Chapter Text
Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you have a problem.
If your roommate and childhood affliction best friend, Sollux ‘2 C00L 4 2CH00LZ’ Captor was here, he’d say no shit.
(What does ‘no thhit’ mean?
It meanth fuck you.)
But he’s not, because last time you saw him, he was leaving a house party attached at the tonsils to the most obnoxious looking man you’ve ever seen, and as he hasn’t returned yet, you assume he’s since been chopped into tiny pieces by said obnoxious man. Serves him right for leaving with a guy wearing a vest.
A small yet belligerent part of your pan questions whether you’re really pissed that Captor is probably chopped up in a basement somewhere all because he couldn’t follow the simple rule of DO NOT FUCK CRAZY, and now you’re going to have to find a roommate who puts up with nonstop bitching and movie audio- or whether you’re just jealous he was getting somewhere with someone.
(…even a douchey human hipster in a vest, and ankle boots, did you mention the ankle boots?
Fucking criminal.)
Which brings you back to your problem: your name is KARKAT VANTAS, your IRRITABLE SELF-LOATHING is hidden under only the thinnest veneer of CONSTANT ORNERY WORD-DUMPING, and you are, against all hope, reason, and inclination, A HOPELESS FUCKING ROMANTIC.
Look, you’re not a dumbass. It’s not like you wanted to burst out in embarrassing tears the first time you saw a romcom at age 11, especially not in front of Sollux ‘strong emotions are just gross chemicals’ Captor, and the memory of him awkwardly dabbing you with tissues as you tried to pretend you were allergic to his detergent still makes you cringe to this day. But you can’t help it. Something in the corny, overidealised storylines and tropes calls to the withered husk of your bloodpump, you suppose.
And if there’s one thing you are, it’s the kind of person who stubbornly thrusts out personal information about himself before it can be used against him. You’re that insecure kid that used to call himself fat before the mean kids would, the one who turned your own defensive ranting into a bit. So you don’t hide the fact that you desperately want to find someone sweet and romantic and perfect, because as long as you’re aggressive about it, people don’t take it seriously.
You still get the passive aggressive eye rolls, though. Joke’s on them, because that’s red flag numerous uno and good luck getting in your pants now.
Analysis of your fucked-up thinkpan aside, your romantic ventures haven’t exactly gone well. You spent all your highschool years with excruciating crushes on people you didn’t have a dream of a chance with, and the one time you let down your barrier enough to accept a date invitation, it was a joke.
Fuck highschool, seriously. That memory isn’t one you should be ashamed of, you didn’t do anything wrong, but somehow you got peer-gaslit into crushing humiliation anyway. Fuck you for daring to hope, you guess?
You’re so relieved to be out.
Anyway, the one other person you actually dared ask out in highschool was a dude named John, who remains a decently close friend of yours. He had dreamy blue eyes and ran like the wind and had just, god, absolutely dogshit taste in movies, and you fell hard and fast and terrible.
You watched like half of Nicolas Cage’s discography before he told you, very sweetly, that he was ‘not a homosexual.’ That’s the weird human thing wherein their concept of gender is apparently linked but not chained to their genitalia, or something? And he only likes females? You’re not sure how it works, to be honest - there’s a bizarre cultural understanding humans have, but none of them seem able to explain it. You couldn’t get it after a lifetime.
Anyhow. On one hand, John’s a genuinely good guy who kept that whole mess on the downlow. On the other hand, he has the audacity to be hot, smart, talented, and a good person, so you and your friends do kind of consider it a duty to make fun of his dumb pranks religiously.
That considered, it’s probably for the best. You’re not sure you could love a man who asked out a girl, seriously, by saying ‘are you a magician? Because abra ka damn!’
She gave him her number. The himbo privilege is unbelievable.
Anyway, romance is dead, clearly, so it’s mostly just been you, ice cream, and soppy romcoms that make you cry. Is it cliche? Yeah. But like most of the masterpieces you watch, ice cream and sobbing is classic for a reason.
It’s not like you haven’t tried. High school was a traumatic series of years you largely try to forget, but once you hit college, you were a dewy-eyed, large-hearted-
-okay, you were and remain to be a cynical asshole, but in your defence, you switched on the furious motormouth as a defence tactic when you were younger, and you’ve never really figured out how to turn it off. It ruins the romantic ambiance. Or it would, were there any to begin with.
Either way, you tried. You talked to people. You accepted dates, even with people who just fucking sucked, like that dude who tried to neg you five minutes into the movie by telling you that you were ‘kinda cute, when you shut your mouth.’ You even went on dating apps.
Side note: when did the industry standard become single dates with complete assholes who only want to get in your pants? You know there are frat boys out there, but where are they finding these people with absolutely no gogdamn decency in such huge quantities? Why are they all concentrated in your area? Not to mention all the xenophobic jackasses who either turn the species thing into some weird fetish (CREEP: SO WHERE WERE YOU BORN? LIKE, FROM A GRUB, RIGHT? IS IT A SECRET? YOU CAN TELL ME. Ha. Chicago, dickhead.) or just actively treat you like an animal they can fuck. Or, wait, there was one who was there to confront you about ‘Jewish space-lasers’ ignoring how you had little to no comprehension of human religions and also just wanted some fettuccine Alfredo and conversation.
You sat through a ridiculous amount of stupid bullshit, got someone off in a bathroom without reciprocation once or twice, and contemplated giving up when a bar date was cut abruptly short by the guy walking off to hook up with his ex, who was also at the bar.
Yeah.
Aside from your worse-than-average luck, you’ve been on so many dates that were just boring. No chemistry, no spark, no connection. And Sollux can roll his eyes all he wants, but you know there’s more to dating that just wanting to fuck someone and being able to tolerate a conversation with them!
He told you if you didn’t want to die a virgin, you should at least try a second date. You told him you weren’t a virgin (does it count if you’ve gotten people off but they’ve never returned the favour?) and he was a boor. God forbid you like the person you want to spend your life with, Sollux Captor! God forbid you form a strong and passionate bond with a person who likes you as more than a sexual object!
…then his computer caught on fire from all the overprocessing he was doing - you told him that shit wasn’t safe - and you both lost track of the conversation in the chaos. That was the most recent time, anyway, but it’s a conversation you’ve had over and over. It never changes.
Back when you were fifteen, you told Sollux he’d eat his words the first time he kissed a girl. Now you live together, and despite his emotional immaturity, callousness and wild mood swings, your roommate seems to have some kind of nerd sex-god magnetism. You have Seen Some Shit.
If anything, he’s gotten less interested in romance. Been there, done that, apparently. You told him that fucking his environmental science partner on a regular basis for a month two years ago didn’t count as a romantic relationship, and he pointed out that it was more of a romantic relationship than you’d ever had, and-
“Hey KK!” A loud, unharmonious voice echoes through your apartment. “I’m tho-“
Yeah, he has a lisp. He’s also nationally ranked in Professional Gaming. How are you the maybe-virgin, here?
“Oh great, you’re alive.” You retort sharply, refusing to move from your spot on the loungeplank. You’re snuggled into a blanket, pyjama-clad, about three-quarters of the way through Clueless, and you’re not going to miss the kiss scene for anything. Least of Sollux’s hangover. You’re ruthless when it comes to movies.
“Dude, stop- that’s- yeah, see, that’s a stair,” a new voice rings out, amused, and you go stiff with panic all over.
You know that voice.
Oh no. Oh no no no shit. You’re wearing pyjamas on your couch and not even the cute kind, the baggy ones that fit weird, and you’re kind of hungover so you probably look like something that just emerged from a cave, and and-
“Hey, Karkles.” It’s too late, you’re doomed. You watch helplessly as the tall, lanky figure of Dave Strider emerges into your living space, feeling the heat rise in your face.
DAVE STRIDER is a cool guy. Cool is a myth made up to sell men’s cologne and gym memberships, but if anyone’s cool, it’s Strider. He’s a foot taller than you, ripped, and walks with the easy saunter of someone who didn’t have his self-esteem stomped all over during highschool. He was probably the cool dude there, too.
You met him through John. He basically told you, “Hey, my best friend from Texas is moving in, he likes rapping, if he takes out a sword he’s just kidding, can you entertain him while I go buy groceries?”
For the record, he left before you could respond. That’s John Egbert for you.
Anyway, you’d had a mental image in your head for this Southern rapper dude, like a weedy cowboy Eminem knockoff, and instead you stumbled into John’s apartment and walked straight into a smug douche wearing shades, a Barbie shirt, and skinny jeans.
Dave has many virtues, not that you’ll ever tell him that. First impressions are not one of them. You’ll spare yourself the pain of remembering all the details, and just say: you left that night actually steaming with rage. There was murder in your mind. You were going to turn this irony-quipping dickhead instead out and wear him like a shoe.
Unfortunately, your friends loved him. Unfortunately, he always greeted you with a stupid little half-inch smile and remembered you hate orange juice and created the world’s worst remix of Fergalicious in your honour. Unfortunately, you like him. He’s funny, although you’ll never share that with him, and underneath his chill veneer, you think he’s just really shit at first impressions.
Don’t get the situation wrong, he’s a smug, annoying piece of shit with the world’s douchiest irony boner…
…but he’s kind of not the worst. Case in point: he drops Sollux head-first on the splaysac and ambles over to you, generously not mentioning your utter lack of style. “How’s it hanging? What’s the weather in Vantastown like?”
“Raining. I was enjoying the blissful solitude and watching one of the great masterpieces of modern cinema,” you growl out, eyes fixed determinedly on the screen and not his face.
“Hey, sick. Is that- oh shit, I thought it might be mean girls. Jade made me watch it and I never recovered, dude, thank god I was never a teenage girl. What’s this though?”
You pretend to be reluctant as you pause the movie, turning to him. “It’s called Clueless. It’s based on a Jane Austen book and it was iconic in the genre. She’s about to-“
“Is that Antman?”
“It’s her stepbrother.”
“…harder, stepbro?”
You send him a vile stare. He chortles, self-satisfied jackass.
“I can’t move,” Sollux mumbles.
“Punishment for your sins,” Dave pats him on the head. “Ah, I’ll always remember him.”
“I’m alive.”
“Sometimes I still hear his nasally lisps,” you chime in, watching with great amusement as your roommate falls onto the floor.
“Ffffuck you guyth.”
“Not if you paid me, assmunch.”
“Depends, what’re we talking?”
Sollux extends a dignified middle finger.
After a pause, Dave continues. “Yeah, well. I only dropped him off as a favour to Dirk, so, I should probably skedaddle sickly on out of here.”
“Oh,” you respond, slightly disappointed and angry at yourself for it. “Uh. Right. Yeah. Leave and never darken my doorstep again, bulgelicker.”
“Love you too, babes,” he blows you a kiss and lopes his way out on mile-long, slender legs. You stare after him for way too long.
Sollux moans feebly in the background.
DAVE STRIDER is part of the problem.
The problem being, if you remember, that you are a HOPELESS ROMANTIC with SELF ESTEEM issues hiding behind a loud mouth and a perpetual cloud of rage. How, exactly, is he related to your unceasing loneliness?
Well. Loathe as you are to admit it, denial isn’t working in your favour, here. For whatever idiotic reason, your traitorous and pathetic bloodpump thuds a little faster when he shows up. You end up with a hot face and a stutter, relieved that Dave, as smart as he is, also has the focus span of a gnat and remains oblivious.
It’s not a big deal. You’ll get over it soon - this isn’t some kind of romance film where the cool, handsome dude falls in love with the unattractive self-pitying loser. That’s not how it works. Honestly, considering your general demeanour, if this was a film you’d probably be, like, a spurned suitor he nobly defeats or something.
It’s not like Dave’s romantic hero material, anyway. He’s an ironic dudebro through and through, no matter how many birdwatching catalogues you’ve caught him thumbing through furtively. Or his music, which is genuinely amazing. The point is, the first time you met, he wound you up so bad you almost punched him, and even now, half of his sentences are some kind of impenetrable douche talk.
To be fair, the more you get to know him, the less he seems like the kind of guy who actually wants to piss you off. You have a sneaking suspicion he’s not great at talking to people either, he just hides it better, which really shouldn’t fill you with a warm sense of fluttery kinship.
But it would be easier to get over this stupid, entirely delusional crush, if he didn’t keep accidentally being sort of… um…
Romantic. In a Strider way.
Speaking of which, your phone is dinging the tune of ‘Baby Got Back.’ You phone’s password works fast, but you guess Strider works faster.
TG: yo I forgot to ask
TG: too busy caught up in the sicknasty (unfortunately literally) task of hauling sloppy drunk #1 to your abode
CG: DO I WANT TO KNOW WHO SLOPPY DRUNK #2 IS?
TG: some asshat in a vest?
TG: who wears vests
TG: like
TG: sorry you’re late for the renfaire, asshole, but is there a reason you’re cosplaying as the ghost of hipster past?
He must never know you just laughed.
CG: DID YOU HAVE A POINT SOMEWHERE IN YOUR INTERMINABLE RAMBLING OR IS THIS JUST SOME STRANGE PURGATORY I’M TRAPPED IN NOW
TG: oh right yeah
TG: I was going to ask how the date with that dude went?
CG: WHAT
TG: well I was just wondering
TG: just thinking to myself about my sweet bro hella karkles and that dude he was planning on macking on this past weekend
TG: how’d it go
TG: did you get laid
CG: WOW
CG: YOUR CUSTOMARY TACT AND SUBTLETY IS APPRECIATED
CG: FOR YOUR INFORMATION, BAD AND NO
TG: fiddlesticks
TG: what happened did you nom him
CG: I BIT JOHN ONE TIME AND IT WAS BECAUSE HE WAS SITTING ON ME
CG: NO HE CALLED ME
CG: UGH
CG: DOLLFACE
TG: romantic-style?
CG: NO GET IN MY WINDOWLESS VAN STYLE
CG: THEN HE TRIED TO GROPE ME AND KANAYA’S OLDER SISTER POURED A PITCHER OF HOT COFFEE IN HIS LAP
TG: hell yes Porrim is a real one
TG: sounds like you dodged a bullet though
TG: that guy sounds like bad news
TG: like, wake up in Sandy from grease cosplay having donated your life savings and your kidneys to a cult news
CG: YOU SAY THE SWEETEST THINGS, NOOKCHAFE
CG: ANYWAY I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE
CG: WHAT ELSE IS NEW
TG: better alone than with creepy greaser man
TG: oh hey news
TG: I recognised the vest guy
CG: ??
TG: I can’t remember his name but he’s the one who hit on rose that one time
TG: somehow oblivious to her massive aura of lesbian power
TG: the wlws flock to her like baby birds and she stomps on their hearts with her chunky goth boots I’m so proud
TG: maybe you should go goth Karkles I hear chicks dig it
CG: BE QUIET FOR SEVERAL DAYS
You talk to him for another hour, so smooth and easy you keep forgetting to panic and overanalyse his every word.
You can’t stop smiling despite yourself. He remembered your vague rant about creepy dude, and that you hate orange juice, and then he tells you about a cinema showing a marathon of old romcom classics and you swoon.
Fuck straight boys. Fuck hot, unattainable boys. Fuck sweet boys who pull shit like this just because they care about you as a friend!
It would be so much easier to get over him if he didn’t keep making you feel happy and flustered, almost courted.
—
“Hey, dude, are you okay?”
Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and, uh, not really. It’s a long story, and now you’re waiting in a cafe booth at a shitty coffee chain, hoping desperately that Kanaya will respond before your battery dies.
And now this guy. You look up, trying not to groan, because of all the people to see you here in your abject humiliation pit, you’d just been hoping it wouldn’t be Dave.
It had seemed like a reasonable hope, considering how you’re currently stranded an hour out from your apartment after your date, the latest in a long string of failures, said something way too creepy for you to accept a ride back home.
And obviously Creepy Date had pick a cafe in the only branch of the city that was undergoing maintenance on its public transport. Actually, maybe he was planning something and you just dodged the world’s biggest bullet.
Either way. You ditched the creep, stomped into a coffee shop, and started poring through your contacts for a ride.
Sollux couldn’t drive, so he was out. Your other roommate was visiting home (by which you mean, the ludicrously enormous mansion almost definitely bought with drug cartel/foreign royalty money - you didn’t want to ask) and Gamzee could barely drive anyway. One near-death experience in his passenger seat was enough, you think.
Who else? Terezi’d be busy. Vriska would be worse than murder via hitchhiking, and she’d probably bring John, so then you’d have to deal with both of them and their disgustingly perfect interspecies moirallegiance. Jade’s overseas, Rose is terrifying and way too busy to bother, and Dave- no, no, nope. You’ve stooped low enough in life, you weren’t going to embarrass yourself to Strider even further. You’d rather text Vriska. You’d rather text Rose, who isn’t just ominous and scarily intelligent but also-
Oh fuck, what were you thinking? Kanaya! Kanaya had a car, and a drivers licence, and an inexhaustible supply of fucks to give. She’d save you! Oh, thank god.
GA: I Am Sorry To Hear Your Date Was A Creep.
GA: Unfortunately, I’m In Class Right Now And It’s The Introduction To A Very Important Unit.
GA: I’ll Send Someone Else To See To Your Safe Return.
GA: Must Go Now.
CG: WHO
CG: WAIT WHO
“Karkat?”
Well, now you know. It’s Dave. He’s wearing a pink sweatshirt that says DADDY and plaid trousers, pyjamas, you think, with cowboy boots for some reason, and he should look absolutely ridiculous, but instead he looks like a hot boy in stupid clothing. And also a rescuing angel.
You stand up and stubbornly ignore the romantic music beginning to swell in your ears. Dumb and stupid and so brain-rottingly moronic you aren’t even going to waste the pan space required to think about it. This isn’t a movie.
“Strider?”
“You know you can call me by my first name, right? You’re my bro, Karkles, you’re allowed-“
“What are you doing here?” You snap idiotically. Oh, real smooth, Vantas. Your suaveness is matched only by your incredible good looks and charm.
He shrugs and shifts his weight, his resting face unreadable as ever. “Was in the area. My sister’s gothy fiancé told me you needed a lift? And I was all, hell yes, best bros road trip in this bitch, let’s kill tonight, I’ll even let you have the AUX-“
He’d let you choose the music? DJ TurnTechGodHead? Why are you blushing? Why does that seem so inexplicably tender?
“Wait, why were you lurking around here in the first place?” You ask, desperate to move on.
“Uh.” Strider’s thin, kissable mouth pulls down slightly. “Just, you know, seeing someone.”
You perform a commendable impression of someone who wasn’t just smacked in the face by reality, again. “Oh? You didn’t fucking rush out mid-date to tend to my bruised ego, did you?”
“Not a date,” he corrects awkwardly. “Uh, you know. Just man-whoring my way through the city, waking up under a couch to Maryam’s dulcet tones.”
“Oh.” You repeat blankly. Strider’s bizarre outfit is starting to make sense. It’s like 10am - did he really just rush from the morning after’s place to pick you up?
He seems to catch your stare. “Oh, this little number? It was what I could find in the trunk of my car. And these ironic cowboy boots I thought were hilarious yesterday. They’re Dirk’s.”
“Ah.” That’d be the elder Strider’s uncomfortable horse fetish coming in, you suppose. “Thanks for answering my gobsmacked silence in such excruciating detail, asshat, I just assumed this was part of the douchey irony shtick.”
“Only ironically.” Strider assures you, shooing you from your seat. You just about refrain from tearing your own hair out (what does that even mean??), but that’s probably for the best. The more irritating he gets, the less the chance of you falling into some pathetic delusion based off tv shows.
It’s not happening.
—
Dave’s car is old and beat-up and surprisingly clean. It’s red - not midlife-crisis crimson, more of a dark cherry - and while the backseat is piled with god-knows-what, the passenger seat is only occupied by a fraying blanket.
“You can toss that in the back,” he tells you, pulling out. “Or snuggle with it, I don’t know, maybe you’re sapped of energy after that date, maybe he was like an energy vampire, like that dude from What We Do In The Shadows, have you seen-“
“How did you know-“ you start, then realise it sounds uncomfortably accusatorial. “I mean. Did Kanaya tell you I was on a bad date?”
“What? Yeah.” He rubs his neck, and you hiss under your breath as the car swerves a corner too closely for comfort.
“Get your hands on that fucking wheel, asshole, what are you doing?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, bro,” Dave yawns, catlike pink tongue showing for a half second, and you stare. “Just- tired, yanno?”
“Long night?”
“Woke up covered in glitter,” he confirms, mouth is twisted down slightly. “Need to stop letting Roxy drag me out. She’s trying to get me a date to the big lesbian bonanza.”
“Do you mean your sister’s marriage to my dearly beloved friend, Strider? Is that what you’re saying?”
Strider snickers lightly. “Yup. Hey, they don’t mind. I’ve got a way with words, Karkitten, that’s why I’m making best-man speeches and Dirk’s in charge of the seating charts or some shit.”
“The best man, that’s the gormless fuck the groom picks to follow him around, right?”
He clicks his tongue. “Uh. If you’re a coward, I guess. I’m Rose’s best man, but so far my duties have included ‘be quiet and look pretty’ so I think I’m doing okay.”
Your eyes hurt with all the effort you’re putting into not looking over. You don’t need to glance sideways to prove what you already know: he’s illuminated by sunlight, golden skin glowing like some deeply unfair living photoshop, strands of hair picking up the gilded tint. “Keep telling yourself that, Strider.”
“I will and am.”
“…cool.”
“So,” Dave continues, just as you’re starting to curse yourself out for acting like such a tool. “Tell me about that film you were watching the other day?”
You startle. “Clueless?”
“Yuh.”
“Well-“ you chew your lip. “It’s just- it’s only one of the most iconic romcoms of all time, but I don’t know if you’d be interested. It’s a lot of sappy shit and romance stuff.”
“Dude, romance is my shit,” he tells you.
You laugh. “Ironically?”
For a single moment, he looks serious. “Nah. Just, you know, a tiny little hint of sincerity in my deeply ironic, cool heart.”
“Oh.” Your face is burning. His voice is so low, so soft, so genuine…
He clears his throat. “Anyway. This film. You’ve got opinions, I’m guessing?”
“Incredible deduction. You win unhinged rantings of my clearly superior retort to this video essay I saw last month-“ you look over to see if he’s rolling his eyes or acting bored, but he just tilts his head at you and motions to go on. “…are you actually listening?”
“Yeah, dude. You’re speaking, it’s basic manners. My old man didn’t teach me much, but manners was definitely not one of his priorities, so I try to spite his grave every day with my courtesy and understanding, bless his heart.” Hints of his accent slip through his words the longer he speaks, sending uncomfortable pangs of thrill along your body. “Where was I? Uh, yeah, dude. I like hearing you talk. You’ve got a lot to say, and it’s interesting, even if it’s not my field or whatever. You should be, I don’t know. A film critic.”
“Because I’m so critical?” You question.
He looks at you, mouth turned up a fraction. “No. ‘Cause you care about what you’re talking about.”
Oh, god. You don’t think you’ve ever met someone so obnoxiously sweet. For a second, all you can do is blink and stutter like an awestruck grub. Then heat punches you in the face and words are just funny squiggles in the soup of your pan.
“So lay it on me, bro,” Dave finishes, hands steady on the wheel and voice even like he hasn’t broken back his douchey facade even a little bit. You both envy and loathe his composure. “Spit some sick takes, my aural fronds are naughty for more, or something.”
“Have you been talking to Tavros?”
He grins. “I’m teaching him how to beatbox.”
“You don’t know what you’re unleashing.”
“I do, and his name is Rufio. Apparently he’s the embodiment of peanut-bro’s confidence or some shit?”
“Rufio?” You frown. “That’s his older brother’s name?”
“Oh.” He shrugs, shoving silky blonde licks away from his face. “I got bamboozled, I guess. So. Movie takes?”
You try not to smile and fail miserably, flattered and taken aback. Anyway, you’ve offered him outs. It’s not often you get a captive audience, either…
“Okay, so, first of all-“