh god he’s doing the glass cleaning thing. He had pushed up his sleeves and was doing the glass cleaning thing. Dave had no clue when forearms became that hot.
Oh my god he thought listen to yourself. We get it, he's cute, pull yourself together!
“Yeah that sounds right I guess,” the bartender continued,“ You got that emotionally lost college student look going on. Oh don’t make that face I rocked that look for years.”
“I’m not a lost college student. I’ll have you know I got the whole last two years planned and ready to go!”
“Okay smart ass,” he questioned, “what are you a business major or something, Jesus.” He said with a only half joking smile.
“Oh good no. Why would you ever even accuse me of that, how dare you! I’ll have you know I am a motion picture major.”
“Oh good no,” he said mockingly, “a film student? That’s almost worse!”
The man started laughing. His smile opened up wide and his eyes crinkled. The low lighting made his dark skin look ethereal and his dark eyes look like aged brass. Dave had never felt so happy to be insulted.
“ Business and film are the ‘two oh my god fuck off’ majors my friend,” he continued, “ I swear to god if you start talking to me about Pulp Fiction I will walk out of my own job.”
“Oh my god,” Dave laughed, “ we all are not obsessed with Pulp Fiction!”
He stared Dave down , raising his eyebrow and not even looking at the olive he was dropping in a martini.
“It’s a good movie, okay!” Dave threw his hands up.
The bartender busted out laughing,and wow, it was wonderful. It was like music.
“Okay I can appreciate the movie okay. Has it and Fight Club been dudebro memed into sheer Joker levels of post ironic absurdity? Yes. But the films themselves are good.”
“Wow you really are a male film major! You managed to loop around to Joker while also deafening Fight Club! Unprovoked!”
“Oh my god let me be! I said they were good. I didn't say they were my favorites. Or even what I wanted to make!”
“Well then what do you wanna make huh?”
“ My brand is kinda in the realm of horror absurdist comedy as a means of social commentary. Thank you very much”
“And what the holy fuck does that even mean? Do you just put words together? I keep trying to figure it out myself, but my normal person brain can’t keep up,” he said with a smirk handing the man next to him his drink.
Dave took a long swing of his drink, damn this thing was good,“ Well I mean, at this point and time any form of social commentary is going to leave the viewer with a sense of existential dread. So why not lean into it. The best way to make the horror of reality pill easy to swallow is to wrap it into absurdity sugar Marry Poppins style. And the mixture of the two is naturally comedic. Also I’m fucking funny as shit and it would be a crime to not let people hear my Netflix special level comedy.”
“ Okay genius,” The bartender leaned in, putting his elbows on the counter, “By obscuring your commentary in this many layers of insanity and irony, how are you gonna keep people from taking the absolute wrong message from it? You leave a little room for interpretation or subtlety, and then 4chan dickheads completely miss the point and now YOU’RE FIGHT CLUB!”
“Okay but can we cut the cameras and roll back the tapes? Can we pull those up so I can check and see where I said I was going to be subtle? I’ve said fuck subtlety. I now what I wanna say and I will fucking say it clearly with my whole fucking chest... I want people to finish watching my stuff and say ‘I don’t know what the the fuck I just watched but… I get it.’ It’s a tricky line to balance, but I just do happen to not be total shit at it. Which is why I’m honing my skill with my ‘oh my god fuck off’ major. And yes that requires me deliberately capping my reach by refusing the blockbuster mega studio route because I will never be able to do what I want. It being a mega studio film will ruin it thematically in the first place due to the default politics of the blockbuster and-“ he quickly cut himself off. How on earth did he let him go on a tangent like that for that long. What is he even talking about?
But when he looked up, the bartender had a smirk on his face. “Well then, you win this round. I look forward to the day your vision, lets say, gets to see the… medium screen? Does that work?”
Dave’s brain was short circuiting. Did? Did someone actually ask him about his work? And have a positive reaction. Genuinely? Not just neutral, not a “yeah that’s interesting I guess. Okay sure” but actively caring and… asking questions? God when was the last time someone ever did that? Understood what he was talking about enough to ask a question. He never gets to talk about his film thoughts to anyone out of class. And now he’s sitting in a bar with this stranger actually taking interest? And listening, like not just hearing and nodding, actually listening and responding.
Dave feels pathetic. Why is this happening? Why is this random person listening to him and taking an interest at least a little, making his stomach flutter and his head lurch. Is he that easy? Was he that fucked up that even a crumb of attention made him loose his mind.
It was just…It was that smirk. That fucking smirk was doing it all right now. Being proof, telling him he was enjoying this, he was being genuine. Dave thinks this is what being genuine looks like right? He hasn’t seen it enough times to be sure but he couldn’t pinpoint anything that would say he’s fucking with him.
No Dave you idiot. He’s a bartender, that's his fucking job. Talk to you. Make you think he cares, be friendly and give you more drinks. This isn’t legit dude, come one. He’s at fucking work for crying out loud stop being an ass!
But he can’t help but wish.
“Um yeah,” he took another small sip of his drink.
He didn’t mean to, but he stared more. Christ it looks like his eye bags have eye bags. In the lighting he almost looks like Rose when she accidentally sleeps with her eye make-up on.
”They must be working you to the bone,” he said, “you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Well not all of us are brave enough to wear sunglasses in a dim club at 11:30 at night,” the bartender said.
“Hey now the glasses make me look cool. Also I have sensitive eyes so if I didn’t have them I wouldn’t be able to see you in all you frumpy sweater glory.”
“Frumpy?” His face contorted like he had been smacked across the face.
Wait no no no not like in a bad way “Like it’s just not the most,” fuck, “ no you look good” shit , “ really good” oh my god shut up, “it’s just um casual” oh that sounds condicending as hell.
The bartender didn’t have his smile anymore. He looked hurt. Honestly more so than what Dave thought was proportional for his fuck up. And there he is again, not taking responsibility. He really didn’t mean it like that, he didn’t know it was gonna upset him this much.
“ You know I thought it was common knowledge to not insult the guy who makes the drinks,” he said, more than a little annoyed.
“Okay, insult is a big word,” said accusatively.
“Oh and you get to decide that? Did someone elect you as the grand arbiter of my feelings?”
“When you are being over the top about it yes- no,” he interrupted himself, “ I didn’t mean that I’m sorry, I just-“
Dave hated himself. God damn it, why did he get so combative the second someone dared to question him? Well, he knew why. He knew exactly where that line came from, but he’s not supposed to be thinking about that.
“Yeah you don’t mean a lot of things,” He stopped, stared at him for a second too long, picked up Dave’s drink, and slammed it down in one go.
“House drink revoked,” He said as the cup hit the table “Hey, Meenah, I’m going backstage.”
And with that he walked away.
He looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. god what place did he have to say about the bartender's appearance, look at himself! His hair was a mess from running his hands through it, he was in the same hoodie he had been in since 8 am, and his face looked worn and tired. He couldn't imagine what his eyes must look like behind his shades.
Even if the interaction went south, he still felt better than when he walked in.
And then he fucked it up. As usual.
With the bartender gone he sat alone. He always liked to people watch, but he could only do it halfheartedly. Instead of taking note of his surroundings, he sat at the bar with his head in his hands. He stared at his empty glass while the reigns of his mind were ripped out of his hands. Nothing to distract him. So much for not thinking.
Thoughts swarmed around him in a jumble, and pulled him down with the riptide.
Weak
Weak
Weak
Pathetic
Pathetic
Pathetic
I
Hate
You
Alone
How could I do that?
You’re alone.
Weak
Pathetic
Alone
They
Hate
You
You look so stupid.
You’re not cut out for life kid.
Waste
Pathetic
Waste
Weak
You
Are
Weak
Without
Him
David
So fucking weak
Who. Would. Want.
You.
You’re. Weak . Not. Weak. Worth. Weak. It. Weak
Go ahead and run.
You’ll never go anywhere.
Pathetic
Cringe
Weak
Just
Quit
Quit
Quit
You’re a
failure
Failure
FAILURE
Let
It hurt
Them
Hurt you
You
Let
It
Happen
Let
Them
Hurt
Me
Hurt
Want
Me
To
Hurt
Me
weak
Weak
WEAK
I’m sorry Bro. I can be better. I promise. I’m not…
He hated emotions. Not in an edgy “my heart is cold and broken'' way. No, he hated them because they always destroyed him. He was too fragile. They always rocked through him like an earthquake cracking foundations and sending things crumbling down. A hurricane spinning until he was lightheaded. He had too much feeling to be truly strong. He had always been taught to at least keep a cool exterior, and hey the sunglasses didn’t hurt. But he tried his best to keep things in check.
Today it wasn’t working too well. He could breathe fine, he wasn't shaking or anything. Hell, the opposite, he couldn’t make himself move. Fuck was he crying? Oh god no no no put a fucking stop to that. Where the hell did that come from? He finally managed to wipe two stray tears and felt embarrassment sear through him. God damn it, he’s crying like a bitch in public over nothing! He really was losing it huh?
He didn’t pay any mind to the show behind him on stage. Only select words made it to his brain and he barely paid attention to them.
“Up next…. our own… resident heartbroken bastard... give a hand… singing…”
Nothing would stir him from his somber mood. He was gonna sit at this bar and wallow. That’s how it was gonna be-
A voice cut through the crowd.
What’s it like to have the world on a string?
The sound was indescribable.
That was an understatement. He couldn’t explain what was happening. This smooth voice seemed to roll off the stage like smoke, engulfing the room and him with it and finding a way into his lungs.
Who the fuck… he thought as he spun around in his chair?
He was met with a familiar face. Well, no it was very different now, but he knew the person.
It was that crabby bartender.
His hair was fluffed up and his face full of makeup. Nothing too dramatic, but anyone could see him sparkling from the cheap seats. Is that? Does he have rhinestones on his face?
He was wearing a dress. Of course, there was nothing wrong with that Dave had to emphasize in his brain. It just... caught him by surprise. That’s it. The whole outfit was just amazing. A long red shimmering dress that cascaded like water and hugged in all the right places (Ignore that. He didn’t think that), red silky elbow length gloves, and heels tall enough to make Dave worry he would fall after taking one step. A far cry from his pants and bland sweater he wore behind the bar.
More than that was his face, even without the makeup it was clear as day: he looked like a completely different person on stage. Confidence radiated off of him. Every word brimming with emotion, moving along with the music as he was completely filled with the song. Like there was nothing else in the world outside of that bar— nothing off that stage.
It was mesmerizing.
Well, I’m feeling, sick in the head
I want to dance with all your friends.
Come plant a, kiss on my lips
in the back of a bar in New York City
The bite in his voice made Dave’s heart stop for a second. He looked into the crowd with an intensity Dave didn’t know if he could handle. Afraid he would melt on the spot looking into the sun. The emotions were clear in the lyrics, like he knew just what he was saying.
Sick little boys with their sick little games
I see you
Sick little feelings in my sick little brain
I see you because I’m just like you
If it looks good, feels good, there's probably a catch
Don’t worry if it will work.
Don’t worry if it’s good for us.
Don’t worry if it will hurt.
You're wood and I'm phosphate, hey, we make a good match
Let’s burn together
The song was so melancholy. There was an intensity to it even if it was a slow almost a gothic cabaret number, but the way he sang it gave such a longing sadness. The longer it went, the more into it the bartender got. By the time he got to the chorus again he had closed his eyes and was somehow still emoting like he felt every word in the depth of his soul. Longing for something. Anything. Just like him.
I’m feeling, sick of that shit
I don’t want to fall asleep like this
Come plant a, kiss on my lips
in the back of bar in New York City
The notes seemed to go through him and move his body for him. His hips swayed with the music; his hands drifted from his body to up and down the mic stand to above his head. Dramatically turning and throwing his hands along with the drum hits.
He was… Dave tried to find any other words but nothing else conveyed the truth.
He was beautiful.
By the time the song was almost over everything was turned to eleven. The song wasn’t even that much louder, but it was just so much more intense. Eyes open he reached out, grasping at the audience like his life depended on it. Dave only then realized that the entire bar had stopped in its tracks to listen. No one got drinks. No one chatted with their friend. They were all pulled into this fucking siren song.
Then he turned to him.
It felt like his eyes had locked on to Dave’s. Nothing but the two of them. Just the two of them and desperate words sang beautifully. It felt like in the breaths between lines there was a message just for him.
I’m feeling, sick of that shit
I’m tired of being alone
I don’t want to fall asleep like this
It’s killing me
Come plant a, kiss on my lips
Come on, be brave
In the back of bar in New York City
It’ll be our secret
It felt like he couldn’t breathe.
It was only the loud applause that snapped him back to reality.
An announcer reappeared as Mr. Mysterious bartender took a small bow, “Aw yes very good. As usual, isn’t he wonderful folks? Boohoo you all say that because you don't know him. Trust me he's a dick .”
The crowd continued to cheer, albeit slowly going back to their own business.
“One more round for our very own Karkat Vantas.”
Hmm. So that’s his name. Kinda weird as fuck, but given Strider isn’t the world’s most normal surname who is he to judge.
He didn’t feel the need to talk to him again. Nope. Had he enjoyed their first conversation? Yes, more than anything. Did Karkat look adorable sassing him from behind the bar in an angry little dog way? Perhaps. Did his sudden transformation personally rip out all the wiring in his brain and replace it with nothing but the desire to take his advice and bring him to the back of the bar? … oh, who is he kidding yes yes, a thousand times yes. God what the fuck he’s been within ten feet of him for about 15 minutes tops —he has to stop this what the fuck is wrong with him?
Maybe he could just chill here. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. Chill right there, that’s what he came here to do right? Sit at a bar, chill, and sulk. Yeah, he’ll do that, and when Karkat comes back to the bar he’ll compliment him. That’s all that needs to happen. If they strike up a conversation then that’s all cool by him. Not exciting, not perfect, and definitely not hot. No, the opposite in fact. Cool, chilly, cold some might even say. Yeah, he just had to stay there and chill.
And he did.
For 5 minutes.
Then 10.
Then 15.
30.
After 35 minutes, when the other bartender came to the end of the bar, Dave decided to be brave.
“Hey, do you know when that guy… umm Karkat I think, might be coming back to the bar?”
“Oh no sorry dude,” she said, turning to face him and almost wacking him in the face with her long braids, “Karkat usually performs at the very end of his shift. After that he either leaves or goes to chill in the lounge. “
They take the knife they were cutting limes with and point it at Dave.
“You’re not a creep, are you? You are not the first person to see him sing and try to get info out of me. So if you are, you can just turn around,” she paused slightly, “I won’t let him get hurt on my watch.”
“No no I’m not a creep!” He said quickly, “Well I did really like um his singing but we were talking at the bar earlier so it’s not like it came out of nowhere.”
“His job is literally to talk at the bar that means nothing.”
“Not that it coming from anywhere means anything,” he said not even acknowledging her comment, “I just wanted to tell him how much I liked his performance.”
He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew she could see through him like one of those super clear screen windows that birds fly into at like, Mach 12.
She looked at him for a long time. Once she made him wonder if she had gone into a coma standing up, she said, "I saw him in the lounge about 10 minutes ago. But the lounge is at capacity and I wouldn’t expect it to clear anytime soon.”
“When is the next time you guys do this whole,” he waved his hands in the vague direction of the stage where a very rambunctious burlesque routine was currently taking place, “thing?”
“This time next week.”
Okay. Next week it is.