Chapter Text
Today has been unexceptional, the rat-race carries on. Afternoon has rolled around, and you clock in to your second job, tired already from dealing with caffeine-hungry coffee snoots all morning and worn out by the very thought of someone spilling something on you. You clip on your name tag and brace yourself. This table wants a check, that table needs cleaning, everyone over there wants to know why they haven’t gotten their drinks yet. Two waiters running around is really not enough, what a terrible cafe. but people come anyways, bless. Someone spills something on you not half an hour through the shift and some shithead in a cowboy hat laughs. (although he laughs shortly, his guffaw cut off neatly with an efficient dagger of a glance.) That is absolutely it, you are quitting, you will let the electricity bill go unpaid and live off cold canned soup and bread for the rest of your hideous, cocksucking life.
Ha ha, yeah, good, what a funny joke you just made. You are going to hang on to this job with your teeth if you have to. You, one Karkat Vantas, live in a shithole apartment for a blessed pittance of a rent on the wrong end of town, with a million blankets to make up for the failing heater and a cracked hardwood floor that creaks when anything heavier than a spoon makes contact. You live on your own, your meager dish collection consistently dirty in the sink, your clothes tossed in the approximate direction of the sack you should have taken to the laundromat yesterday. You make it by just fine, thank you very much, you always have enough to eat and it’s not like you’ll die if you have to wear a sweater inside. Or two sweaters inside, what’s the difference, really? You make your living working two part time jobs, pulling in shavings more than minimum wage and earning every curled up, flaky morsel of it. Maybe it isn’t the prettiest life, but it is stubbornly yours, and you can work with that.
You duck into the kitchen, wipe down your sleeve the best you can and barrel right back into the fray, pulling out your pen and droning a ‘what can I get you’ for the first needy pinhead who can flag you down.
”Yeah, I’ll have a cup a the minestrone, but no carrots, don’t put carrots in it, and a tuna sandwich with just one pickle,” the guy says, and you sort of want to punch him, or at least shave off the ‘quirky’ dyed streak in his perfectly coiffed hair. It just screams “there’s a reason I’m here alone today”.
Instead, you say, “we can’t take out the carrots, shithead, the soup’s already made.”
He gives you the stink eye, and you know you shouldn’t swear at the customers because they complain and you get warnings, but fuck this guy and fuck warnings. your sleeve is damp and you don’t even think this guy needs glasses, you think he is just wearing frames to look smart. “Make some new soup, sunshine, I’m the customer, I’m always right.”
”Just eat the carrots, they’re good for your eyes,” you say, shifting a little to confirm that there are indeed no lenses in his great honking black frames. they make him look like a douche bag, you wonder if he actually looked in the mirror before stepping outside. God, all of him is terrible, where did he get that shirt, is it honestly satin? It’s bright purple, too, and clashes hideously with his green, stylishly torn jeans. skinny jeans? You think so. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
”I’m allergic to carrots,” skinny jeans says, as though hearing that will enlighten you. You’ll beg his forgiveness for your presumption, and sympathize frantically for the many difficulties with which this terrible disability must plague him. You consider doing just that, because this piece of work deserves it, but you refrain.
”That’s too bad. Do you want the tomato soup or just the sandwich.”
”I want the minestrone,” he says, but he mutters it to himself like he’s been told off and he doesn’t think it’s fair.
”You cannot have,” you say, “the fucking minestrone. I cannot fucking believe you.”
”I can’t fucking believe you’re swearing at me!” Skinny jeans says. “You cocksucking shitface.”
He wants to dance? You can dance. “Don’t give me this maggot-ridden load of unadulterated steaming horseshit, what puddle of putrid-ass fungus did you crawl out of this morning, and next time leave your fuck-awful pisslicking cuntload of hipster cred there.” He looks, to your horror, delighted with you.
”No need to beat around the bush,” he says, looking like he wants to laugh. “Give it to me straight, doc.”
”You want tomato soup, and a tuna sandwich,” you say dryly. What a waste of anger this guy is. Not that that stops you from being angry with him.
”I do not want tomato soup, and I want one pickle on my tuna sandwich. And a coffee. black,” he specifies. You make a mental note to get him none of that.
”Ok,” you say, and you turn to leave. he cranes his neck a little, and is apparently looking at your name tag because you’re dismissed with a
”Thanks… Karkat?”
”Eat my perfumed shit, skinny jeans,” you tell him, and you leave, regrettably catching him call back to you that his name is Eridan. You will try to forget that as fast as possible.
You spend long enough avoiding bringing his food to his table that one of the other waiters does it for you, shooting you a frustrated glance you are well used to. It doesn’t stop skinny jeans from trying to wave you over to the table, though. He dropped his fork, and then he wanted some more water, and all you want him to do is ask for the check.
”Look, jeans, there are other people here,” you tell him, and he ignores your point and asks,
”What’s wrong with my jeans? If you must know, they’re designer.”
”I did not ask, I do not care,” you say. “And if you must know, the run-over-by-a-lawnmower look is not working.”
”Wow, unnecessary,” Eridan says, giving his lips a little pout that is not unattractive. He gestures towards the other side of the restaurant and says, “at least I’m not mr. wild wild west over there.”
You follow his motion and yep, there’s the shithead in the cowboy hat. “Fuck that guy,” you say. “That fucking hat is a mile wide and it makes his head look like a grape.”
”Like a raisin,” Eridan corrects you. “Do you see those wrinkles? I swear to god, if he held his nose and blew, his whole head would inflate like a balloon.” You give a little laugh, and he grins like he’s won the lottery. What an ass.
You are ten kinds of glad to see the back of him when he leaves, dropping a bill in the tip jar on his way out. you are going to fight to the death with your coworker for that specific extra five bucks, unless he just left you a single, in which case you’re going to find out where he lives and burn his house down. You earned that tip fair and square.
You wrestle your way through the rest of the day and don’t think a lot more about Eridan. Skinny jeans. whatever. That is, until you’re closing up shop with Jade. She rifles through the tip jar with a familiar click of coins, counting up the days’ spoils, and laughs. “holy shit.”
”What, someone leave you a phone number?” you ask. It’s happened before. Jade’s basically hot. You’ve considered tapping that. But then you always remember you’re more or less the scum of the earth and go back to your shoebox apartment to sleep for 10 hours.
”Nah, but check it out,” she says, passing you a bill. “That’s a fifty.” You roll your eyes, but you look, and it is a fifty.
”No fucking way,” you say. Jade gives another laugh. “Check again, see if someone left the keys to their penthouse apartment under some nickels.”
”Give it here, I’ll make change from the register to split it,” Jade says, and you hand her the fifty and go for the tip jar to grab a bill you’ll pretend was Eridan’s.
Aaaaaaand, it’s all coins. Hide nor hair of a greasy fiver, or even an old, soft single. Yep. Great. Of course, Mr. designer skinny jeans left a fifty dollar tip. Well, why not? You fucking deserve it. You are a god damn champion, climbing this heaping pile of assholes every day for a couple dollars. Jade hands you 25 and you swipe it from her gladly, nay, triumphantly. She gives you a weird look but you don’t even care.
25 bucks isn’t a huge deal. But it’s nice having any money at all that you didn’t budget meticulously. You feel… pretty ok. You walk into your apartment and want to put on another sweater immediately. Kicking the heater does nothing. You fish an empty can out of the recycling, clean and dry it, and stick a 20 inside it. May it take you a decade, you are going to fix the heating. Tired, but not defeated, you push an old dvd into your laptop and sink down on to your embarrassment of a couch. A spring presses into your shoulder, but you stay still until you’re not 100% sure you’re conscious.