Work Text:
A scare park was hardly the first place Karkat would have chosen for a date. If he made a list–which he had, back in middle school, all carefully organized and annotated and shoved under the stack of old journals he kept in his closet–it would not even make the top ten. It’d be down in the dehydrated dregs of an “absolutely fumbling for ideas” pit, next to “staring at wet paint, together” and “listening to Tavros participate in open mic night over a plate of lukewarm nachos.” It hadn't been up to him, though. Kanaya chose the location and the date, and he felt hard-pressed to fight her on it any more than was customary. It would be a good idea for her– she loved Halloween, elaborate costumes, and any excuse to have Rose hold her arm in public. As a double date it could have been tolerable, even, but Rose said they had prior plans. Then she winked at him, so he fake-vomitted on her purse until she kicked him out.
Anyway, the date was doomed from the get-go. He should have known better than to trust Kanaya’s perception of romance-worthy material, given her track record of exclusively dating the most unstable women she could find in any given craft store.
The guy had arrived late, for starters. Karkat had arrived thirty minutes early–not that he would actually admit to that, if asked. He was planning on playing it off like they’d arrived within minutes of each other, making casual introductions before getting in line for the snack bar together. Give them time to get comfortable before choosing which attraction to go into first, because the setup was more like four separate themed courses to walk through, that you had to drive part way into some woods to even reach (fittingly, he felt like the chances of dying here–from chainsaw wielding freaks or tetanus-induced muscle contractions–was a little higher than zero). As it ticked closer to five minutes after Kanaya had told him to be there, though, he’d gotten fed up and got in line to buy his own damn caramel apple.
He was just coming up to the counter when he heard grumbling from the family of four behind him as someone invaded his space. His date opened with a simple, monotonous:
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You Vantas?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool," then, to the man behind the counter, "I'll take some popcorn. Extra butter."
The conversation from there wasn't any less stilted. The guy seemed about as interested in the experience as Karkat was, which was to say, not very. It pissed him off more than it rightfully should. The gall. The nerve. At least he was making an attempt at conversation, and brought a hoodie that wasn't food-stained. He wore his nicest jeans, he showed up early, and he even made the minimal effort to chew with his mouth closed. The guy could at least pretend he wasn’t likely there on the same peer-induced guilt trip as Karkat was.
Maybe he was a little solitary lately. How was that anyones business but his?
They went through the haunted mansion first. It was about what he’d expected. Dirty, torn furniture strategically set up to keep visitors on the right path while setting a scene. Actors shuffling around the rooms in pale, ashen makeup, whispering and wailing. Not scary, but more than enough to put Karkat on edge. Who goes to this shit for fun? As if navigating the general public wasn’t head-ache-inducing enough on a normal day, these people had incentive to be as loud and off-putting as possible. Expecting someone to jump out at him from around a corner hardly helped calm him down when, eventually, someone did jump out–from under a table, just to spice it up.
It was in the dirty-mirrors-and-crepe-streamers lined maze in the cliché carnival themed area that things really went ass up, though. The lighting mostly came from strobing rainbow lights lining the walls and flashing through gaps. Slow calliope music filtered in from one side of the woods, and recorded screams occasionally rang out from another. Clowns would dart in and out of the path, chasing them part way, or ignoring them entirely to chase each other with juggling clubs and handsaws. The mirrors made it hard to navigate, and occasionally they would come upon an alcove with some display of gore and balloons set up.
It was as over the top as it was basic, and yet it succeeded in unnerving Karkat. His date, not so much. He felt cramped and irritated, and when his date kept poking fun at him, he lashed out in response. It was typical. It was what he did at the slightest sensation of discomfort. It soured his date immediately, though. He snapped back, which only encouraged Karkat to keep going. Once he got started on a rant, about anyone or anything, it was hard to make himself stop. He spoke over his date every time he tried to interject. Now would be a terrible time for any clown to jump out, but luckily, the actors kept their distance. The groups were spaced out, so they had plenty of time to rip into each other before another gaggle of movie-rotted adults in dollar store Jack-and-Sally costumes wandered through.
His date shoved his hand in his face, pushing him back by the mouth, and said, "fuck you, dude," before heel-turning and disappearing through a curtain of streamers.
He felt vindicated. If someone was too much of a pansy to handle a little verbal lashing from time to time, good riddance. They wouldn’t last as a friend, much less a significant other. He was offended that Kanaya picked someone so wrong for him to waste a night on. He could have been spending that time productively, at home annotating bodice rippers, or skulking in the kitchen at Serket's party.
Then he felt like crap. Of course, of course, he was the one to ruin this. Him and his big mouth. Him and his need to feel on top. He stepped forward, then hesitated. Ditched in a maze of shitty mirrors and shitty b-list screams played through a shitty crackling speaker somewhere beyond a fence, Karkat thought, things could not possibly get worse.
Which is when the clown jumped out at him.
His arm was moving reflexively before his brain could catch up to remind him that this is a haunted house, that is an actor . His fist connected with a crack that made him shiver, and when he pulled his hand back, there was white greasepaint on his knuckles and blood coming out of the crooked nose of the disheveled clown in front of him. The clown’s reaction was delayed—he was only just reaching up to poke at his bleeding nose by the time it took Karkat to go, “oh, shit, fuck, holy shit, I didn’t—are you okay?”
The guy looked like a wide-eyed deer, if that deer was really into hair metal and goring things with its horns as a pastime. His face was painted in a gleeful mask of white and gray. Real, fresh blood was dripping onto his shirt, joining the fake blood strategically splattered all over the distressed fabric and up his bare arms.
I’m going to get my ass kicked, he thought. I’m going to get sued for punching a thespian in juggalo cosplay.
"Motherfucker,” is the first thing the clown said. His voice was low and unhurried, like someone who had just woken up. He winced each time he poked his own nose. “You’ve got a swing like a mad fuckin’ ninja.”
"I–what?"
He poked his nose again and groaned. The paint around the bridge was an absolute mess, and Karkat realized he was trying to smooth it back out rather than assessing the damage.
"Stop doing that," Karkat snapped, bewildered enough to fall into his default state: bossy, concerned, and with a fried voice that pitched too loud for the space he was in. "Are you an idiot? Did I send some of your skull into your brain?"
"Nah, bro," he replied breezily, continuing to press a forefinger to the slight swell of his nostril.
"Then stop–" he repeated, reaching out to do… something. He didn't really think it through. Grab a stranger's wrist? Lunge at the guy he just assaulted? Before he could make contact, though, a hand fell on his shoulder and firmly moved him aside. It made Karkat scream louder than any other thing had that night, which was an accomplishment.
From behind him, another clown had appeared. This one had more intense face paint, with a disturbingly well-done stitched lip effect. He reached out for the face of the first clown and tilted it towards the scant light. With the new angle, Karkat could see it was definitely broken.
"Oh, hey, Kurloz," he greeted. "Was just–"
Kurloz, apparently, shook his head and moved to lead the guy back the way he came. Karkat's heart rate, which had finally returned to normal, jumped again.
"Wait," Karkat started after them. Did they expect him to follow them to take his information? Was he supposed to just keep going through the maze alone and hope he could make it to his car and scamper off without being flagged down by a staff member? "Should I…"
Kurloz looked at him like he wanted to tell him to fuck off, but wasn’t sure he was worth the effort. He made a motion with his hand like he was pulling a cobweb from his hair, and when Karkat continued to idle, he rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion. The first clown just twisted his head around to smile at him, though, wide and easy and bright. He motioned in the direction they were going with a nod of his head, blood still slowly flowing into the dip of his upper lip. So Karkat kept following as they ducked behind a tarp to cut through a gap in the fence line.
They moved to an empty picnic table off to the edge of the snack area. The first clown lifted one tent pole of a leg to step onto the bench and plant his ass on the table itself, letting Kurloz manhandle him around from there. The first clown–who Karkat would love to stop mentally referring to as any variation of “the clown”--let him prod and push and angle his head as he wanted, limp as a doll. His eyes kept sliding over to Karkat, shamelessly keeping eye contact until Kurloz pinched his cheek to get his attention. He looked, overall, happier than one would generally feel comfortable with a grown man covered in costume makeup and real blood to look.
Karkat asked, “do you have a medic on site?”
No response, beside the first clown shaking his head and getting a light slap to the cheek for it. He stayed still, then, except for his foot tapping. Skipping an ER visit was better for Karkat's wallet for sure, but…
“Are you the medic, Kurloz?”
Still, nothing from the second clown. Confusion and concern was quickly giving way to annoyance at being ignored.
“Shouldn’t he at least lay down, or something, before you clumsily grab at his nose like a toddler in front of a candy bowl?"
Karkat crossed his arms over his chest while Kurloz lifted the other man's shirt from the bottom and held it up to his face. He blew into it, noisily, until Kurloz let it drop back down to cover his stomach, matted with less mucus and blood than Karkat has expected. He still hadn't actually said anything, though, and that prolonged silence was starting to unnerve Karkat. So he broke it with as much grace as he could manage, and focused on the clown that was actually responding to him.
“And why the fuck would you jump out like that? Haunted house, yeah, shit, but–were you even paying attention? Did that seem like a good time to jump out at a guy? I mean, fuck, I’m sorry, but…” Karkat trailed off, furrowing his thick brows.
“Wanted to see you smile.”
“I don’t think that’s the general motivation behind scare acting,”
“Well, can’t up and say I wasn’t trying to scare you, too…'cause I was," he admitted. Kurloz, meanwhile, framed his gloved fingers around his nose. His hands were long and thin and steady. White greasepaint was already sticking to the black fabric. “But a little fright don’t stop a smile. Fear’s just joy’s best friend, you know.”
He spoke with a lyrical bent to his words, like…like waves, and Karkat felt his ears get hot at thinking something so buttery. “Not…really?”
“Aw, it’s like,” he started, only to cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as Kurloz straightened out his fingers and dragged them down slowly. It unnerved Karkat to see the alignment of the bone move under the skin so easily. If this guy made the damage worse, would Karkat have to pay to fix that ? He didn’t have that kind of money. "Son of a tittyfuck."
"Oh, my god."
“Ain’t the first time I’ve had my face bashed good,” the clown reassured him. Somehow, it wasn’t a very comforting thought. The guy looked too scrawny to last long in a fight against a paper bag, much less a person, despite his height and the width of his shoulders. “Don’t stress none. I could go back to work right now, even.”
Kurloz shook his head sharply, catching their attention as he held his hands palm-down before making a grabbing motion. Karkat realized with a hot flush of embarrassment that he’d been using sign language. So he wasn’t verbally ignoring him…but he still kept his body angled away from Karkat, neither showing nor hiding his movements as he focused on his, friend? Coworker? He wasn't deaf, because he'd responded to the things they'd said when he wasn't looking at their faces, so, no, this asshole really was ignoring him on purpose.
For his part, the first clown didn't seem too intent on paying attention to Kurloz either. He shrugged and said, "yeahhh, yeah, I'll ice the shit, hey," before turning to Karkat fully, eyes not even darting to the side when Kurloz tried to keep his rapid hands in the other man's peripheral.
"Hi."
Karkat blinked.
"...hi?"
"You wanna chill sometime, bro?"
He let a short, surprised laugh in reply. He tried not to focus on it, because his wheezy bark of a laugh isn’t something he particularly likes, but Gamzee’s face lights up again at hearing it. To laugh at him, probably, but it didn’t really look malicious, and, just–he had to move on. "Are you sure you're not brain-damaged?"
"No, I'm Gamzee." Like before, all of Karkat’s outward vitriol seemed to roll off him. “I am all up and well in my facilities both mental and, thanks to my cuz here, physical,” Kurloz was still staring at him with dispassionate boredom. Karkat tried not to let his eyes wander away from Gamzee’s face. “And what I am, also, is using those facilities and this fine-working face gash of mine to extend an invitation to tonight’s carnival of horrors. Could even paint you up, bro, tag along with me till the night’s done and show you the after party wrap-up till sunrise.”
Karkat knew very little genuine sign language. How to sign some basic curses, mostly, and how to know when he was being cursed at. It’s why he recognized Kurloz was signing fucker a lot in between the other, rapid and precise signs he had started flinging at Gamzee the moment he stepped back up in his personal space. He looked annoyed. Gamzee’s smile didn’t change, but his eyes did. He was starting to look annoyed, too, which was–a new look, to Karkat, that night.
“This shit is lame,” Karkat found himself saying, almost without conscious thought. It drew both sets of eyes back to him instantly. Too late to back out now, so he kept his mouth running, likely ruining any good will these clowns had towards him. “I didn’t even want to come here. My friend–not the one I was with, who wasn’t even really my friend, anyway, just a guy that I, well, like a date, but not a date I chose, obviously–my taste isn’t that shit–well, most of the time, but you wouldn’t know that, fuck–what I’m trying to say is,” he waved his hands, as if to physically disperse the words he’d sent into the air around him and get back on track. “I wouldn’t want to be painted up anyway, or lunge at strangers in bedsheets, or lather myself up in corn syrup and food dye, so. Thanks, but no, thanks. Just. Are you going to sue me or not?”
Gamzee laughed. His laugh was, well, honking. Louder than Karkat’s, even, and like he had a dog toy’s squeaker stuck in his throat. It was, painfully, almost endearing. “Hell no. Like I said, it ain’t no thing. Wouldn’t declaw a puffed up kitten for taking a swipe at the purring car or nothin’.” Did he just call me a kitten, is all Karkat can think before he processes the getting-off-scott-free card handed to him as Gamzee turned to Kurloz and told him to grab me some ice then if I need it, man. Then, he posed his question again, this time extending his hand from his position atop the bench: “So, you wanna hang out after, then?”
He only hesitated for a moment more. Long enough to consider the alternative of going home, alone, and putting on Love, Actually while he reheated leftover takeout. He reached out for Gamzee’s hand, surprised at how cold and thin it was against his own. “Fine…if it means you won’t press assault charges, and I can get free food.”
“Deal,” Gamzee tilted his head, like a happy cat, and used Karkat’s hand to pull himself up and off the bench. The blood under his nose was congealing, and the light behind him made a halo of epileptic rainbows reflect off his hair. “You won’t regret it.”