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The dregs of your beer are foamy and bitter, but you drink them anyway. It’s Friday after all, and you’d rather drink shit beer and get a bit tipsy, than sit alone at the bar and watch everyone else have fun. Wow, that one guy is really having fun. Is that neat vodka he’s drinking? Shit, you feel sorry for whoever he’s going home with. Oh God he’s on a table, is nobody watching him? Well, besides the equally inebriated people cheering him on as he drinks… Whatever nasty green mess is in that bottle someone just passed him. He practically chokes after the first mouthful, so it must be strong. Damn. He’s brave. And also very drunk, which is probably giving him a lot of extra courage.
Then he jumps down and walks under a light, and your shades must be playing tricks on you because the dude’s skin looks grey. No candy corn horns though, so he can’t be a Troll. He stumbles up to the bar, falling into a seat next to you with a very giggly “shot please” and when he’s asked what kind he just shrugs. Wait, he still looks grey and are those- shit, he does have little horns. He’s the only Troll in the room, and by the looks of it he doesn’t have any actual friends here, what’s he doing out on his own?
“Maybe another drink isn’t such a good idea, man,” you say when he tries to slur out another order.
“Who’re you t’say so, huh?” He’s trying to sound angry, but he keeps chuckling and eventually just gives in.
You roll your eyes and leave him to it. Hey, you tried. That is until he swings back on his stool too far, and you reflexively grab him before he can crack his head open on the table behind. Unfortunately, he does a tipsy trip right into your lap and it ends up looking more like that was what you were aiming for.
“Hey there blondie.” He winks at you with a smirk, one hand on your shoulder to hold himself up. “Sorry but ‘m taken.”
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed. Yeah he’s a drunken mess, but he’s also a very hot mess, and you’re not talking about the fact that it’s like having an oven on your thighs. It is getting kind of uncomfortable though; it’s like 80 degrees outside, even at this time of night, and being in a room full of sweaty people is making it almost unbearable. Part of you wants to gently coax mister Troll back onto his own seat, then leave so you can go home and pretend this never happened. But then he almost face-plants on the bar trying to stand up and well, what kind of guy would you be if you didn’t at least make sure he had a way to get home?
“Y’all got a ride home or somethin’?”
He looks at you as if your question was an algebraic equation, then says, “Dunno.”
You sigh, “So you’re not here with anyone?”
He shrugs and shakes his head at the same time, which you’re choosing to take as a no. You glance at your watch. It’s getting pretty late; you should probably head back to the apartment soon, plus the bar will be closing in half an hour. It wouldn’t be too much trouble to take him with you, right? At least, as far as you can anyway. Then again, you did just meet the dude, for all you know he could be a serial killer who pretends to be drunk so he can murder hot pieces of choice ass like yourself in a dark alleyway. But even if he was, he’s 5ft nothing and you’ve been strifing with your brother since you could hold a sword.
Oh, he’s going back over to dance some more, guess you don’t even have to decide at all then. He probably has a friend somewhere; he was just being an idiot when you asked him. You order another beer and watch the football game that you can’t even hear over the music – why do they even have a TV in here? Seriously.
It’s when you’re just getting up to leave that your Troll buddy makes a reappearance.
“Oh my God, dude, dudedudedude.” He pats your shoulder as the barmaid deposits two shot glasses in front of him – why did she do that? He clearly doesn’t need any more alcohol. “Do tequila with me.”
He shoves one of the glasses at you, not waiting for you to pick it up before he downs his own in one go.
“Sorry man, I’m not really a tequila person and- oh, well okay then.” You don’t even get to finish and he’s already knocked back your shot too.
Alright, you’ve had a drink with him – sort of – and he’s sat on your lap, you think that’s grounds for being well acquainted enough to offer him help getting home. The manager thanks you for coming and ushers everyone outside, giving the Troll a particularly nasty look which he returns with his middle finger. You grab his wrist and pretend you know him, slinging an arm over his shoulder to steer him away.
“He’s such a bulgesore,” he shouts the last part over his shoulder, and you wonder if associating yourself with him was a good idea.
“Shut up, man,” you say, quickening your pace, “now where are we headed?”
He snorts, “What?”
“Where do you live? You take the bus here? Taxi? Subway?” You would say ‘car’ but he is in no fit state to drive.
“’M not tellin’ you that, f’ckin’ weirdo.” In spite of this, he doesn’t make any attempt to shrug you off.
You’ll admit, this probably does seem a little weird, but you know how people treat Trolls and you don’t want this guy to end up another statistic on the news. If this was your sister’s girlfriend – not that Kanaya would ever go out on her own like this – you would want someone helping her out, so why not live up to your own standard?
“Okay, don’t tell me, just give me directions, like uh,” you stop at an intersection, “we goin’ left or right here?”
He squints up at the sign under the street lamp with a long, “uummmmm” that makes any confidence you had in him sink into your shoes.
“I moved last week,” he tells you eventually, “an’ um, ‘m not sure how to like, get back from here?” That sounded like a fucking question, good God.
You sigh and call your brother.
“Let me guess,” Dirk says when he answers, “you’re bringin’ someone home?”
“Yeah, but it’s not what you think, he’s just really fuckin’ hammered and has no clue how to get back to his own place and-”
“Say no more bro, I’ll get some extra cushions for the couch.”
You hang up and wave your hand in front of the Troll’s face to get his attention.
“Hey, my place isn’t too far from here so if y’all got anyone who can pick you up, we could wait there?”
“Yeah um, I’ll call ‘em, or somethin’.” He doesn’t seem too sure, but follows you regardless.
Walking with him is like trying to steer a kid through the candy section. He weaves all over the sidewalk, spins around street lamp poles, kicks trash against walls.
Then he shouts, “Holy fuck, tacos!” and you have to grab his arm before he can run out into four lanes of traffic.
“Dude! What the fuck were you thinking? You could’ve been hit by a car.”
“Hey, hey,” he pokes your face with a grin, “why did the Kat cross the road?”
You bat his hand away roll your eyes, “I have absolutely no fuckin’ clue, but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”
“To get to the tacos!” He tries for the road again so you pull him even further away from the curb.
“Man, no, c’mon this way.”
Luckily, he just laughs as you practically drag him around a corner and into your apartment building. Dirk is waiting outside when you finally get up the stairs, and raises an eyebrow at the Troll draped against your side. You glare at him as you pass, and he follows you inside without a word.
It’s around the time you’re trying to detangle from the Troll and get him onto the couch, that you realise that you don’t even know his name.
“What’s your name, dude?”
He mumbles something that sounds like car-cat and then giggles.
“Oh yeah very funny, I’m serious, I gotta know for when your friend picks you up.”
“Karkat,” he repeats, with more conviction this time so you’re guessing it’s true.
“Alright Karkat, I’m Dave, nice to meet you.”
“Dave, where’s your bathroom?”
You notice the green tint to his face, and very quickly point him in the right direction. Ugh, great. Hopefully he’ll just sleep it off later and call whoever he needs to in the morning. Actually, speaking of phones, that one on the floor definitely isn’t yours but it’s blowing up like crazy. You should probably just leave it for Karkat to sort out. Then again, what if it’s important? You pick it up and take a look. The number’s saved as “dipshit <3” so you’re guessing it’s at least someone he likes?
Whoever they are, they start talking as soon as you answer, “Holy shit, where the fuck’ve you been? I called you like ten times! I was nearly gonna have a heart attack-”
“Wait-wait-wait, I’m not Karkat,” you blurt out, regretting it when they sound even more panicked.
“Then who the fuck is this? And why are you answerin’ his phone?”
“My name’s Dave, your friend was totally wasted at a bar and he didn’t know how to get home, so I took him back to mine, but that’s it, like, he’s in my bathroom right now, I swear.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then they finally give you a slow reply, “Okay, I’m gonna choose to believe you, but if you’ve done anythin’ to him,”
“I haven’t man, God, so are you gonna come get him or what?” That might have been a bit harsh, but you’re getting tired and this guy's accusing you of shit you haven’t done.
A sigh, “I can’t. But I’ll send someone who can.”
“Okay,” you give him your address and he mumbles a ‘thanks’ before hanging up.
Then a few minutes later, your phone rings and it’s… John? Since when is he up this late?
You answer, “Hey man, ‘sup?”
“Hi Dave,” he sounds tired as fuck, but you can still tell he’s smiling as he talks, “I heard you’ve got a visitor.”
What? How on Earth could he know about that?
“What? How do you know about that?”
“Karkat’s my friend! His boyfriend just called asking if I could pick him up tomorrow, is that okay?”
Oh yeah, shit, how could you forget? You thought the name Karkat sounded familiar, but Troll names are so weird that you can never be sure if you’ve actually heard one before.
“Oh,” you say for lack of better commentary, “yeah that’s fine.” You don’t think it’d be a good idea to try and get Karkat in a car right now anyway.
“Great! And sorry if the guy you spoke to was snappy, he just cares y’know?”
“Yeah, no, it’s fine.” You yawn and rub your eyes.
John says goodbye just as Karkat walks back into the room. He looks awful, and you’re not sure if he even hears you tell him about the arrangement as he flops onto the couch. Whatever, you can sort that out later. With your good deed for the week done, you retire to your own room and pray that mister Karkat remembers how to get to your bathroom.
***
Everything’s quiet when you wake up the next morning. That’s a good thing right?
“Jesus Christ! Put the sword down you fuckin’ maniac!”
Ah, there it is. You spring out of bed – as much as you can ‘spring’ first thing in the morning, so it’s more like an energetic fall – and head towards the sound of your brother’s voice.
“Where the hell am I?” Karkat is indeed brandishing one of your samurai swords, kneeling on the sofa with it pointed rather unsteadily at Dirk.
He’s not even holding it right; that’s just sacrilege.
“Karkat,” great now he’s aiming it at you, “it’s me, Dave, remember? I took you home last night because you got all kinds a wasted and couldn’t remember where you lived?”
“Oh,” he lowers the sword onto the floor, “right… Yeah.”
Dirk grabs it and heads back into his room.
“Sorry, I just, I freaked out a bit.” Karkat fidgets in his seat, looking anywhere but at you.
You shrug, “No harm done,” and sit down next to him. “John’s coming to pick you up later.”
He nods. Then folds his arms and huffs, finally looking you in the eyes, “Hey, we didn’t, y’know, ‘do’ anything last night, did we?”
“Oh God no.” Okay that came out a bit quickly, he looks offended now. “I mean y’all told me you were taken, so I wasn’t gonna go there.”
He nods again, obviously relieved. “Yeah… I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“I know, I talked to him last night whilst you were puking in my toilet.”
“Oh, um, right.” He spends a good while examining his – perfectly black varnished – finger nails, then clears his throat, “I don’t normally do this by the way, the whole ‘getting so trashed I don’t remember something as fundamental as my own fucking address’ thing. It’s just, I’m going through some stuff.” He rubs his face with a sigh. “But you probably don’t want to hear about it, or give a single shit about me.”
You frown, “Do you think I’d have brought your ass back to mine if I didn’t give a shit? Besides, I know your friend John, so now I have a reason other than feeling sorry for you.”
“Oh God, you don’t pity me like he does, do you?” He practically spits the word ‘pity’ like it’s tainted, and you wonder if it means something different to him.
You should probably pick your words carefully here. “Well, I mean it was your choice to drink that much, so I don’t honestly feel all that sorry for you now you’re sober?”
He gives a dry laugh, “Close enough.”
“Here lil’ fella, drink up.” Dirk holds out a glass of fizzing orange juice to Karkat, who takes it with a grumbled ‘thanks’.
He eyes it warily as it spits and hisses. You explain about human hangover cures, and he mumbles something about John telling him the same, before emptying the glass in one go. Does he not know what a sip is? He’s doing surprisingly well considering how he was last night though, Trolls must be more tolerant than humans.
“So, that ‘stuff’ you were talkin’ about,” You say, taking it slow so you can judge his reaction – he just looks at you with bloodshot eyes, “can’t you tell your guy about it? I’m sure he could do somethin’ or just listen or whatever.”
His gaze drops, “I can’t, he’s away working and I don’t want to bother him with all my bullshit, especially the kind that’s just me being a fucking whiny loser who can’t cope on their own.” Then he groans and covers his face. “There I go again, just ignore me and my rambling, for both of our sakes.”
You’ve half a mind to tell him that’s a bunch of crap, but you just say “It’s cool dude,” instead, because you don’t need an argument.
This proves to be a wise decision, as John turns up a few moments later. Karkat punches him in the arm when he jokes about him having to be escorted home, but John laughs it off like usual. You’ve only ever heard Karkat mentioned once or twice, but they seem to be pretty good friends.
You follow them downstairs as John asks Karkat where his new house is.
“It’s an apartment,” he replies. Then he steps out of the door and stops, “uh, that one, actually.”
He points to the apartment block across the road from yours, and you can almost feel the non-existent audience watching Dave Strider’s Life: The Movie cringe. Of course. Of course he’d live right fucking next to you. John finds it oh so hilarious, sarcastically offering to drive Karkat across the road, and earns himself another jab to the shoulder.
“Bye Karkat,” he chuckles, “be careful!”
“Oh fuck off!”
You bite back a laugh. Maybe you need to hang around these two together more often, they’re hilarious.
“Hey,” Karkat turns to you as John drives away, shoving a piece of paper at you, “it’s my number, I wanna pay you back for all this, so if you want we can go out somewhere and I can buy you a drink. Or I can just do your laundry or something. Just let me know, or whatever.” His voice trails off, and with a quick half-smile he turns away.
Wait, why did he give you his number and not ask for yours? How’s he supposed to call you?
You catch his attention before he can cross the road, “Wait, aren’t we supposed to do this as a two-way thing?”
He stares blankly for a moment, then the penny drops and his cheeks flush pink, “Oh, right, fuck um, here, write yours on this.” He pulls a receipt out of his pocket and offers it along with a pen.
You politely ignore what’s on the front – it looked like it said ice cream, but you didn’t want to pry – and write your number as neatly as possible on the crumpled paper. He smiles properly when you pass it back, and waves back to you once he’s across the road. You head back up to your own apartment as he disappears into his. Having a laundry slave sounds nice, but you think you’d like to get to know Karkat minus any alcohol. Maybe the new café down the road, it’s been ages since you’ve had one of Jane’s cakes.