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You're not really sure when Storytime with Karkat started being a thing, precisely, but it's probably all because of that dumb troll bodice-ripper of his, or whatever the fuck it was. You'd kept idly poking fun at his ridiculous shipping grid, because it's not like there's a lot else to do on the meteor, and damn if Vantas isn't cute when he gets way too serious about this troll romance stuff. Wait, did you say "cute"? You meant "funny". Yeah, that's it. Funny. Motherfucking hilarious; better entertainment value than Egbert at his doofiest. Eventually he'd bartered his book back from Rose (which is actually pretty fucking impressive considering that it may well have involved putting his immortal soul into the loving care of an eldritch tentacle monster) waved it at your nose, and informed you in no uncertain terms that he was going to fucking read it to you and it would fucking change your life or he would change your face.
Not that you actually believed his threat for more than about five seconds, guy's got so much bark his bite is in the negatives, but what the hell - after all that drama over it you were actually kind of curious about his supposedly life-changing literature.
He'd corner you in the coffee room; you tried to tune him out with your raps at first, but you couldn't concentrate and eventually had to concede defeat, sitting back in your chair and just letting him do his thing. When he started out, his speech was halting, disjointed, and ungrammatical, punctuated with defensive complaints about how he had to read entire sentences of Alternian before he could render the meaning in English because of the way the structure was completely backwards. You never even had to fuck with him about it; judging from his outbursts, he was much better at pretending to be an asshole to himself than you'll ever be. When he got really frustrated he'd throw the book down and start griping about all his insecurities, disguising them as annoyances: that asshole clown who never told him what he was up to; that asshole Jack who wouldn't stop chasing him through void hyperspace; those assholes Rose and Kanaya whose discussions of vitally important information were always so incomprehensible; those assholes John and Jade who continued to be infuriatingly absent. It was starting to give you a bad case of second-hand embarrassment, so eventually you told him that yeah, you missed John and Jade too, and you figured Rose would probably tell you if it was ever absolutely essential for you to know what the hell was going on anymore. Now, how about that trashy troll romance, you'd asked. Wouldn't want to just end on a cliffhanger like that, a guy might never recover from the sheer suspense.
Eventually he got the hang of the translinguistic dictation and was actually sort of pleasant to listen to, but by that point he'd finally realized you weren't actually following the plot and elected the skip directly to what he considered to be the "good" parts. These turned out to be the batshit fucking nonsensical parts rather than the creepy BDSM like you were expecting, but after a few sessions of this you were more than ready to trade it in for all the explicit alien tentacle bondage that Rose's Lovecraftian squiddles could surely summon from the dark recesses of their noodly appendages. You'd casually remarked that the whole experience had been a lot more enjoyable when it was just listening to his voice instead of trying to grok all this ridiculous sextant vaseline or whatever, and didn't he have anything actually good to read you? He'd given you his strangest and most flustered expression yet and shut up for a whole minute, but before you had a chance to properly take back that incredibly stupid and not at all true thing you said, he'd dug through his sylladex and produced a different book. This time there were only two half-naked trolls on the cover, so you figured your pain would at least be halved.
And ok, yeah, that one was actually a pretty decent story, or at least you could follow what the fuck was going on most of the time. It was probably more trashy romance (because seriously, what are the chances that Karkat's actually got anything that's not the weird bug-alien equivalent of a schmoopy, clichéd, overwrought love story full of disturbing romantic implications), but the only way you could really tell was the way his ears would start to tinge a little red and he wouldn't meet your eyes while he read it. Well, maybe those two trolls were a little too touchy-feely to just be bros, unless they've actually achieved some superhuman (supertroll?) level of irony, but hey, aliens, right? At least reading it seemed to get Karkat to calm the fuck down and stop spewing emotions everywhere like an out-of-control rage sprinkler, and he didn't even spend as much time and effort trying to get you to like his book.
***
date.
Oh.
"Fuck," says Karkat. You can practically see his brain kick into gear, cycling through Plan B all the way down to Plan W, Operation Storytime has been compromised, abort abort, fall back, regroup, what about the fucking oven timer--
He gives you another one of those looks that always stops your thoughts in their tracks because you can't fucking interpret them - they always seem to be asking some question you don't have an answer for, some kind of weird troll communication thing. You keep expecting him to break it to you one day that you're actually contractually obligated to troll marry him now because you looked at his horns funny or flicked gum in his hair that one time.
Or because he's spent all this time casually reading you his brohug porn or whatever, you guess that might be a thing, too.
"I don't know where all the fucking chairs got to in this wreck, but there's certainly enough junk around here to make a pile that would keep us from grinding our vestigial tailstubs into fine powder on the concrete," he says. "If you can actually make yourself useful, that is. If you think I'm building a pile for you while you sit there yanking your bulge and doing your insufferable cooldouche thing, I'll be forced to conclude that your sunglasses have gained sentience and devoured your already suboptimal sponge."
Right. Piles. That's one of those weird things that trolls do, and technically you're probably like the resident expert on troll now given how much of their quality literature you've experienced lately. Well, except for the trolls themselves. And except for Rose, who's dating a troll. But the point is, you could totally beat the Mayor in a troll trivia contest, and you know that piles are definitely a Troll Thing.
"Sure," you say, "we can build you an alien pillow fort if it makes you feel better, especially since you asked so nicely. Maybe my sentient shades can help too." He gets a cagey look and just huffs off in search of pile materials, but once your back is turned your shades become the victim of a well-aimed scalemate. Fucking Vantas.
You learn that there's apparently a Right Way to make a pile. You don't actually learn what it is, mind, but Karkat's got a weirdly particular way of building the thing that's probably just his sad attempt at creating a pile that's identical to the one created by Troll John Cusack in one of his bizarre movies, or something. Naturally, every other thing you do is sheer and utter incompetance and then you've got to wait fifteen minutes while he rearranges piles of bedding and stuffed animals into slightly different piles of bedding and stuffed animals, but eventually you wind up with something he guesses he can stand, and you settle in for Storytime in your seriously ironic pillow fort. Not that this this whole arrangement hasn't already been walking the irony line pretty closely; any minute now you're going to stray into enemy territory with a guy who can turn a pile of blankets into a fucking federal issue. He opens his book and starts to read.
Maybe it's because you started out doing weird troll bullshit this time, but now Karkat's story is making even less sense than usual. "Wait a minute," you say. "I thought that one dude's girlfriend and the chick with the horses were dating."
"They are," he says patiently. "But, well, ok, this one is kind of old-fashioned, but basically it's because Morrez's matesprit is an indigo-blood and the musclebeast farmer is a green-blood, so the author can't actually have them acknowledge their contentious and ardent kismesissitude in public, it would have been a scandal for someone as high as indigo to take notice of a mere green-blood farmer. The whole scene is funny because the indigo's auspistice can talk to the green-blood in public even though he's a highblood because he is her moirail, so they use him to pass messages, which results in the humerous situation of two moirails appearing to express caliginous sentiment towards each other while the other characters are watching but don't have a clue what's going on! Which brings us back to the point," he continues, pausing to draw breath, "which is not actually the comic-relief caliginous fling between two minor characters, but the beautiful and deep moirallegiance between Morrez and the musclebeast-farmer's matesprit that ties the entire group together. Haven't you even been paying attention?"
The blanket pile is really fucking soft, and ridiculous troll politics are literally boring you to sleep. "Wait," you say muzzily, "isn't green higher than indigo?" You don't actually remember any of his side commentary about the nonsensical class structure, but you're pretty sure that Kanaya is another universe of class up from that terrible honking clown.
"No!" he says, and actually smacks you with the fucking book. "Do I have to explain this all over again?"
Anything but that. "Hey, how about this for an idea," you say. "How about we call it quits for the Troll Pride and Prejudice for today and just lie down in this soft-ass blanket pile." The more you think about it, the better an idea this sounds. Your eyelids droop.
"What--" he starts, but you reach out vaguely and get a handful of shirt. If he can smack you around with trashy literature he can deal with a bit of manhandling, too. You drag him down into the pile; oddly enough he doesn't put up much of a fight, and he even manages to shut up about his book for a while. You barely notice his head brushing against your shoulder before you're drifting off to sleep.
***
"Dave."
"Dave, wake up, you grubfisted nookslurper!"
Dammit, it's hard to sleep when people are shaking you and yelling your name.
Oh.
Right.
You struggle back to consciousness. Karkat is sitting up in the bedding pile, wearing and expression that clearly says oh shit Plan W failed, what now what now and sporting a truly awesome and terrible case of bed hair. You valiantly resist the urge to fuck with it. "What the hell, Vantas."
He takes a deep breath, and yup, he's winding up for some kind of interminable speech about weird troll shit, but you're still too groggy to properly put a stop to this show before it starts. "I know you're pretty dense when it comes to this kind of thing, and I shouldn't blame you, and it's probably not your fault, and I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I should have expected you'd be so clueless, but your sister at least has sort of figured some of this out on her own if what-- if what Gamzee tells me is true, but-- but-- look at this, Dave, we can't do this anymore, it's gone way to fucking far."
"This what?" you blink a bit. Ok, so apparently past you had decided that Karkat somehow made a better pillow than any of the other actual pillows in the pile, and that's kind of weird, but it's the kind of weird where you just smile at your buddy and say, hey man, no homo. Or whatever the version of "no homo" is when no one actually cares about homo. Is that even a thing? Whatever, the point is, it's no big deal, no one ever died from overstepping the irony line. You want to fix his stupid hair and get him to calm the fuck down for once in his hyperstressed, artery-popping existence. No way that shit is healthy.
"Us-- the pile-- you-- you can't see how this is all so ridiculously pale?" He makes an exasperated gesture as he pulls away from you and stands up, and then starts violently disassembling the pile, kicking pillows and blankets and scalemates everywhere. Every so often he directs a worried look at the ventilation grate near the ceiling. "I have a palemate, I have one, and I haven't even been doing my part for him, I'm just a fucking worthless piece of shit who spends all his time with you."
"Hey," you say, scrambling to your feet. You're not sure, but you think somewhere in there you might have gotten insulted by proxy.
"I know I probably shouldn't have read you-- I didn't mean-- I just thought the stuff that was primarily redrom would be easier for you to figure out, and most of the ones that focus on matespritship have red-black vacillation too, and you seemed really confused by that and I just wanted to--"
"Jesus, stop babbling for five minutes," you say. One Storytime gone wrong, and he's right back at Insecurity Junction, connection to Poor Decision-Making via Embarrassing Overcompensation. "I'm not trying steal you away from your juggalo, ok? You said it, I don't even get how this weird not-romance shit is even supposed to work for you, and I don't even get how you and Gamzee are even a thing in the first place."
Something about that makes him pause. He stops freaking out (which makes you weirdly relieved) and gets a strange look on his face like if he stares at the wall hard enough he'll be able to see what's on the other side. "He needed me," he says, and it sounds a little like he's telling it to himself too. "He reached out to me, and said that he'd kill some-- well, more, I guess-- of us if I didn't help him, that only I could help him to become a better person, soothe his violence and calm his urges. That's how it works. Look, you were there when I read you the fucking book, you should know how this is supposed to go by now."
God, he's telling you his life is literally a terrible romance novel. "That is the shittiest romance in the history of shitty romance," you tell him, "and you don't know how much shitty romance research it takes to become a true master of the subtle ironies of shittiness. No way I'd ever give you that kind of ultimatum, not in a million years."
"I know," he says quietly. "That's why that was serendipity, and this isn't." He kicks one final pillow into a corner, and leaves the room without meeting your eyes again.
***
You're not even all that sure you don't want what he apparently accidentally offered you. You kind of hate Gamzee a little now that you know about that stunt he pulled, like Karkat even needs more reasons to feel like he's responsible for terrible things happening to everyone else. And you do miss Storytime, surprisingly unironically. Laying in that pile was nice, and not just because it was soft. You still don't think it qualifies as "romance", but maybe it's all just words. Unironic bro cuddle piles by any other name, etc. You don't know exactly when Karkat got all these cuddling privileges, and you don't need Rose to tell you you need to take some time to sort out your head.
When you find him again, it isn't because he wanted you to, but it isn't because you went looking, either.
"Fuck these dream bubbles with a rusty culling fork," says Karkat. "I can't get a single night's sleep without running into some old fuckup of mine, can I? First it was the goddamn frogs, then it was Equius, and now you. It's actually you, isn't it? This isn't some dead alternate timeline Dave, with my luck, the meteor is actually passing through the bubble again."
"Entirely possible," you say. "How do I know you're not alternate timeline Karkat?"
"Guess!" He throws up his hands in frustration. "Although I guess it's actually not too much of a leap of logic to theorize that I've fucked up with you in every concieveable timeline! And Gamzee too, I suppose, though it's not like I've actually seen him lately. Just-- fuck my quadrants."
"I thought this was supposed to be one of the non-fucking quadrants," you say.
"What you know about any of the quadrants could be written on the inside of a slimebeast's shell in classic Alternian script with the illuminated initials and artistic ligatures," he growls. "I read you the fucking book on pale romance and you still don't get it."
"Maybe I don't know much about quadrants," you say, "but I know romance doesn't happen because someone threatens to kill your friends. And look," you continue, before he has a chance to interrupt, "if you knew this was going bother you so much, why'd you start spending all this time with me, anyway? You didn't have to do that."
"I don't know." He deflates a little. "It wasn't deliberate. I was kind of hoping you'd call me on it and tell me to fuck off, but I suppose I should have known better."
"What if I don't actually want you to fuck off?"
A hopeful and almost happy look crosses his face for a second before he shapes it back into a scowl, and suddenly this whole conversation was worth it. "Why wouldn't you? Neither of us is about to kill anyone; neither of us has uncontrollable madnesses or Highblood Psychosis. There's nothing for you to be pale about!"
"Could say the same about you," you offer casually.
"Fuck you, I know!" He flushes and turns away to stare at the floor. "I know, ok? It doesn't make any fucking sense!"
He looks so lost and miserable now that you can't help but go over and put your arm around him. You vaguely remember a time way back when when he asked you to touch his... dream bubble self, you guess, to see if he felt real. He definitely feels real now, not a ghost who passes through your fingers, but solid and warm. He tenses up at the feel of your arm, and you prepare to fuck off if he gives you the stink-eye about it. But he only heaves a resigned sigh and seems to relax a bit, even resting his head on your shoulder.
"Remember the other pairing?" you ask.
"Huh?"
"In your book," you remind him. "The one you thought I wasn't paying any attention to. There were those guys who were the main event or whatever, and I guess one of them fucked people up sometimes, which you apparently find creepily romantic somehow, but there were those other two trolls that just snarked at each other in public and then got snuggly with each other in private. That was the same quadrant, right? They were actually pretty cute, and they didn't have to kill anyone to achieve it."
"Well yeah, they were minor fucking characters," Karkat says. "Obviously the narrative isn't necessarily going to be concerned with the details of their courtship, but presumably at some point one of them--"
"Really? I mean, the dude wasn't even really a highblood, people wouldn't shut up about how he was way to chill to be a proper highblood and everything, and it's not like the ranch chick needed anyone to restrain her. What kind of bloody courtship ritual were you thinking of here?" When he doesn't respond for a few minutes, you finish with, "Look, all I'm saying is that maybe this dumb idea you've got about this romance stuff isn't as universal as you think it is."
He seems to consider that for a moment, and then opens his mouth to respond... but then there's a subtle shift in your surroundings. Karkat disappears from your side with a small sound like a soap-bubble bursting, and you're left off-balance and grasping at nothing. Fucking dream bubbles.
***
When you nod, he glances at the ceiling vent and sits down, nervously fucking around with your discarded sheets without really looking at them, and dives right into the heavy shit, Karkat style. "I can't just leave Gamzee by himself," he says. "He might not come around that much, but when he does it's because he needs someone to talk shit out with, and everyone else has abandoned him, ever since he was a wiggler, he just has no clue how to fucking interact with people now. His thing with Terezi - god, I wish he'd just had the guts to talk to me about it before, they are so terrible at black romance, you don't even know, and I don't really trust that Rose can work this out, auspisticism is hard for trolls even when they've read all the classics, and I think Rose has only looked at Kanaya's trashy Rainbow Drinker novels. And I made a damn promise, and you can't just break those. You know?" He raises his eyes to look at you.
"Yeah, I dig that," you say. "No promises for you and me, right? Just," you shrug, "whatever we want, I guess? I mean, you probably could use someone to talk to too, when he's off playing hide and seek, right?" The corners of the paper in front of you curl and crumple under your fingers.
"Do you want to finish the book?" he asks, holding it up. "I didn't read ahead without you, I promise."
"Yeah," you say, grinning and putting down your headphones. "Fuck yeah, Storytime is back."
"Just don't fall asleep on me this time, ok?"
"Yeah, yeah, I learned my lesson." You grin at him, and for once he actually returns it. This troll romance bullshit isn't all bad after all, you decide. Could just use a few less terribad ideas, is all.
He starts to read, and you reimmerse yourself in the world of clichéd romance and incomprehensible troll politics. Feels like home.