Work Text:
It’s quarter past two in the morning according to your phone.
You idly worry the pad of your thumb across the display. Where is Vriska? She promised to be along like, damn it, an hour ago. If she doesn’t hurry up your butt will freeze to the shitty plastic bench you’re sitting on and that would suck pretty bad. You’re not ready to spend the rest of your life waddling around with a slab of plastic attached to your rear end, you’d get stuck in doorways!
TO: [email protected]
> vriska can you hurry? i’m still at the bus stop and it’s really fucking cold here!
One minute, then five. Half and hour drags itself by. No answer.
A gust of cold wind sneaks right into your clothes, and you shiver as your skin is bitten to goosebumps.
So. You might actually be totally screwed here. Like royally. And it’s not like you’re sitting here like a total chump! You got your phone and you nearly blew half the battery trying to find someone to come and get you. With no success. Which is unsurprising, really, you’re kind of like stuck five hours out of the city in bumfuck nowhere, holed up in a bus shelter in the skeevy part of town. There’s garbage in the gutters and some blitzed dudes in bomber jackets asked whether you wanted some shit a while ago. (You politely declined).
You could just go back to the party. If nothing else the walk might defrost some of your joints. Problem being that you might actually be safer off freezing to death in a bus shelter than back at the party. People weren’t there to have fun.
Troll parties. Now with extra bloodshed. And Vriska… seemed to fit right in. You’d rather not think about it.
Your knees are stiff with cold, they creak as you stand up to circle the bus shelter, hoping to restore some sensation to your numb extremities.
It’s no big deal. You got a big poofy coat and your thickest Lalonde-forged scarf, you’re going to be fine. Eventually Vriska will get bored of being cool and edgy, and she’ll check her phone, feel real sorry and come and get you.
Or you can stay put and catch the first bus at dawn. You check the roster. There’s one at six thirty. There, see? It’s only like… another four hours or so.
Shit.
You’d walk, if you knew where you even were.
At least it’s not snowing. Overhead the sky is clear, the yawning darkness only broken by flickering stars. After one final tour of the shelter you head back to the bench, parking your sore ass firmly on the unforgiving seat and wedging yourself into the corner so you can pull your feet up after you, hoping to conserve body warmth.
The sidewalk is frosted over with a delicate layer of rime, twinkling white gold under the streetlights. You’re shivering nearly continuously now, a faint tremor which makes your bones itchy.
Okay, you really need something to distract you from how cold you are, something to shunt out the panicked jumble of your brain shrieking oh shit you can’t feel your toes anymore they totally fell off. Alas, poor Yorick. Yorick was your left big toe and the right one Stubby, on account of how many times you’ve banged him into your nightstand.
Who can you possibly call at almost three in the morning, without waking anybody up? Usually the answer to that is: Dave. Or Dirk. Any Strider will do in a pinch, really. But Dirk went abroad with Jake to do… you’re not sure really, whatever it is the both of them do together. Gay adventuring? Jake is the only person you know who has a car, too. And when you called Dave, it was Jade who picked up —sounding winded. More gay adventuring.
You might just be the only heterosexual dude in your circle of friends.
Huh.
There’s an idea. You wrangle your phone out of your pocket with stiff fingers. Still no reply from Vriska (if you freeze to death, it’ll be her fault, and she’s gonna be soooooooo sorry). Briefly you allow a satisfying curl of lukewarm vindication. That’ll show her. Okay, you really don’t want to turn into a human popsicle in order to sample that sweet, sweet revenge.
Anyway, phone. You fumble it between clumsy hands and prod at it until the screen lights up, calling up a month old barrage of red texts from your best bro.
TG: john
TG: johnnymcjohnston
TG: john holy shit this is the best thing
TG: no man shit you cant be idle right now not when i fucking peed myself laughing i am seriously sitting here in my soiled jeans risking ball rash to text you about this miracle thats how dedicated i am to spreading the love
TG: cause i love you man
TG: i am going to spread this love all over the place like nutella
TG: using smooth strokes for even coverage
TG: cause darlin i know you like it like that
TG: anyway i am sitting here waiting for you to come online so i can share the giggles where the fuck are you at
TG: romeo oh romeo
TG: youre studying like a total loser arent you
TG: making deadbeat all proud like that you overachiever you
TG: autocorrect how dare you gasp it wasnt me officer i swear
TG: that was supposed to be deadbeat
TG: fuck
TG: dadbert
TG: i hella respect your dad i swear autocorrect made me do it
TG: okay you have to call this number 2064134524
TG: ask for cat
TG: yes it sounds exactly what it sounds like
TG: fyi no its not a petting zoo with cute fluffy kittens getting their sparkly rainbow nyan on you dork
TG: okay its kinda like a petting zoo but with less petting
TG: like the phone sex kind of petting
TG: you gotta imagine the shit out of it okay like i am touching your knee john can you feel it baby i am getting my stoke on all over your knobbly egbert knees aw yeah all that manly leg hair im getting out my katana to carve a path to the summit of mount patella
TG: anyway the trick is to make him angry try it i swear shits more intense than amnesia
TG: remember when we played amnesia and you were totally freaked out you wanted to sleep in my bed like a big baby and then woke me up in the middle of the night cause you had to pee and i had to go into the bathroom with you and listen to you take a leak for like an hour like your bladder was an undiscovered oil deposit it was a fucking experience
TG: btw we should do that again some time
TG: it was awesome
TG: so this exactly like amnesia only without any of the actual amnesia parts and the monsters are like
TG: a box full screaming hamsters
TG: covered in angry glitter
TG: wait no spoilers
TG: just try it brosef
TG: youre all about pranks im telling you this has your name on it
TG: john my nutella sammich come back to me
Oh, Dave. He’s such a nerd.
You can’t believe Dave prank called some phone sex person… okay, you can totally believe that. However, you can’t believe Dave told you to prank call some phone sex person. Alright, fine, you can totally believe that also. Welp.
It’s just a joke, right? A prank! Laughing will warm you up.
…and it might be nice to just hear someone talk.
You know what? You’re totally going to do it! It’s going to be funny. (And you might be really curious about the phone sex thing shut up.)
Slowly you pick out the numbers on the keypad. Beep… beep beep. Bip! It’s loud in the muffled hush of the night and your cheeks are already warm when you lift the phone to your ear. Why are you nervous? It’s just a prank.
Like some stranger huffing at you over the phone is going to get you hot and bothered. (You really hope it doesn’t.)
“Welcome to the Naughty Night Line-”
You nearly lose it then and there. For some reason you didn’t quite believe it, but it’s the real deal.
Shit. It’s the real deal. Do you hang up? No, if Dave asks you can tell him you totally called. Like a pro. Who does sex things all the time. Yes. That’s definitely you.
You’re still snickering into the woolly fabric of your scarf as the operator runs your age and then asks you for your credit card. Wait… credit card? For some reason it didn’t occur to you that this would be a business first, pleasure after thing. It’s expensive. You almost hang up.
You’re going to be here all night if Vriska doesn’t return. There’s taxis, but by the time they get all the way out here the bus will arrive.
“Sir?” the operator prompts you.
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.” Your face is on fire. It’s already working! Ha. Hah. Haaa… god damn it Dave.
You’re asked what kind of conversation you’re interested in having and at your baffled silence the operator begins rattling off a list of kinks you wish you didn’t know about (but you totally do). Your friends are assholes.
“I’m here for Kat, please?” It comes out unsure.
“Alright, which quadrant?”
“What?”
“Which quadrant, honey?”
A troll? Kat’s a troll? Is this going to be tonight’s really shitty theme?
god
DAMN IT
Dave
“Uh. I don’t know? Red?” you stuff a hand in your hair and shrug.
Red’s the only one that makes sense. A troll. An actual troll doing sexy stuff. Oh man, and you already paid. You can do this. You are the pranking MASTER, just… please don’t be a crash course on troll anatomy please please please don’t let there be gentle bulge papping you’ll die.
That’s when, with no other warning, the line clicks through. There’s the shortest pause, one loaded with the presence of another person. Then:
“Hey there, what’s your name?”
That’s it, now you lose it. Your phone zips down the front of your jacket and into your lap and you’re laughing because not only did that come out so breathy and sultry like they just burned their mouth on a pop tart, it’s a guy. Or sounds like one. Trolls are super weird and you’ve made it your business not to think too much about how they pro-create.
You snatch up the phone and jam it to your ear, hot and dizzy with how ridiculous the situation is.
“Sorry, dropped my phone.”
Woops. They heard you laugh. It’s there in the little pause before the answer. “Are you okay? Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
WOW. Okay. It’s still hilarious, make no mistake, but now that you got something of a spontaneous answer it doesn’t sound quite so forced. You tug at your scarf. ‘Taking care of someone’ is a big deal for trolls. And this is like. Sexually. With sex bits. Doing sexy stuff.
This is officially the weirdest thing you’ve ever done. And that’s including the time you covered Dave in Nutella. Which was also a prank that got really weird really fast. (You’re pretty sure Dave wants to do it again. You’re pretty sure you don’t.)
What do you say? Say something funny John! you order yourself, but instead you bite at your thumb.
Kat (Kat. Really? Really.) takes up your slack. “What’s your name?”
And you, like an idiot, answer: “Dave.”
Because obviously it wasn’t weird enough already. Well done, John. Well done. You facepalm.
Without missing a beat, Kat asks: “So, Dave, what are you doing?”
This was supposed to be funnier. It still kinda is, you snicker at the ‘Dave’, but how did that sound so… genuine? Like they want to know? Not they. He. It’s a he. Probably. ‘They’ feels safer, you’re not sure why. But it’s a dude. The voice is all gravel, pitched much lower than your own. It’s the sort of rawness that comes with shouting, but now it’s just scratchy comforting.
So. Weird. Wow. Your face won’t stop burning.
C’mon John, head-in-the-game-head-in-the-game. “I’m freezing my ass off.”
Awesome. You didn’t stutter even though your tongue was thick and stupid with how hot your head is.
“Well. Maybe I can keep you warm.”
aaaaaaa
no stop
You hold your phone further from your ear until it stops being so. Close-intimate-just for you.
“Hehe” -say something funny already!- “You know what would be great? A hot water bottle. Brrrr!”
That was terrible. Your Prankster Gambit weeps.
Kat sounds confused. “Are you at a ski resort?”
“Yeah sure, let’s do that. I like skiing!”
“I’m glad to hear that. So. Dave” -Dave gets dragged into a low shivery purr- “Can you guess what I am wearing?”
Phew, finally, the nice awful clichés. “Oh man, I really hope you’re wearing snowsuit and like long johns. Lots of zippers! And poles. Poles are awesome.”
“I like poles,” Kat says and why, why, why did you say poles? “Do you have… poles?”
“Oh yeah. Totally. Yup,” you snort against your hand.
“I bet you’re hot in all those layers, redheart. Why don’t you let me help out of them?”
Redheart? Geez. “No, that’s fine! I thought we could take the ski lift!”
“…like a date?”
That… had no business sounding hopeful. Yeah, you’re not going to answer that. Improvise! "Yay! We’re on the ski lift.”
“Yippee.” That sounded almost like sarcasm? Kat exhales, almost a sigh. “This is romantic. I want to look into your eyes, Dave. Tell me what you look like.”
“Oh boy. Okay I’m like. Super tall and buff, and a bit sticky? I’m wearing a sailor cap, too!”
“Sounds hot.”
Definitely sarcasm. You’re still waiting for the box of screaming hamsters though. “No, not hot. I’d melt. I’m made from marshmallows, you know,” you say indignantly. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“Right, Dave. You are being deliberately difficult.” Kat bites through the words. You can almost hear the snap of fangs chasing them down the line.
Hah. It’s the kind of angry that explains the battered voice. This is going to be good. “Kat’s got claws!”
“I’ve got more than that. Do you want to get off or are you just here to mock me?
“Definitely here to get off. Yup. I even brought my poles!”
“Fine,” Kat breathes. “Do you want me to kiss you, Dave?”
Aaaaaaaand you’re back in weirdsville. “What! No. You’re a boy. Right?”
“Can’t you tell or do you have the brain capacity of a lobotomised goldfish?” it comes out in a snarl.
“Going by your shrill indignation definitely male.”
“Look. You’re the one who asked for me by name, assbreath. Maybe you and your two lonely brain cells playing patty-cake think you’re being a bag of laughs for making fun of someone who can moan on command, but this is my fucking job. Do you think that’s funny, Dave? Does it make you feel so much better about yourself? Is that it?”
“Whoa, hey! I don’t-“
“Just hang up already. I have better shit to do.”
That… was not what you intended to do at all. You’re overheated with confusion and shame.
“Calm down, I’m s-“
“CALM DOWN? HOLD ON TO THAT THOUGHT WHILE YOU DIDDLE YOURSELF TO THE TUNE OF MY HUMILIATION AND LET US, AS MATURE BIPEDAL HATEPALS, EMBARK ON A SENSATIONAL JOURNEY FOR THE CLINICALLY RETARDED EXPLAINING JUST HOW HIGH YOUR PRIM DISTAIN FOR SEX WORKERS JUST SCORED ON THE EJECTAMENTA SCALE, YOU USELESS FUCK.”
You have officially arrived at screaming hamsters. It’s amazing. You wish you could fully appreciate it, but he’s just jabbed his finger into the ugly part of this whole conversation and gleefully swirled it around.
“Gross,” you say.
“Yes, Dave. Gross. That’s what you are, a festering bucket of discharge.”
“John.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s John.” Why did you say that?
“You must mistake me for someone who gives a fuck, John. Guess what? It’s not me. I’m fresh out of fucks.”
“Look, dude, I’m sorry?” And you are. You’re working hard on not being an asshole, but sometimes it accidentally happens. Rose says it’s because your brain has no filters. "I’m not actually, uh, calling for phone sex.”
“Hot shit, really?! Dunk me in a pail of genetic material and color me surprised.”
You’re pretty sure that’s an incredibly dirty thing he just said. You elect not to think about it. “We can just talk, right? I paid for thirty minutes.” Nicely done, John. You purchased his time, used it to ridicule him and then rubbed it. You really are an asshole.
Kat grumbles something in trollish you’re pretty sure is an insult to your dick, your mom and your face. Possibly also your cat, which you don’t have, but you feel sorry for the hypothetical pet regardless.
“I feel so appreciated,” you say, pressing your hand against your chest all sincere. Too bad he can’t see.
“I’d rather listen to a chorus of sneezing asses than to have to ask, but what do you want to talk about? Also, you could’ve just asked at the get-go. To talk. Because obviously there’s nothing sad about prank-calling a sex line in the middle of the night. That’s what the cool kids, do right?”
“Oh, and you’re so cool?”
Kat scoffs. “Bitch, you don’t even know.”
“So what are you doing, cool kid? Like, really doing?”
“I’m eating crispy gnats and watching The Notebook. In my sweatpants. Like a boss.”
…damn that does sound kind of nice. Except for The Notebook, that seriously negated all the cool. Also the crispy gnats. Ew. You’d like to be on a couch and watching a movie. “Aw, you like roooooooomance? What’s wrong with a good action flick? Like Con Air?”
“Congrats on having no taste on top of being a trunk of bulges. You must be the life of the party.” There’s pointed crunching noises from the other size. Blregh.
“I totally so am the life of the party!” Which is… why you’re out here. In a bus shelter. Taking to a stranger on the phone. A stranger you had to pay first. You wilt into the corner of the cubicle, shivers returning.
A car passes by, tires crackling over the frost-stained concrete.
Kat makes an inquisitive sound. “Are you… outside?”
“Yeah. I’m in a bus shelter waiting for my friend.”
“Be the bearer of good news and tell me your friend is about to relieve me of your presence. Not that this isn’t fascinating, of course.” The volume of the TV dials up in the background.
“She’ll be here any second!” you tell him and quickly glance at the screen of your phone. Still no text. Any second now though.
“That’s the first nice thing you said to me so far,” Kat clicks his tongue. “Shucks, John.”
“So what, you’re like an asshole in your free time is that it?”
“If you think that just now was me angry then you got a whole other shitstorm coming to you. That was just a light sampling of the boiling vat of psychological complexes I could unload on you. As my full-time emotional dumping ground you’d be gently aquiver under the a steady stream of sultry obscenities dribbling down your earduct.”
“Dude, don’t make it sound so-“
“What?” Kat sneers. “Erotic? My sweet summer child, brace that tight entitled ass of yours as I deliver sick burns straight to your pooper.” And before you can splutter out an objection he goes full on seductive.
You wish you were joking, but you’re not. His voice goes low, low and so, so soft that you have to strain to hear him and you don’t know how he does it but you can hear the soft wetness of his mouth and tongue lips shaping the sounds and words. It thrums even through the horrid phone connection, like it’s being whispered against the curl of your ear. Almost -almost- like being held.
Nobody has ever spoken to you like that.
“Bend over and relax, grubcake.” -small pause, delicate intake of air, gentle gentle, being so so careful with you- “Listen to the dulcet rasp of my knuckles grating along your lower intestine” -grating sends a shiver down your spine and intestine makes you aware of his tongue folding to deliver the word past his lips- “as I punch your teeth out of your flapping cranial mancave.” -a rustle of clothes, like leaning even closer- “Knock knock, John!”
There you are, sitting on a shitty bench, all by yourself, mouth open as your face prickles with heat. That. Should be illegal. Nothing that gross should sound that sexy. Ha ha ha. Shit. Help. “Holy shit dude.”
“That’s fucking right,” Kat says, too sweetly now. He crunches another mouthful of crispy gnats. “Did it suddenly get tight in your shorts, sweetheart? Are you uncomfortable? Or am I overestimating the capacity of your vile human nethers?"
“You got some issues.”
“We already established that. Is your friend there yet?”
You crane your head sideways to squint down the street. Nothing. If it weren’t for Kat, there’d be no other sign of life. “Not yet. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
There’s a pause. Maybe you should just hang up, let the poor guy enjoy his movie. And his snack. “How long have you been waiting?” the question bursts into the stillness like something awkward and newborn with wobbly legs.
You shift. Moving hurts. “About an hour,” you admit. “Or two?”
“Are you pulling my horns? It’s like twenty-three degrees out there!”
You huff out a laugh. “Naw, it’s not that bad.”
“It’s called a thermometer, stupid, and it says it’s twenty-three out. Call your dumb friend and tell her to come and get you before you shit ice cubes.”
Shrug. Your coat squeaks against the glass. “She- she’s not picking up her phone. It’s fine.”
There’s a ranting burst of trollish. You don’t need to understand it to know he’s dragging your ego up and down the street before taking a dump on it. Some words you catch (the fun stuff, like -fuck, shit and dick), but most of it just hard consonants and rasping clicks made at the back of the throat. Some -a lot- of people get off on how alien it sounds. How borderline violent. How it matches the package, how they’re made for hurting.
Your big stupid mouth is blablablaing before you can stop it. “Do people sometimes ask that? To talk troll at them?” Kat snorts. It’s answer enough. “What do you even say? You’re a big dirty poopoo head and now I stick my hand in you?”
“I usually just read them an erotic passage from a book,” he sounds distracted. “John. Time’s almost up.”
“Oh.” You’re not sure what you feel. Disappointed. You don’t understand why, it’s not like he’s nice. This whole conversation was a rollercoaster of graphic insults careening over the edge into x-rated content. You throughly enjoyed it. Let’s go again! “Hey, hang on! I’ll just call you again!”
You do exactly that. Age, credit card, Kat. If the operator thinks you’re being weird, they’re good at hiding it. It’s polite, a business transaction. You space out when you relay your credit card once more -when you’re buying him. His time.
Kat comes through with a wry: “You weren’t fucking kidding, were you?”
“Nope! Now tell me about your favorite movie.”
He does.
Kat purrs his ‘r’s and snarls his vowels. He calls you names, insults your intelligence and every single part of your personality and anatomy with ferocious enthusiasm, and tells you about Serendipity. You tell him it sounds like a load of lukewarm mush. You think he throws the phone.
You explain about Dave, gleefully blame him for your bad behaviour, and get chewed out again. You apologise. He says not accepted, but then he asks you what movie’s your favorite. You tell him Con Air.
He starts laughing.
Like everything about him, even his laugh comes out like it has been torn from him and it’s so chafed and rough you pat your pockets to see if you got some mints to offer him.
The smile is still in his voice when he calls you an illiterate bulgebuffer. Your brain goes akhdjszjak.
You wonder what he looks like. Would it be weird to ask? A small voice stubbornly anchored in the rational part in your brain informs you that yes, yes it would be. The voice sounds a whole lot like Rose.
Tall. You think. Big. Like his personality. Probably not at all like Matthew McConaughey, but that what he ends up looking like in your head anyway.
“How you ever seen Failure to Launch?”
“…yeah? Wasn’t as good as Hitch, though.”
“You can’t compare those two movies!”
“I just fucking did, what are you going to do about it? Hang up?”
“Maybe I will!” you tease and wait with your heart high in your throat for an answer, like maybe he’ll say ‘please don’t’.
Kat grunts. “It’s about time anyway.”
What? That can’t be true! Your ear actually hurts from pressing the phone against it and your hand is cramping up. Every single knuckle in your fingers is a node of burning agony. You check the screen. It’s true.
“I. My battery is nearly dead anyway.”
“Hn.”
It’s still dark, even though it’s almost dawn.
There’s another one of Kat’s grainy chuckles. “I feel really weird to have talked to someone for over an hour and it was perfectly PG rated.”
Pff. “Nothing about that was PG rated. But I can ask you something naughty if it makes you feel better.”
“Something naughty?” he scoffs, kind of mocking, but somewhere under there is an actual smile. “After talking to you I highly doubt that.”
You grin at nothing in particular. “I totally I can! Is it true true trolls taste like gushers?”
Profound silence. It lasts.
Your jaw drops. “Oh my fucking god it’s true??”
You’re not thinking about that. Also not thinking about going ‘I LOVE gushers!’ earlier when talking about the best snacks for a movie night. Wait, oh no. That totally was why there was an awkward pause. Shiiiiiiit.
(whatbloodcolorishe YOU DID NOT JUST THINK THAT NOPENOPENOPE)
Kat clears his throat. Loudly. You really hope he’s not thinking about you gushing about gushers. Why did you think gushing. Brain? Why. Go away blush.
“I have no idea whose brilliant idea it was to mass-produce a confectionary tasting like the fluids from our nether regions,” Kat mutters. He sounds embarrassed and you wonder if he’s the kind of troll whose blush you can see.
“Because they’re tasty?” you answer and OHMYGODWHY. “Gushers! I mean the gushers. I’ve never sucked off a troll.” WHY DID YOU SAY THAT. “You should totally try some. Gushers, I mean.”
You bonk your head against the glass pane. Smooth. So. Smooth.
And Kat chuckles. Chuckles. Your head is going to explode. “You’re basically inviting me to eat candy that tastes like slurry. Okay, you win, that’s depraved. My bosom might be in danger of heaving.”
Never before have you been so grateful there’s no way he can see your stupid, hot face right now. This is ridiculous. You’ve said worse to Dave. Heck, you’ve DONE worse to Dave. He was pretty much naked when you covered him Nutella -and licked him. His arm. Playfully? Like a dog! …you’re so glad Rose doesn’t know that happened. Jade does, she’s the one who walked in and took a picture.
(Again; your friends are assholes.)
He can’t hear you blushing over the phone. Small mercies. “Yeah but, what came first, dude? The gusher or the troll?”
“That’s deep.”
And that’s when your phone vibrates in distress. “Five percent battery left. I’d better go.”
“Yeah. Hey, John. Your friend’s a fucking cockrag, you know that right?”
“Heh. Yeah, Vriska’s kinda-“
He inhales a mouthful of gnats and wastes an entire minute of battery life by explosively hacking them out of his lungs. “Wait. SERKET?”
“You-you know her?”
“You fucking bet I know the spiderbitch. I can’t fucking believe this, she just —what, dumped you in the middle of nowhere?”
“More like, there was this party and it kind of got out of hand? I left, she said she’d pick me up in half an hour.” Your phone vibrates again and you sit up straight in alarm. “Kat, I got to go, my phone’s dying. It was nice talking to you. I. It was fun ...Kat?”
Your phone’s dead. You wipe the display with the pad of your thumb. Didn’t even get to say bye. There's a tightness in your chest slowly squeezing all the air from your lungs. Probably because it’s so cold or something. Yeah, that’s totally it.
Slowly, it begins to snow.
*
You have no idea what time it is. Vriska never came, and you’re actually worried something happened to her. Just before you left, some troll girl with an awesome set of ram’s horns all but kicked down the door. As soon as she spotted Vriska you could feel the prickle of violence like brontide in the air. It was like they were waiting -for a sign or an excuse, for you to leave, maybe …you're not sure, but you should've stayed. Maybe Vriska needed your help.
It’s so cold. It’s snuck past the poofiness of your coat and through your Lalonde scarf to crawl under your skin. Everything’s capped in white. The streets are a lovely blank sheet that’s just asking for a series of snow angels, but you don’t think you can bring yourself to move. Instead you blink at the delicate drifts caught in the diamonds of the chain link fence to your right, at the snow sprinkled across the flanks of the brick buildings. Your nose is running, it’s super annoying, but you stopped wiping at your face when it began to feel like an open wound.
You should walk.
You have to walk.
Frostbite is becoming somewhat of a big concern. Even your lashes have gone rigid with rime. Get up, John. Get up. Think of your toes. Think of Yorick and Stumpy.
You get up.
It hurts. You don’t have words for how much it hurts and you feel hot water prick at the corners of your eyes as wind whips a sheet of ice crystals into the air. Slowly, you totter down the street, kicking through the snow. The party wasn’t that far, and if it hadn’t started snowing you’re sure you’d totally remember your way back. At the intersection you pause and squint at your options. Snow to the right. Snow to the left. Snow straight ahead. Bluh. Better to go back and just wait for the bus. Can’t be long before it arrives.
This sucks. All you wanted was to hang out with your cool alien pal Vriska.
A car carefully rolls its way around the corner, gently sliding in the snow. You blink at the red taillights with misty eyes as they disappear into the night like two glowering red pinpricks. It’s the first car you’ve seen in hours. You perform a slow tottering circle and start back where you came from.
The bus shelter is still in sight. Felt like you’d been walking for centuries, but you didn’t get all that damn far. The car that just passed by is swerving to pull up right in front of it, headlights lancing two bright spears of light into your eyes. You stop, raise your hand to shield your face.
Someone gets out of the car, looks at the shelter, then down, at your footprints. Their head swivels to follow the meandering rut you made all the way to where you're standing. Gulp. Maybe they just want to ask when the bus arrives. Yup. That’s totally it.
Backlighted by the car, you can only make the darkness of their clothes, the width of the shoulders. The hood of the sweater is up, hiding both face and hair. Two weird protrusions poke the fabric upwards into rounded cat's ears. A troll?
They’re a dark silhouette, unmoving. Within the cowl of the hood you can see the steady glow of their irises. Red. A twin to the car’s taillights. You’ve never seen that in a troll.
Watching you. Waiting for you. Fine, whatever, you follow the trail you left back, wondering if you wandered into a bad slasher flick. Boo. You might've ragged on smoopy-lovey films, but you totally prefer romance over getting stabbed in the snow anytime. Lucky for you the closer you get, the shorter they become. Like maybe you could take them in a fight.
“John?”
Your heart stops before your feet do.
Snow swirls through the ensuing silence. “Kat?” you try, but you already know it’s him. After this night, you'd recognise that voice anywhere.
“You blithering imbecile,” he screams, and somehow, impossibly, his voice is even better real. “Why the blood blistering fuck would you leave the bus shelter?!
You gape. “I thought-“
Kat snarls out a laugh. Your whole body tingles. “What? That’d you’d walk back to the murder fest? Jesus, John, get in the car.”
This is exactly how slasher flicks get started.
But you still scramble into the car like your life depends on it. It probably kinda does. The door slams and oh. Oh, god. Fffffffff- the heater is on. You curl towards it, suddenly holding back tears with how relieved, how actually scared you were. It’s so warm so suddenly it’s like being stabbed all over with tiny little needles, hurting in a completely new way.
He’s quickly in besides you. "Are you okay?” he pulls out the question like a knife to the throat
“Oooooh, god thank you, fuck, thank you, thank you I could kiss you how did you know I was here?”
“Serket,” he answers. It’s guarded. He’s looking at you very, very carefully.
You nod, a little too quickly and notice you’re rocking yourself. You stop that, too. “Thanks.”
“A friend of mine knows Serket, she went to the same party. The town isn’t very big,” Kat elaborates.
“So what? You checked all the bus shelters?” You laugh, then feel bad. Because that’s exactly what he did. He drove around looking for you. “You live here?”
“Nearby,” he answers, deliberately vague.
You blink at him. He doesn’t look like Matthew McConaughey at all. He’s… striking. Large, bright eyes, sullen face. Full, angry mouth. He lowers the hood his sweater and his hair instantly attempts a mass exodus in a hundred dark, snarling directions at all at once. Sharp little fangs poke into his dark lower lip.
That and the tiniest, bluntest little horns you ever did see.
You’re staring.
“Here,” Kat says, stripping out of his hoodie. Eagerly you peel out of your coat and scarf, shaking like you’re about to shed your flesh. You stuff the damp garments into the footwell and shiver your way into his hoodie. It’s still warm from his body. You hug it around yourself gratefully as your slowly unthaw. The area around your nose and upper lip burns like a violent rash and you do your best not to try and lick at it.
“Thank you, Kat," you clatter at him through your teeth.
“John.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a worthless grubfisted douchebag,” he says. “And my name isn’t Kat, numbskull. It’s Karkat.”
“Karkat.” That’s even funnier than Kat. Your laugh comes out oddly choked and something in his face softens.
He drives you home. Five hours.
You want to talk. You do. You can’t believe he came. But you’re so tired and sore and relieved you fall asleep. That never happens, there’s too much cool things to see and do during a car ride, but with the heat blasting from the dash and the long, surreal night you slip away before you realize you’ve even closed your eyes. A slow, languid song plays from the stereo and dawn’s the faintest smear at the horizon. You don’t dream anything. In between the hazy wakeful moments you hear Karkat hum along with the music on the radio, off-key and waning into a wavering tune as he concentrates. It’s adorable.
“Thanks,” you say. Or try to, at least. Your voice has left you and all you can manage is a croak.
Karkat hears anyway. “Don’t you look like a hot pitiable mess.” It’s followed by a soft, self-deprecating curse, as he rubs at his eyes. He looks so tired. He was up all night, too. Talking to you. Looking for you. “We’re almost there.”
“Is Vriska ok?” you manage.
“Goddammit, John,” his snarls quietly. “She fucking left you to freeze.”
Drunkenly you swing your head towards the window. The sky is pale with snowfall. Your eyes sting with tears from the bright light. “She’s my friend.”
It takes him so long to answer you’re actually upset the worst news is yet to come. “She’s fine,” he murmurs.
By the time you pull up in front of Jade’s place, it’s almost midday. The drive took super as long, no thanks to the thick snow clogging up all the minor roads. You never thought you’d be sick of snow, but man, you sure are now. Not even the glittering flakes landing onto the hood of the car manage to charm you.
“Do you want to come in?” you ask.
Please say yes.
Karkat shakes his head no. His lips are parted ever so slightly and you don’t want to think about it. You look at your lap. “Oh.”
“It’s a long drive back. I have classes.”
He’ll never make it back in time. “Okay.”
“Yeah.”
“So. Goodbye?”
“Yeah.”
Fuck. Slowly, painstakingly, you pull yourself upright. You hurt all over. Inside and out. You grope for the handle of the door like a blind man.
“Hey,” Karkat says.
You freeze abruptly, momentum carrying you gently forward until you forehead knocks into the window. Ouch.
He exhales. ”Okay, so, this is insane. But… here’s my number. My real number.”
Taking your hand where it rests on the dashboard, he none too gently pulls you back into your seat while he fumbles the cap off a pen. It catapults away into a shadowy corner of the car, where spare change and fast food wrappers go to live. You watch him scrawl numbers in fat black lines.
“So I should what?" You murmur, transfixed. "Call you maybe?”
There’s a smile struggling to break free, and you try your hardest to keep it locked behind your cracked lips.
Either the joke is lost to him, or he gives exactly jackshit about memes. He frowns and after the briefest of jet-jawed pauses, nods. “Yeah. In case…in case you need someone to take you home at the rime-edged asscrack of dawn or whatever.”
Still not smiling. “Or whatever,” you echo. “How about we watch a movie instead?”
“You better fucking pay my ticket for all the trouble you dragged me through.” Karkat says and —there. That’s an actual, genuine smile and your own leaps onto your face with blinding enthusiasm in answer.
Your hand is still in his. "Sure," you agree and bite your lower lip. You know so little about him. But you do know he likes the cheesiest of chick flicks and crispy gnats, and that you're going to see a movie together.
(Where it’ll be dark and everything he says will be gravel scraping his vocal cords. He’ll probably scream and complain and be way too loud the whole time.)
You can work with that.
Karkat’s smile is hopelessly crooked, with the right corner of his mouth curling up before the left, which trails behind like it isn’t quite sure what to make of the whole situation. His eyes are bright and wondering.
By the time you stumble out of the car, Jade is charging out the front door, bushy hair on end and ready for action. Dave appears in the doorway wearing a hot pink bathrobe with Daddy's Little Princess in swirling cursive over the right breast pocket. His throat is a catastrophe of hickies. A scrawny, freshly mauled Hefner in pastels.
“John!” she barks. “Why are you not picking up your damn phone?”
Karkat makes a wry face. “That’s my cue,” he says, manually rolling up the window up. “Remember: you pay.”
“Okay.”
“Drinks and snacks.”
“Alright.”
“And you better wear some long johns, John.” He looks at you. He doesn’t need to add ‘poles’. Your ears are bright red.
“It’s a date,” you say.
Now you’re not the only one blushing. And he looks so angry about it, too. Hehe. “I’ve got to-“ he flaps a hand at the road. “See you later, Dave.”
As his car pulls away from the curb, you suppress the urge to leap in front of it to -what? Stop him from leaving. Say thank you. Tell him to drive safely. Take him to see a movie right now. Give him your number. Hold his hand steady to carefully shape the numbers on the back. Write your name. Draw a smiley face. Keep his hand.
Instead you settle for waving. Karkat lifts his hand in acknowledgement, middle finger erect. You stick your tongue out, he’s probably too far to see, so you make sure to keep waving until the curve of the road whisks him out of sight.
Distantly, the sound of your name reaches you. Jade is pulling at your sleeve with enough force to swing you from side-to-side. Your sleeve. Karkat’s sleeve. His hoodie. You’re still wearing it. It’s oversized, sleeves dangling past our fingers. Still warm and worn all soft and comfortable, you hug your arms around yourself.
Having heard his name, Dave lumbers up to you blinking sleep from his eyes. “Do I know that guy?”
You grin at him. “Dude, you’re never going to believe it.”
He doesn’t believe it.
That’s alright. You’ve got Karkat’s number -his real number- written on your hand.
And you’re definitely going to call him.
-fin-