Work Text:
"Here, take these over to the main break room."
You scratch at your forehead under the thick white fuzz of your Santa hat and do your best to scowl at your manager who's holding out a two-tiered atrocity of stacked coffee cups. The cheerful snowman design is completely contrary to the grumpy customers spilling out of the little coffee shop and out into the main drag of the mall. Aradia's reindeer horns tinkle every time she leans over the espresso machine, and Tavros has practically pulled his elf hat down over his eyes. With just the three of you working this afternoon, you don't have time to traipse to the break room for non-specific workers on the other end of the mall.
You tell your boss as much, and he pushes the stack with such ferocity that the four on top nearly tumble over to stain your obnoxiously red standard issue holiday shirt. (It's really not your color.) "Eridan, they've had the same Santa working all day, and he's threatening to beat the elves to death with one of the prop candy canes."
You know abandoning your co-workers on such a hellish day will surely have negative consequences at some point (even though they're likely to be so passive aggressive that you're not sure if they're even angry), but you right the tower of cups before taking it from your boss. "I'll be back quick as possible," you say as apologetically as you can, the heat from the cups sinking through the white long-sleeved shirt you have layered under your uniform as you tip-toe through the crowds and out the door.
You can't really make out the Christmas music over the din of the crowd, and you have to hug the wall to keep from being swept into one of the department stores. The mall you work at is the nicer one in the city, and the twinkling lights and evergreen wreaths are artfully scattered throughout the walkways and hanging from the ceiling, along with the likeness of french horns and stockings in soft white lights that are difficult to make out in the daylight but shimmer entrancingly after twilight. You really do like Christmas, although your surly disposition may suggest otherwise, but spending most of it in the only coffee shop in the mall a week before the winter holidays is absolute hell.
You slip through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, your ears ringing from the sudden lack of noise in the dimly lit white-washed hallway that leads to the meager break room provided for the employees who don't work in the stores (such as the people who worked the help desk or the gift-wrapping kiosk). You've only been back here on a few occasions (usually on errands like the one you're currently on), but the area is fairly small, so you have no trouble finding your way to the lounge.
There's only one man who isn't in costume, and his hands boast enough paper cuts for you to know where he's been working. A couple girls lounge on the threadbare and lumpy couches, their bell-tipped shoes kicked off half under the table so they can flex their toes. Hugging the wall like a sullen prom-goer is the lone reindeer in the holiday crew, and you think the rest of them must be entertaining the children while Santa takes a break.
Speaking of which, the dark haired man you see slouched in one of the folding chairs is certainly not fat or nearly jolly enough to be Santa Claus. His hat, beard, and wig have all been discarded on the table, and his arms are crossed over what has to be his fake round tummy, eyes narrowed at the vending machine as if it's the reason he's stuffed in an itchy community Santa outfit.
"Karkat?"
His gaze snaps over to you, and his face flushes so red so fast you're honestly surprised it doesn't knock him out. It's hard to tell what he looks like under the costume, but his face has lost some of it's childish roundness that it still had when the two of you parted ways in middle school. You can see by the way his teeth are bared that his braces are gone, and he's not wearing his glasses. "The fuck are you doing here?" he growls, and while he still swears like a sailor, someone's balls finally dropped because his voice is at least a full octave lower than it was three years ago.
You arch an eyebrow and place the coffee cups on the table, far enough away that he can't kick you if he decides he wants to (which he's done before, for no reason at all). "I really hope you don't talk to the kids like that," you say mournfully. "It ain't their fault you were never hugged enough when you were little or whatever is wrong with you, but there's no need to ruin their Christmas."
"Don't be stupid," he grouses, leaning over the width of the table to snatch the closest coffee cup to chug. "I'm capable of turning down the rating when I please."
"I'd believe it if you hadn't spent most of our time at school in detention for swearing at the teachers," you say, taking two of the cups and handing them to the elves on the couch.
"I wasn't getting paid to do that," he answers, and you snort, but from what you've heard the Santas really make bank for what they do so it makes sense. You like to think it's hazard pay for the almost certain appearance of vomit and tears, but then again, the same thing could potentially happen at your job and you don't get paid over minimum wage for it.
Karkat had been in the same class as you all the way through middle school. You got seated next to each other in sixth grade homeroom and then again in eighth grade biology. He'd been a short, awkward, angry little thing, and he'd stolen your heart almost instantly with his rare smiles and the way he giggled instead of laughing. He was in the advanced math track and got stuck tutoring you when you almost flunked out of your sixth grade algebra class. He had almost no patience for your whining and sass, but if you actually tried, he never faulted you.
He was going to the public high school while you were being sent to the private Catholic academy that your sister had attended, and although it had felt like a cat fight in your stomach all the way through the graduation ceremony, you just couldn't get yourself to say anything to him about how you felt. The whole situation had the nasty aftertaste of a bad rom-com, but you parted ways with nary a love confession or heartfelt letter, and you'd never been the kind of friends to call or instant message, so he faded into the background of angry nuns and school uniforms and part-time jobs.
This was probably the least romantic place that you could have run into him again, in the belly of the mall, in a room that smelled like sweat and stale donuts, wearing a hat that was too big and kept slipping over your eyes while he wore a costume that a middle-aged man had worn the day prior and probably hadn't been washed since last year. He was frowning at the white lid of the cup, and you're almost certain he's already getting wrinkles from looking so pissed all the time.
"What are you even doing working at that shit hole?" he asks. "It's not like you need the money."
You shrug, looking at your coffee-stained tennis shoes and the frosting you wiped on the thigh of your jeans earlier and feel decidedly un-fabulous. "Looks good on applications. 'Sides, I'm old enough that it feels weird to buy my parents presents with their own money."
He huffs a laugh, and his smile is still a little uneven, one corner of his mouth quirking up higher than the other. "Yeah, but it's probably not the caliber that they're used to."
"It's the thought that counts," you snap, because like you need to be reminded that you can't afford the gold watches and diamond earrings your father and mother are used to receiving on Christmas, but it should mean something that you purchased it with your own money.
Karkat drains the dregs of the coffee before tossing the empty cup in the trash bin nearest him, letting out an exhausted groan before hauling himself to his feet. You're appalled to notice that he's almost as tall as you now (and twice as wide, but that's not a real thing). With your coffee delivered to the much happier Christmas elves and lone reindeer, you have no choice but to trail after the pot-bellied grouch unless you want to make it painfully obvious you don't want to follow him. Upon returning to his ridiculously oversized green chair in the center of the mall, he doesn't suddenly transform into an obnoxiously jovial man, ho ho ho-ing at the small children placed in his lap.
It's a more muted kindness, and you think that the lack of theatrics is less terrifying for the young ones. The girl currently sitting in his lap has tiny pigtails and both her hands buried in his beard, and the softness in his eyes is so endearing it brings the fighting cats from middle school back to your stomach. You get reprimanded for taking so long, and Tavros sends you wounded puppy looks over the sink until you rescue the last cinnamon-sugar muffin from an untimely demise in the trash at closing. You drop a pot of hot coffee after stumbling into a customer, and you're pretty sure the cost of those grounds is coming out of your paycheck, but your attention has been efficiently shanghaied by honey gold eyes and a scowl you haven't thought about for years (have made a conscious effort NOT to think about for years, really).
You have your coat wrapped tight around your skinny frame, scarf wrapped high enough on your neck that it hides your nose and mouth from the biting cold. It's started snowing again, which makes the figure hugging the wall just outside the back entrance to the mall all the more surprising.
It looks like his face isn't the only thing that's lost it's childish appearance. It's hard to tell, but there's definitely more bulk to him than there was when you were kids; he looks like he could throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and deposit you in the nearest dumpster with little effort (which isn't a terrible feat considering how thin you are, but he also didn't even come up to your chin in middle school). He's smoking, the light from the end of the cigarette the only thing to cast a glow on his face, and you roll your eyes as you approach him, hands jammed in your pockets.
"You ain't old enough to have those," you say, trying not to squint.
He shrugs, dropping the butt and squishing it under the heel of his boot. "It helps with the stress. When I find a better way to cope, I'll stop. You know how it is."
And you do, so you just sigh and clench your fingers closer to your palms for any warmth they can provide. "Are you waiting for someone?"
He shrugs again, and now that you're closer you can see that he's got snow on his eyelashes, impossibly long and casting shadows on his cheeks as he looks at the footprints you left to get over to him. When you were gawky pre-teens, you'd been the prettier of the two of you, but he could give you a serious run for your money the way he is now (not that he'd be very pleased with being called pretty, but it's soft enough to compliment the freckles faded into his skin and the fragile curve of his ear, yet easy enough to sneer without offending his manly pride).
"Use your words, Kar," you reprimand, and he shuffles closer, still silent as if to spite you. One of his hands slips in to your coat pocket, his skin almost burning hot against your icy ones, pulling out his cellphone with the other. It's a spam message that's been going around, a picture of mistletoe bearing the text "KISS UR SWEETHEART UNDER THE MISTLTOE OR LOOSE THEM FOREVER".
"Better safe than sorry," he grumbles, and you pull the scarf from over your mouth at the same time he lifts the glowing screen above your heads. His lips are chapped and taste like gingerbread and cigarette smoke, but his hands are warm in your pockets, and they're still warm when he kisses you to the taste of champagne and cries of Happy New Years.