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Your name is DAVE STRIDER. That’s not your only title, though. Formally, you’re the KNIGHT OF TIME. You’ve been called a lot of things, actually - ‘turntechGodhead’ or ‘TG’ on PESTERCHUM, an INSUFFERABLE PRICK by a particularly annoying troll, and - oftentimes - a COOL KID. Recently, though, you’ve been referred to succinctly as a GAY BOY.
A slight downgrade, all things considered.
You’re staring at a blank computer screen with a hand pensively covering your mouth. Your sick-ass shades obscure your dead-eyed glare into the monitor. You do not move an inch.
Pause. Let’s rewind. Make like a record and reverse that shit -- yeah, that’s a crap bar, you’re really off your A-game, huh?
About three minutes ago, you’d booted up your laptop to one of your friends mercilessly laying down bar after bar about your latent homosexuality. Not the first time this had happened - it was a mistake teaching her how to write lyrics, really - but definitely the first time she’d managed to get through four whole choruses. Terezi really was something. Opinion pending.
A lot had happened in that 2:53 timespan - every second of which you were excruciatingly aware of; even the seconds you guiltily skipped through despite telling yourself you’d stop screwing with the timeline - and you kind of hate how seriously you’re taking it.
You had even drawn an ironic vent picture of Hella Jeff to cope.
She’d had time to psycho-analyze you during the verses, your sister had chimed in trying to find the guy Terezi was accusing you of trying to bang, then the guy himself - Karkat Vantas, just to be perfectly clear - had started PMing you out of the blue asking to watch a shitty romcom in your room. Never in your life had the concept of The Santa Clause brought you this much visceral frustration.
So you’re staring at your screen, mortified, weirdly pissed off, and ghosting the one person you actually want to talk to - who you actually can’t talk to, because the thing you want to talk about is completely impossible to talk about. Great. Chill. So chill, actually, that you can feel the breeze all up on you - you can’t, the breeze is nowhere near you, the breeze has vacated the absolute fuck out of the premises; John’s actually floating around in the butt-fuck middle of deep space, okay, wow, when did this become about John, this was meant to be the start of some sick verse to help alleviate all that stress you’re feeling but apparently you’re incapable of that right now; great.
Chill, even.
You are comfortable in your sexuality. The thought makes you physically cringe - it’s really lame, even in your head, but you really are. Seriously. You like girls, and you like dudes. Sure, it isn’t something you wanna tell everyone just yet, but it’s something you’re pretty fine with personally. You’re pretty sure everyone knows, anyway. You’re chill like that - no big deal, you’re just a regular dude who likes sick beats and also taking it up the ass, apparently.
Yeah, okay, maybe you aren’t as cool about this as you want to be.
You shut your laptop so you don’t have to look at your reflection anymore through your shades. They make everything darker, but you’re a perceptive bastard and your eyes are primed to always be able to see your crisp, stoic silhouette. That shit will not slide when your silhouette is lacking in crisp stoicism.
Somehow, this is worse.
Your room is a mess. Your laptop now sits in your lap, as its name dictates. At least that makes sense. There’s a heap of unwashed laundry in the corner of the room, and you can see one of Karkat’s sweaters peeking out in between some of your sweatpants and t-shirts. You look away. Partially because it’s been a week since you told him you’d do the laundry, and partially because - after the last three minutes and ten; eleven seconds of your life - seeing his clothes with yours gives you physical nausea. Looking away does not help. Your room is still a mess. Your bed sheets are on the floor, so are the pillows; not your turntables though, they’re sitting pretty on your mattress ready to be tucked in.
You do not move an inch.
Time doesn’t feel like it’s moving anymore, and you don’t really want to check if you’re right about that. Instead, you just let yourself think.
‘Oblivious’ your ass.
Of course you like him. He’s argumentative and loud. He doesn’t take shit from anyone, despite taking shit from everyone all the time. He’s moody, he scowls a lot. Generally, a pretty shitty presence in the room. He makes you light up like a god-damn firefly every time you’re speaking with him. He’s obsessive, and cares way too much. He likes stupid things, and talks about them for way too long. Like you, he’s an absolute master at wordplay, but he doesn’t seem to realise it - or maybe he does, and it’s the only thing he’s capable of being chill about. You think it’s endearing either way. Talking with him is like a joint act of verbal acrobatics. It’s rewarding, fun, and honestly requires a fuckton of tact on both parts, so yeah - of course you like him. There’s more to it than that, of course there is, but you already know every reason inside and out. You’re letting yourself linger on the thoughts because they’re nice. Simple as.
You stare down at your lap - at your laptop, perfectly situated. You don’t wear your feelings on your sleeve, but Karkat does. And his feelings are weird - troll romance is weird, point blank - but they’re obvious. You can’t be sure he likes you in a normal way, but you know for certain he likes you in some way, and you’re pretty sure everyone else knows too.
So that’s kind of the problem.
You aren’t embarrassed by him, or how obvious he is - you’re just not really sure what to do in this situation. And now you know Terezi is placing bets on it with your sister, which inevitably means Maryam and Serket are in on it, and this meteor is so god-damn small that any ‘gossip’ makes its rounds in less than a day. So yeah, Terezi launching into a rhapsody gayer than Freddie Mercury’s about your supposed feelings was kind of a slap to the face. At least she acknowledged he was worse than you.
You spend a lot of time with Karkat. He’s just the nicest person to spend time around. You get him, he gets you, it’s stupid and cliche but it’s also just kind of… nice? Lame, but nice? You spend so much time with Karkat that he doesn’t even check if you want to spend time with him anymore - he just assumes you’ll say yes, because you will. His room or yours. You end up in his arms sometimes; he ends up in yours. He rambles about quadrants all the damn time, and sometimes you forget how real that all is to him. Sometimes you feel bad it isn’t that real for you. Sometimes you wish he’d feel his feelings in a way you could understand better; sometimes you’re deeply glad he doesn’t.
You think you love quieter than he does. You know you’re right.
You feel a lump in your throat when you realize you’d called it ‘love’.
With a sharp inhale, you stand up. Laptop falls off lap - ousted from its rightful seat in an act of needless cruelty. You don’t pick it up. You sit down on your bed, right next to your turntables, and stare at the door.
You sigh.
Time still feels unmoving. As it turns out, he (you) was (were) right; this shits lasting forever. With that sweet, hella actualisation, you make a conscious effort to stop that shit from lasting forever. And just before you can ponder why you stopped time for no reason, a knock on the door tells you everything you need to know.
God, maybe you were just trying to save yourself.
“Hey,” Oh, fuck this, “Dave?”
You blink. You blink again. Okay, definitely no time clones popping up to get you out of this one. You’re on your own. You make a mental note that you hate yourself, and stay silent.
“Dave, what the fuck could you possibly be doing in here that’s more important than watching The Santa Clause?”
With a smirk, you go to speak, but are quickly cut off –
“Do NOT fucking say you’re jerking off, I will PERSONALLY shove a fist so far up your asshole and into your cranium that it ruptures the sorry part of your think-pan responsible for vomiting out such a shitty excuse!”
You snort. “Dude, stop describing the way I’m jacking it right now.”
“FUCK YOU!”
The door crashes open, and you’re a little less horrified than you were a few seconds ago. The bonding power of fisting, you guess. He’s holding the DVD in his hand - you try your best to look relatively chill as he closes the door shut in a comedically dainty fashion.
“‘sup.”
“First of all,” Not even a hello, “That response didn’t make any sense!”
“What, can’t comprehend the idea of a bro fisting himself brainless?”
“Ew,” Karkat cringes, “Shut the fuck up.”
You nod in solidarity through your smirk. Should’ve let that one die.
“Second of all,” He presses on, and you’re tense as he stands above you, raving, “What the shit was that all about?”
Yeah, that’s a pretty good question. You’d told him you were busy, but you didn’t even really have an excuse prepared beyond that. You falter for a moment, then speak as non-chalantly as humanly possible.
“Uh, had to go, do, laundry.”
“I could’ve waited for you to do that.”
“It’s a lot of laundry.”
“Oh, bullshit! What were you really doing?”
The corner of your mouth quirks up. “I mean, dude, you did just burst into my room after I told you I was in the middle of-”
“Dave, seriously, what the fuck?!”
Okay, yeah, he’s too pissed off to appreciate your awesome humour-slash-diversion attempt. Dammit. You don’t respond initially. You just shrug, half-heartedly, and he scowls.
“Fine, I’ll just fucking leave, then! Good fucking night and good riddance, sweet piece of shit!”
He turns around, and your eyes widen a little underneath your sick shades. Fuck. Being alone is way worse than this, actually.
“No, wait, um–” You sound so uncool right now it’s actually painful, “Terezi– was texting me, but she isn’t anymore.”
Close enough to the truth.
“Okay,” He turns back around, and you feel a slight bit more at ease, “Then why were you so adamant on telling me to piss off if she’d stopped?”
“Woah, adamant is a bit harsh,” You deflect, “I was just, like, indifferent about it.”
“Like Hell you were. Answer my question, asswipe.”
“Can a guy not wanna be alone with his dick?”
“Dave, if you mention this one more time I’m going to–”
“Do something really hyper-specific with some random part of my body, dude, you’re not special, we can both run out of new material.”
“Okay, fine, but seriously.” He speaks firmly, then moves to sit down next to you. You don’t turn to look at him, even though he’s looking at you. “Are you capable of giving me an answer that actually means something?”
You answer back monotonously. “I dunno dude, seems pretty tough. Cba.”
“See-bee-ay,” He repeats back, disgusted, “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“Cba, like, idk, ttyl brochacho.”
“Wow, hearing that come out your mouth is actual, psychological torture.”
“Yeah, dude, the CIA was like, all up in my DMs and shit, asking for tips and tricks on how to use psychological manipulation to get info out of their prisoners of war.”
“Dave, I swear to fuck.”
Dammit. He’s so persistent. It’s kinda endearing, but right now, mostly annoying. You wince a little.
“Just some personal shit, I guess.”
“Oh,” He says, dumbly, “That’s… Vague.”
“Yeah.”
You’re both silent for a moment. Time feels like it’s passing slower, but it’s not - Karkat’s breathing is regularly paced. You kind of hate that you notice things, but your heart is beating too fast to be an accurate measure on its own. You determine that you’re going to have to break this silence yourself.
Terezi ripped you a new one over how much you hide your true feelings. And while, yeah, she’s not entirely wrong, she’s not entirely right either. You don’t get all up in your feels with other people - not one for sappy bonding sessions, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. That doesn’t mean you don’t feel the feelings. You just feel them at a super low volume, panned all the way to the left. Of course, you know that if you never tell anyone about these things and keep it all to yourself it’s basically as bad as not feeling it at all. So maybe she has a point.
In a way, being honest with Karkat right now would prove her wrong. And, as a bonus, if you’re really honest with him, she’d win the bet with Rose - not a good thing on its own, but it does mean Rose would lose that bet. Score. Okay, maybe this is a good idea. Come out to Karkat Vantas.
…
> Come out to Karkat Vantas.
Okay. No, that’s dumb. Bad. Bad idea. Oh, but it’s so goddamn tempting. He wouldn’t care, and, honestly, he doesn’t need to know anything beyond the fact you like guys. So, the bet thing doesn’t really matter anymore, cuz’ you’re not gonna admit anything brash, but you still get a nice sense of self satisfaction out of it. Okay, maybe this isn’t a bad idea. Yeah. Things are looking up. Looking so far up you can see the sun. Shit’s so sunny you actually need your shades. Awesome.
“So, obviously,” You start, trying to seem much more casual about all of this than you actually feel, “Liking the same gender isn’t actually that big a deal for you guys, but…”
You trail off. Karkat looks at you, bewildered, but is otherwise eerily silent. Oh God, this was a terrible idea.
“It’s like, a whole thing for us, because…” Because? Whatever, roll with it; “I, um, so like, I guess it was against the Bible, or something, like, uh, in Ancient Greece–”
“Are- are you trying to humansplain homophobia to me?!”
“Yeah, apparently,” You concede, and you’re starting to get a bit red in the face, “So, homophobia, all up in this bitch, sucks dick… Not literally, cuz’, y’know-”
“Jegus fuck Dave, okay, I get it, you’re gay.”
You falter. Wow, this is embarrassing as fuck. You’re so chalant it hurts.
“Okay, wow, just ruin my big coming out moment.”
“YOU RUINED IT YOURSELF!”
You smile a bit, against your will. “Yeah? Well get ready, cuz’ I’m about to make it worse.” Uh, what the fuck, you are?
“Oh God.”
“Yeah.” You decide, and grimace, immediately letting out a laugh so nervous it betrays your very sense of self. Even Karkat looks concerned about that. Wow, holy shit, you are so lame right now. At least you can still feel like you’ve got a one up on Rose - shit seer she is if she couldn’t see this coming.
“So–” You try, but Karkat cuts you off immediately.
“No, no, actually. Why are you coming out to me?! I don’t care!”
Saying ‘well, you might care in a second’ is a bad idea, so you - in fact - do not say it, no matter how badly you yearn to ironically star in a shitty chick flick.
“Warm up before I tell Rose,” You settle on, “Stop cutting me off dude, I’m trying to come out of the closet but you’re just piling more clothes on top of me.”
“You looked cold in there.”
“Okay,” You shut him down, lest you get caught up in a contest of who can stretch the bit longer - you’d win; “Closet is pretty fuckin’ warm, actually,” What? You had to win, “But I’ve got a bigger hole to dig myself into so pass me that goddamn shovel.”
“That analogy doesn’t make sense with the whole closet thing–”
“Okay, whatever, dude, seriously.”
“Fine.”
You’ve been procrastinating the next length of this conversation for so long you don’t know what to say. You hope Karkat breaks the three, four second long silence - He doesn’t. Five seconds. No other Daves appear in the room to get you out of this, either. You surmise this is because - as noted earlier - you hate yourself. Six seconds. You inhale.
“So, like,” What do you even say? “Dudes are great. ‘Like women too, by the way, still down to get all up in that– Uh, girls. But.”
“Dave, hurry the fuck up.”
“C’mon man, let me ease into it.”
“You’re not easing, you’re sinking.”
“Well I’m a sick freak who gets off on quicksand, sue me.”
“That’s a– Hey, stop sidetracking!”
You exhale through your nose. Fuck, this is hard. This is stupid. So dumb, actually, what the hell were you thinking? Own Terezi by giving her money? I mean, you’re taking money away from your sister if you do this, which makes you an objectively shitty brother - not that money means anything. You haven’t said anything for three, four more seconds, and Karkat looks even more pissed off than he did earlier. Fuck this. Fuck this all. Five seconds.
“Dave,” And at six, he’s interjecting, which is somehow worse than the silence, “Um… Congratulations?”
You snort. This feels a little less intense, now. You turn your face to look at him. He’s really fucking close, oh God, holy fuck, everything is so much worse now.
“Th-uhhh,” You falter, dumbly, “Thanks.”
You’re both quiet again for a second. You swallow. He speaks.
“So, what happened to that thing you were going to–”
“Can. I.. Be. Your matesprite. I think you’re the mate. Shit.”
“WHAT.”
He’s staring at you, bug-eyed, and for some reason you are now doing finger guns directly at him with a nervous smirk and he looks like he wants to shoot himself. Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck, what the fuck is wrong with you.
What the fuck is wrong with you.
What do you do? He’s looking at you. He’s staring at you. Fuck. FUCK.
Double down.
“Can I be your–”
“I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME, SHITMOUTH.”
“Cool. Cool.”
Everything is silent for a moment. You see him put the DVD of The Santa Clause behind him, still making eye-contact with you. His cheeks are flushing red.
“YOU– You, um, what? … WHAT?”
Pause - okay, this is super mortifying, but he’s kind of adorable. Fuck. Okay, maybe this is salvageable. Be smooth. Smooth, Strider.
“Yeah, just, uh, like–”
“No, NO, SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
Behind your glasses, your pupils are pin-pricks. You are staring so intently at him everything besides his eyes is blurring. You are more than willing to shut up.
“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS?”
“Um,” You fail at shutting up, “Yeah, you never shut up about it–”
“AND YOU CONSTANTLY TELL ME HOW STUPID IT ALL IS! BECAUSE YOU SUCK!”
There’s a hint of a smile on your face as he raves on.
“AND– And,” He lowers his voice a bit, and you concentrate on the timbre of his words more than you thought humanely possible, “And that’s– Because you can’t possibly understand the complexities and nuances of troll relationships!”
This bad pick up line was a terrible choice, apparently.
You should’ve anticipated this.
“At least confess to me like a human, you prick!”
At that, you feel yourself get even redder. It’s fine, it’s chill. Red is the best colour anyways.
“Uh– like– …?”
Initially, you don’t know how to play this. You falter. You glance away, biting the inside of your lip for a second before you look back at him with new resolve. Okay. You’re all good. All chill. Chill, cool. Cool beans.
“Hey babe,” You start, voice dripping in irony as you coolly sweep your glasses from your face, “Wanna… Do the ice bucket challenge together?”
“Th- Wha–... Oh, fuck this!”
For a milisecond, you think you’ve completely fucked this up. Forever and ever. There is no coming back from this. But 0.682 seconds later, Karkat’s arms are wrapping around your neck, and his face is so close to your own, and Jesus fuck - he’s doin’ it man, he’s making it happen.
You drop your glasses the moment his lips are on yours.
You’re in his arms. The movie is playing on your laptop, propped up by pillows - it’s really bad. You knew it would be, but you don’t really care. Your shades are somewhere between the mattress and the duvet - Karkat had made the bed for you. He’s always been a bit of a clean freak, by your standards.
Truth be told, you might’ve gotten a bit excited when he’d kissed you. In that excitement, you may have accidentally sped up the passage of time a little bit. Not much. Like setting the video to 1.25 speed, or something like that. As such, the past forty minutes had passed in a slight blur, punctuated by flustered words, confusing explanations of feelings, and poorly executed but very satisfying kisses. Eventually, he’d tackled you into your own bed and finally forced you to watch that stupid movie he was trying to find. You are finally watching The Santa Clause.
As you’d surmised earlier, it is monumentally ass.
Your back is to his chest, your head next to his with his arms wrapped tightly around you. You’re ridiculously comfortable, and you’re sure he is too. You’ve been close to him before, but never like this. Not in a way that makes you feel calm as opposed to shit-scared of fucking up. As you watch Tim Allen compliment a child for looking good for her age, you glance up towards Karkat.
“Why do you like this movie so much?”
“It’s cinema, Strider, shut the fuck up.”
“Yeah, maybe for fuckin’- Jimmy Saville, or–”
“Shut the fuck up!”
He’s loud in your ear. You grin. You think about kissing him to shut him up, but recognise how stupid that–
Oh.
Yeah, you kiss him to shut him up.